As I wrote before, my drug mule arrived and, now that I've been back on the happy pills for a week, I feel a bit better. The underlying issues are still there, but -- damn! -- I can deal with them better and can figure out solutions. Depression makes you myopic to such a degree that all you can see is the depression. Like I've always said, it's a stupid disorder.
Still, somewhere in my deepest, darkest drear, I could see myself and realize that much of what I felt came from the imbalance of chemicals in my head. That always strikes me as weird and not a little bit frightening. Our personalities, our emotions, our moods, are all governed by this chemistry in our brains. Depression feels like dark blue, almost black, water being poured through your head and turning to a mucky oil in your veins. As I was coming out of the worst part, I had that feeling of having cried for hours on end, although I hadn't.
That's not what I meant to write, however. What I meant to write was how, this time, I remembered all of the years that I felt this way every day. Usually, those memories frighten me. "This is how I really am, isn't it?" I ask myself. "I'm always doomed to return to this." This time, I wasn't worried about staying there. I knew that the happy pills would arrive and, within a week or two, I'd be back to my medicated self. This time, those memories made me sad.
I didn't get on happy pills until my mid-20s. Then, I was on them until I got myself into graduate school. Off for the first half of graduate school, and on for the last half and ever since except when I had problems getting my prescription filled or when I did not have insurance nor money to pay for the pills. That means that some foundations of my personality and career choices and even ability to pursue those choices were built on this oily muck of depression. I made choices, or failed to make choices, in this terrible state of suffocation and impending doom. So, I wonder what my life would have been like, of how it would have been different, if I had access to happy pills when I first started having episodes of existential funk way back in elementary school.
We won't go into the what if I had people around me who had sympathy for this funk and did not treat my depression as if it were an intentional attack on them. Since I've mentioned it, however, I am amused that that person -- my mother -- was actually more accepting of my depression as a medical condition for which I could take medicine than my father was. My father still tells me, "a pill won't solve all your problems." My mother gets that the pills certainly help. I think that may be because she understands about the chemicals and their profound affect on mood. After all, she's been through menopause and had to take hormones.
Anyway, the loss of all of those foundational years to this dank mood makes me sad and makes me wonder how other such things might have altered my life had they been available in my childhood. For instance, I often wonder how my life would have been different if my math disability had been recognized at any point in my education. Although math has not been, nor would have been, a major component of any career that I would have chosen, my inability to do math compromised all of my educational decisions and even my sense of my self as an intelligent person. I couldn't do math, so I wasn't really that smart. I couldn't do math, so my GPA and standardized test scores were lower. I couldn't do math, so I wasn't smart and my GPA and test scores were lower, so I couldn't go to a fancy college and I had to choose a less fancy college. I chose less fancy colleges that had low math requirements. I chose a grad school that didn't look at the math GRE scores.
Anyway, all of this is a mourning for parts of my life long gone, although I see that they had an impact on my life now. I don't know why this bothers me at the moment except that I think that I could have done more in my life by this time, gone more places, known more things, been better than I am. Which is a sad thought because as I am isn't so bad, is it?
I'm thinking back to my revelation at the conference back in October, that "I don't have to be that person any more." That was the real revelation of the year. I think I also should realize that I don't have to be that person who was always depressed and thought that, because she couldn't do math, she wasn't smart and so gave up far too easily on so many things or set her sights far too low. I have been her too long and I don't have to be. I have medicine, I don't have to do math, and smart isn't what I thought it was.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Bah Humbug and Long Live the Grinch!
Ah, sweet, relieving Festivus for the rest of us!
Every Christmas is different and I have to find my own way to get through it. My desire to see my family is often directly proportional to whatever else is going on in my life, and usually leaves me preferring to visit at some other time than Christmas. My desire to see, well, any other human being is pretty much the same. I think of Christmas as a time for hibernation, really, and like the hibernation.
I used to hate Christmas with a white hot passion, but learned that the parts I like have to do with sweet treats, pretty lights, and -- most of all -- a rest. Just rest. The semester is over -- and even with a 9-to-5 job, I had a few days off -- and the week between December 25th and January 1st seems like a free week, nothing required after the intensity of requirements from the previous months.
So, what I really hate about Christmas is the requirements -- and requirements coupled with the sense of alienation if you choose to opt out of any or all of the requirements. You don't even have a tribe if you are from a culturally Christian background and opt out.
I hate presents, for instance, and rebel against this present requirement. I'm called a "Scrooge" for it, but if you go back and read A Christmas Carol, the unreformed Scrooge would probably love this orgy of shopping that has become late November and December. Presents are not at all part of the story outside of charity. Yet, there is everybody rushing to the stores, running up the credit card debt, spending out of their means, all to prove their Christmas spirit and show their "love" or "appreciation" to everyone they have come into contact with in their lives, whether or not they can afford it.
About a decade ago, I called a moratorium in my family on presents. "Look," I said. "Most of us have to travel long distances to get together, either by plane or car. Some of us are broke or barely making ends meet, so the travel is an expense. Then, to buy everyone a present costs not just cash, but time we may not have or could better use elsewhere, not to mention the stress of it all and having to transport the gifts, which is a hassle. Why don't we just give each other the gifts of the time and money that would be spent in shopping by not exchanging presents. If you want to give presents to someone in your own household, great, go for it -- especially babies. But, we adults don't really need this."
Everyone was on board and thought it was a grand idea. You can imagine what happened next, especially if you've ever seen an American sit-com. I showed up, no gifts, and everyone else gave presents. I told them, "from now on, this is how I play. I don't give presents except to the children -- and only while they are children. Don't give me presents. Keep the time and money for yourselves."
Even with the kids, I think that they should only get one present from each adult, not fifty big ticket items from grandparents competing with one another for the child's love. Seriously, that's how these things play out in our family.
There is also the requirement of "merriness." Some of us are not particularly merry at this time of year for a million reasons. I have a difficult time thinking of many happy holidays. Not that there weren't any, just that they were a long time ago, or require a lot of concentration and denial in order to disconnect the good moments from all of the shit around them. I can't even go to a holiday at my parents house without feeling as if I'm participating in some kind of farce of a happy family at Christmas. It's not that we are all fighting (anymore), it's just that I have no idea how to act around these people who are essential strangers to me, and strangers for a reason, and figuring out a new way to be -- simply being me -- takes so much effort. There is too much in between now and those bad days when everyone made a concerted effort to be on their worst behavior. There is too much from those days that can't be addressed, for which there is not point in addressing. To address those days would certainly destroy whatever detente exists that allows us to at least carry on the farce. That's why I don't go, or don't go until the spirit of requirement has worn off.
I've, in fact, found that the best moments were often completely divorced from traditional Christmases and involved road trips or beaches and sun or pina coladas and a stack of DVDs having nothing to do with the holiday or really anything having to do with that concept of rest without requirement. Rest without requirement makes me merry, and the shape of it changes from year to year. I like figuring out the shape. We'll see what it is this year very soon, I suppose.
Right now, any possibility for merriness has been amplified by the arrival of my drug mule, whose gift of my happy pills has improved my ability to simply think anything except "life is awful life is awful life is awful" exponentially.
Every Christmas is different and I have to find my own way to get through it. My desire to see my family is often directly proportional to whatever else is going on in my life, and usually leaves me preferring to visit at some other time than Christmas. My desire to see, well, any other human being is pretty much the same. I think of Christmas as a time for hibernation, really, and like the hibernation.
I used to hate Christmas with a white hot passion, but learned that the parts I like have to do with sweet treats, pretty lights, and -- most of all -- a rest. Just rest. The semester is over -- and even with a 9-to-5 job, I had a few days off -- and the week between December 25th and January 1st seems like a free week, nothing required after the intensity of requirements from the previous months.
So, what I really hate about Christmas is the requirements -- and requirements coupled with the sense of alienation if you choose to opt out of any or all of the requirements. You don't even have a tribe if you are from a culturally Christian background and opt out.
I hate presents, for instance, and rebel against this present requirement. I'm called a "Scrooge" for it, but if you go back and read A Christmas Carol, the unreformed Scrooge would probably love this orgy of shopping that has become late November and December. Presents are not at all part of the story outside of charity. Yet, there is everybody rushing to the stores, running up the credit card debt, spending out of their means, all to prove their Christmas spirit and show their "love" or "appreciation" to everyone they have come into contact with in their lives, whether or not they can afford it.
About a decade ago, I called a moratorium in my family on presents. "Look," I said. "Most of us have to travel long distances to get together, either by plane or car. Some of us are broke or barely making ends meet, so the travel is an expense. Then, to buy everyone a present costs not just cash, but time we may not have or could better use elsewhere, not to mention the stress of it all and having to transport the gifts, which is a hassle. Why don't we just give each other the gifts of the time and money that would be spent in shopping by not exchanging presents. If you want to give presents to someone in your own household, great, go for it -- especially babies. But, we adults don't really need this."
Everyone was on board and thought it was a grand idea. You can imagine what happened next, especially if you've ever seen an American sit-com. I showed up, no gifts, and everyone else gave presents. I told them, "from now on, this is how I play. I don't give presents except to the children -- and only while they are children. Don't give me presents. Keep the time and money for yourselves."
Even with the kids, I think that they should only get one present from each adult, not fifty big ticket items from grandparents competing with one another for the child's love. Seriously, that's how these things play out in our family.
There is also the requirement of "merriness." Some of us are not particularly merry at this time of year for a million reasons. I have a difficult time thinking of many happy holidays. Not that there weren't any, just that they were a long time ago, or require a lot of concentration and denial in order to disconnect the good moments from all of the shit around them. I can't even go to a holiday at my parents house without feeling as if I'm participating in some kind of farce of a happy family at Christmas. It's not that we are all fighting (anymore), it's just that I have no idea how to act around these people who are essential strangers to me, and strangers for a reason, and figuring out a new way to be -- simply being me -- takes so much effort. There is too much in between now and those bad days when everyone made a concerted effort to be on their worst behavior. There is too much from those days that can't be addressed, for which there is not point in addressing. To address those days would certainly destroy whatever detente exists that allows us to at least carry on the farce. That's why I don't go, or don't go until the spirit of requirement has worn off.
I've, in fact, found that the best moments were often completely divorced from traditional Christmases and involved road trips or beaches and sun or pina coladas and a stack of DVDs having nothing to do with the holiday or really anything having to do with that concept of rest without requirement. Rest without requirement makes me merry, and the shape of it changes from year to year. I like figuring out the shape. We'll see what it is this year very soon, I suppose.
Right now, any possibility for merriness has been amplified by the arrival of my drug mule, whose gift of my happy pills has improved my ability to simply think anything except "life is awful life is awful life is awful" exponentially.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Here's Why I Haven't Bought a Blanket
You all nailed it in the comments to the last post. Anxiety, loss of control, stress due to a series of life-altering events (thank goodness no one died!), need for a get away to get a good night's sleep. Need to just buy a goddamn blanket.
Still, I don't buy the blanket. Normally, in my real life, I would; but, you see, I have a problem in going ahead and buying a blanket, or joininig a gym, or doing whatever it is I need to do to make here have some of the comforts of home or to address whatever silly thing annoys me or do just damn well do what I would normally do as an adult to have some sense of control over my own environment and person. The problem is that these things often take money, and money is one of the main sources of anxiety.
Here is what buying a blanket means in my depression-addled brain.
I have five or six comforters back at home. If I buy a comforter here and bring it back, then I am buying something that I don't need and have more than enough of in my real life, so the purchase is a waste. If I buy a comforter and leave it here, then I feel also as if I've wasted the money by purchasing something disposable. I suppose you could argue that a comforter is something that I need because I need it right now because what I have is so inadequate. Thus, the spending is not actually a waste. Still, it seems like a waste because I actually don't have any money, and the price of anything seems much more dear than in my real life.
I have savings and checking accounts, sure. Those, however, are finite at the moment and, in fact, dwindling because I do still have to pay student loans for the road not travelled and for my car insurance and for the privilege of having a checking account and all of the other sundry things that, as I said, don't take unofficial sabbaticals. I'm covered for these, so they unto themselves are not a source of anxiety.
For most of my adult life, I wasn't saving and was working to make ends meet and, at one shameful point, living on credit cards -- a situation that led to the big red B on my credit history (which, now that I think about it, has a birthday right about now -- last week, in fact). The past few years have seen the first since that time between high school and college when I have actually managed my money like a responsible, growing adult. Heck, they've been one of the few times in my adult life when I've had that luxury or made the smart decisions that gave me that luxury. It's not as if I've ever wanted to own a home or anything big like that; but savings represents safety and peace of mind and a certain degree of autonomy to me. It also represents hard work, it represents maturity, and it also represents lost time that I have to recover. Seeing what I have in savings and in the checking account -- which I always ran at as much of a surplus as possible -- diminish feels like a regression.
If you have a job, and some months you find you have spent more than you intended for whatever reason, you can hope to make up the loss in the coming months because you have paychecks replenishing your account. If you don't have a job, then every dollar you spend is gone. You feel the worth of that dollar, the work and effort to get it and to save it, and that is gone too. Wasted if the purchase is something silly like a comforter that is not an absolute necessity and that is ultimately disposable.
Furthermore, there is the immediate issue of my own money. The Irish banks won't let us have a joint account and they won't let me have an account myself because of some complicated stuff that I don't fully understand or remember but comes down to new regulations and fear of money laundering. (Jeez! If only I had enough money to bother laundering!) That means that I have two options should I actually choose to purchase anything.
The first is to use my U.S. bankcard, which means that I'm not just spending the price of whatever I am buying, but I'm also spending the fee that the bank charges to convert my theoretical dollars in their computer system to the merchant's theoretical Euros in the computer system of the merchant's bank. (I use the term "theoretical" because, essentially, isn't that what they are? It's all transferring the idea of cash rather than actual coins or notes.) That means that anything I buy costs more than it actually does because of that fee, even when I use my own bankcard.
Banks are nasty muthafuckas, aren't they? But that's another rant for another time.
The second option is to ask the Gentleman Caller to buy the thing for me or for cash to buy it myself. You can imagine how that feels after living your entire life in control of your own money. I feel like a child. Don't get me wrong: the Gentleman Caller hates this as much as I do, and will get or give me whatever I need. He hates that this situation makes me feel so infantilized and does everything he can to alleviate my feeling that way. This is not him. This is my issue and my situation.
My situation is that, to simply address something annoying like a tiny blanket or shitty pillows or more turtlenecks or an allergy attack or a migraine or the need of a trashy paperback to distract my addled mind (or even an electronic download for the Kindle because all of the e-books are checked out of the library -- ALL the e-books, I swear), I either have to face the fact that whatever I am spending will carry an extra charge and that both represent an absolute negative in my account, which will not be restocked at the end of the month; or, I have to put myself in the position of asking someone for whatever I need (and put him in a paternal position that he does not want). That means that I endure a whole host of stupid things that add up and wear me down and make me feel as if I were a child or like I did back when I was making $15/hour in That Place -- back when I learned that the road not taken was not taken for a reason.
Hence, I spend a lot of time feeling -- or trying very hard not to feel -- like I've regressed and like I'm a helpless dependent. I feel unable to address anything nagging or frustrating, and that only great emergencies (or embracing the vertigo) are suitable uses of the bankcard. That's part of why I tried to stretch my happy pills and why I had an anxiety dream about buying them when I didn't have the prescription card and would therefore have to pay full price.
This money problem is actually just the tip of a feeling that I am afraid to acknowledge because I can hear a chorus of voices chiding me for being a whiny, privileged, little twit. I am afraid to admit that I feel like I am in limbo, between two lives and therefore unable to do anything that either of those lives permit like being able to take care of myself. The worst thing about limbo, the thing that has me sobbing in the shower or on my jogs, is the feeling that everything that was mine is gone. Sure, I have things that will become mine in the future, and this feeling that all of my life is gone will be replaced by the new life, but that point is almost a year away and still an abstraction.
The thing that is concrete and real to me now is the profound feeling of loss for my own life, as if something has died. That's really the deep source of my sadness, even with the happy pills, and the reason that I have bad dreams to the point where I don't even want to go to bed at night because I don't want to deal with them -- dealing with the anxiety while awake is bad enough. It's the reason that I feel like a fraud and wholly alienated from my own sense of myself. It's the reason that I've self-medicated and resorted to eating disorders since May. It is a huge cloud that won't go away and the reason that I sometimes want to go home (although I know I would regret leaving here) -- until I realize that I don't really have a home to go to. Then, I get even sadder.
So, I suppose what I'm going through is, in a sense, mourning. It's a bit like a divorce, maybe, or a widowing. I've left big parts of my life that were important to me, that, in a way defined me; but I haven't gotten to the new one yet. I'm lucky that I have that new one, that I know that it will be there and that things will, in fact, improve. Right now, I'm just in between, unable to enjoy the newness just yet and completely sad about the old one.
In fact, the funniest thing is that I can't see the things that pissed me off about the old life nor do I know the things that will piss me off about the new one. Both are idealized in my head. All I can feel are the things that make me sad right now.
Did I not say that depression was a stupid condition?
Still, I don't buy the blanket. Normally, in my real life, I would; but, you see, I have a problem in going ahead and buying a blanket, or joininig a gym, or doing whatever it is I need to do to make here have some of the comforts of home or to address whatever silly thing annoys me or do just damn well do what I would normally do as an adult to have some sense of control over my own environment and person. The problem is that these things often take money, and money is one of the main sources of anxiety.
Here is what buying a blanket means in my depression-addled brain.
I have five or six comforters back at home. If I buy a comforter here and bring it back, then I am buying something that I don't need and have more than enough of in my real life, so the purchase is a waste. If I buy a comforter and leave it here, then I feel also as if I've wasted the money by purchasing something disposable. I suppose you could argue that a comforter is something that I need because I need it right now because what I have is so inadequate. Thus, the spending is not actually a waste. Still, it seems like a waste because I actually don't have any money, and the price of anything seems much more dear than in my real life.
I have savings and checking accounts, sure. Those, however, are finite at the moment and, in fact, dwindling because I do still have to pay student loans for the road not travelled and for my car insurance and for the privilege of having a checking account and all of the other sundry things that, as I said, don't take unofficial sabbaticals. I'm covered for these, so they unto themselves are not a source of anxiety.
For most of my adult life, I wasn't saving and was working to make ends meet and, at one shameful point, living on credit cards -- a situation that led to the big red B on my credit history (which, now that I think about it, has a birthday right about now -- last week, in fact). The past few years have seen the first since that time between high school and college when I have actually managed my money like a responsible, growing adult. Heck, they've been one of the few times in my adult life when I've had that luxury or made the smart decisions that gave me that luxury. It's not as if I've ever wanted to own a home or anything big like that; but savings represents safety and peace of mind and a certain degree of autonomy to me. It also represents hard work, it represents maturity, and it also represents lost time that I have to recover. Seeing what I have in savings and in the checking account -- which I always ran at as much of a surplus as possible -- diminish feels like a regression.
If you have a job, and some months you find you have spent more than you intended for whatever reason, you can hope to make up the loss in the coming months because you have paychecks replenishing your account. If you don't have a job, then every dollar you spend is gone. You feel the worth of that dollar, the work and effort to get it and to save it, and that is gone too. Wasted if the purchase is something silly like a comforter that is not an absolute necessity and that is ultimately disposable.
Furthermore, there is the immediate issue of my own money. The Irish banks won't let us have a joint account and they won't let me have an account myself because of some complicated stuff that I don't fully understand or remember but comes down to new regulations and fear of money laundering. (Jeez! If only I had enough money to bother laundering!) That means that I have two options should I actually choose to purchase anything.
The first is to use my U.S. bankcard, which means that I'm not just spending the price of whatever I am buying, but I'm also spending the fee that the bank charges to convert my theoretical dollars in their computer system to the merchant's theoretical Euros in the computer system of the merchant's bank. (I use the term "theoretical" because, essentially, isn't that what they are? It's all transferring the idea of cash rather than actual coins or notes.) That means that anything I buy costs more than it actually does because of that fee, even when I use my own bankcard.
Banks are nasty muthafuckas, aren't they? But that's another rant for another time.
The second option is to ask the Gentleman Caller to buy the thing for me or for cash to buy it myself. You can imagine how that feels after living your entire life in control of your own money. I feel like a child. Don't get me wrong: the Gentleman Caller hates this as much as I do, and will get or give me whatever I need. He hates that this situation makes me feel so infantilized and does everything he can to alleviate my feeling that way. This is not him. This is my issue and my situation.
My situation is that, to simply address something annoying like a tiny blanket or shitty pillows or more turtlenecks or an allergy attack or a migraine or the need of a trashy paperback to distract my addled mind (or even an electronic download for the Kindle because all of the e-books are checked out of the library -- ALL the e-books, I swear), I either have to face the fact that whatever I am spending will carry an extra charge and that both represent an absolute negative in my account, which will not be restocked at the end of the month; or, I have to put myself in the position of asking someone for whatever I need (and put him in a paternal position that he does not want). That means that I endure a whole host of stupid things that add up and wear me down and make me feel as if I were a child or like I did back when I was making $15/hour in That Place -- back when I learned that the road not taken was not taken for a reason.
Hence, I spend a lot of time feeling -- or trying very hard not to feel -- like I've regressed and like I'm a helpless dependent. I feel unable to address anything nagging or frustrating, and that only great emergencies (or embracing the vertigo) are suitable uses of the bankcard. That's part of why I tried to stretch my happy pills and why I had an anxiety dream about buying them when I didn't have the prescription card and would therefore have to pay full price.
This money problem is actually just the tip of a feeling that I am afraid to acknowledge because I can hear a chorus of voices chiding me for being a whiny, privileged, little twit. I am afraid to admit that I feel like I am in limbo, between two lives and therefore unable to do anything that either of those lives permit like being able to take care of myself. The worst thing about limbo, the thing that has me sobbing in the shower or on my jogs, is the feeling that everything that was mine is gone. Sure, I have things that will become mine in the future, and this feeling that all of my life is gone will be replaced by the new life, but that point is almost a year away and still an abstraction.
The thing that is concrete and real to me now is the profound feeling of loss for my own life, as if something has died. That's really the deep source of my sadness, even with the happy pills, and the reason that I have bad dreams to the point where I don't even want to go to bed at night because I don't want to deal with them -- dealing with the anxiety while awake is bad enough. It's the reason that I feel like a fraud and wholly alienated from my own sense of myself. It's the reason that I've self-medicated and resorted to eating disorders since May. It is a huge cloud that won't go away and the reason that I sometimes want to go home (although I know I would regret leaving here) -- until I realize that I don't really have a home to go to. Then, I get even sadder.
So, I suppose what I'm going through is, in a sense, mourning. It's a bit like a divorce, maybe, or a widowing. I've left big parts of my life that were important to me, that, in a way defined me; but I haven't gotten to the new one yet. I'm lucky that I have that new one, that I know that it will be there and that things will, in fact, improve. Right now, I'm just in between, unable to enjoy the newness just yet and completely sad about the old one.
In fact, the funniest thing is that I can't see the things that pissed me off about the old life nor do I know the things that will piss me off about the new one. Both are idealized in my head. All I can feel are the things that make me sad right now.
Did I not say that depression was a stupid condition?
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The Other Reason for Grumpiness
Another reason that I'm so grumpy has to do with my lack of a decent night's sleep. I don't think I have felt rested by sleep in almost four months; but most particularly since I got here.
At first, I blamed jet lag. The first week felt a bit fuzzy in general, and the first month had me going to bed at granny hours. That wore off, but the poor sleeping did not.
Then -- and still -- I blame the crappy beds in this Dormish Apartment. One bed is orthopedic, which means that a stone floor is more comfortable. The other is a glorified futon from Ikea, with a foam mattress and wooden slats. It sits about a foot off of the floor and I prefer to be up higher. I think so the monsters under the bed would have to jump to get me and so might lose interest. Also, there is no sheet or blanket or bedspread or even comforter that covers my entire person well. Aside from the fitted sheets, which don't fit very well, the comforters are all child-sized, reaching from my toes to my chest, and from elbow to elbow if I lay with my arms stretched out like Jesus, but not an inch further in any direction. That means that I wake up throughout the night to find myself half covered, then I have to readjust and go back to sleep, only to wake up again to repeat the whole process. In other words, the environment for sleeping is simply uncomfortable and I can't seem to relax and get into a good sleep.
I also have bad dreams. These dreams are necessarily nightmares, although that has happened on a few occasions, two of which woke me up screaming. Most of the dreams are simply unpleasant, the sort that leave you with a mucky feeling haunting you for the rest of the day. At first, I tried to remember all of them so that I could figure out what my mind was trying to tell me. That exercise tired me and went no where in the absence of my analyst -- god, I miss her. Now, I'm left with the mucky feeling and no plot line.
Some of the plots do linger. In one of the nightmares, a devil character, complete with blood-red skin that turned glow in the dark when the lights went out, tortured people by desiccating them alive or pulling out organs and bones. In others, the recurring pattern of protecting small and helpless creatures appeared, except in the older versions of the dream, I am profoundly upset by my inability to protect them and by becoming a danger to them myself. In this version, I felt remote, cut off from empathy. That last part also appeared in the devil dream and in general has bothered me. Another dream involved a particular, odd recurring motif having to do with my hair and its being shaved off or suddenly growing or not being able to style it. Others are the run-of-the-mill teaching anxiety dreams in which I cannot control a class because of technical difficulties, or a constantly changing room, or constantly changing numbers of students, or students who are unruly, or name your situation.
In an interesting twist on the teaching anxiety dream, I had one in which I was flying a helicopter -- very well, I might add -- but hit some minor turbulence and bailed out, leaving the machine hovering in mid-air. It stayed there, but I realized that it belonged to the school where I will be teaching next year. Then, it crashed. I tried to take full responsibility for the disaster, but the dean wouldn't listen to me and kept insisting that the crash was not my fault.
Last night, I dreamed that I had purchased some necessary item or other online, but the online store did not tell me how much I was spending. This, in fact, is exactly what happened when I ordered my prescriptions online and the store wouldn't tell me how much I would be charged because they had to clear the charge with my insurance company (which, incidentally, was not paying for this refill because I didn't have the damn card because I thought that the pharmacy would have my information in its computer system like it always does -- and that line of thought will take me on another rant). In my dream, however, I looked at my bank account and discovered that, as a result of the charge, I had only a few dollars left. In my dream, I freaked out because I have to keep paying student loans, insurance, and sundry other things that don't take a year long, unofficial sabbatical like myself; but, I am unable to earn an income while living in this country; but I can't return to the U.S. because I don't have a job there for another few months and would have to pay all of the usual cost-of-living bills.
This is clearly another sort of anxiety dream happening here.
At first, I thought that I would embrace all of my unpleasant and anxious dreams, use them to learn and grow and all of that other stuff you do to face the Smoke Monster. Now, I'm just annoyed. I want a good, restful, comfortable night's sleep in which I do not feel as if part of me is still awake, keeping an eye out for those monsters under the bed. I'm in Ireland, for chrissakes! I don't have to grade or deal with students or feel burned out or put together talks or wear make-up or do my hair or be social or do anything but drink coffee, write, run, and drink wine. This is the muthafuckin' life, goddammit! Why is my subconscious fucking with me?
Do you see why I think my next chapter is "How Will I Manage to Royally Fuck It Up?"
[Good gawd! A whole damn paragraph simply dissappeared here in the publishing. WTF! Is this my computer or Blogger? Now, I have to recreate it or the rest won't make a damn bit of sense.]
I've been having vertigo of late, and that scares me. Actually, I've have two feelings of vertigo, one literal and one metaphorical (is that a word?). The literal one surprises me because I always gravitate toward the highest point in a room, I lived on the 20th floor, I've not flown a small plane (because it would be illegal if I had actually taken over the controls and flow it over the Chesapeake and around an airport) -- hell -- I've JUMPED OUT of a small plane. Yet, suddenly, in the past few months, I will get this overwhelming terror that the viewing platform at Victoria Square in Belfast will collapse or that a strong wind will blow me off of the trail at the Giant's Causeway. The viceral fear that I will plummet to my death paralyzes me for no clear reason because I know rationally that these things will not happen, and yet my entire body has convinced itself of the imminent danger of splat!
Sill, I think I prefer this more literally irrational feeling because it is a response to actual, physical conditions and I am completely aware of the irrationality of the feeling. I know that the fear is something concocted out of the lower parts of my brain. Most importantly, the fear is so overwhelming that I know that I won't embrace the thing provoking the fear -- I won't jump off the cliff or the viewing platform. I won't accept the disaster of plummeting to my death in order to escape the stress of vertigo.
When I can see a potential for disaster in my life, I feel something very similar to that vertigo. This metaphorical vertigo frightens me more than what I feel in the real vertigo because, in this imagined vertigo, I cannot bear the anticipation of disaster, so I accept it. I let myself go and fall because the disaster of the fall seems much less painful than the anticipation of a fall and much less exhausting that the effort to prevent falling. I give up and get it over with, whatever "it" may be, and the potential for this terrifies me. I can't trust myself.
Maybe that is the source of all of my dreams and the source for this new, real experience of vertigo.
God, I miss my analyst.
At first, I blamed jet lag. The first week felt a bit fuzzy in general, and the first month had me going to bed at granny hours. That wore off, but the poor sleeping did not.
Then -- and still -- I blame the crappy beds in this Dormish Apartment. One bed is orthopedic, which means that a stone floor is more comfortable. The other is a glorified futon from Ikea, with a foam mattress and wooden slats. It sits about a foot off of the floor and I prefer to be up higher. I think so the monsters under the bed would have to jump to get me and so might lose interest. Also, there is no sheet or blanket or bedspread or even comforter that covers my entire person well. Aside from the fitted sheets, which don't fit very well, the comforters are all child-sized, reaching from my toes to my chest, and from elbow to elbow if I lay with my arms stretched out like Jesus, but not an inch further in any direction. That means that I wake up throughout the night to find myself half covered, then I have to readjust and go back to sleep, only to wake up again to repeat the whole process. In other words, the environment for sleeping is simply uncomfortable and I can't seem to relax and get into a good sleep.
I also have bad dreams. These dreams are necessarily nightmares, although that has happened on a few occasions, two of which woke me up screaming. Most of the dreams are simply unpleasant, the sort that leave you with a mucky feeling haunting you for the rest of the day. At first, I tried to remember all of them so that I could figure out what my mind was trying to tell me. That exercise tired me and went no where in the absence of my analyst -- god, I miss her. Now, I'm left with the mucky feeling and no plot line.
Some of the plots do linger. In one of the nightmares, a devil character, complete with blood-red skin that turned glow in the dark when the lights went out, tortured people by desiccating them alive or pulling out organs and bones. In others, the recurring pattern of protecting small and helpless creatures appeared, except in the older versions of the dream, I am profoundly upset by my inability to protect them and by becoming a danger to them myself. In this version, I felt remote, cut off from empathy. That last part also appeared in the devil dream and in general has bothered me. Another dream involved a particular, odd recurring motif having to do with my hair and its being shaved off or suddenly growing or not being able to style it. Others are the run-of-the-mill teaching anxiety dreams in which I cannot control a class because of technical difficulties, or a constantly changing room, or constantly changing numbers of students, or students who are unruly, or name your situation.
In an interesting twist on the teaching anxiety dream, I had one in which I was flying a helicopter -- very well, I might add -- but hit some minor turbulence and bailed out, leaving the machine hovering in mid-air. It stayed there, but I realized that it belonged to the school where I will be teaching next year. Then, it crashed. I tried to take full responsibility for the disaster, but the dean wouldn't listen to me and kept insisting that the crash was not my fault.
Last night, I dreamed that I had purchased some necessary item or other online, but the online store did not tell me how much I was spending. This, in fact, is exactly what happened when I ordered my prescriptions online and the store wouldn't tell me how much I would be charged because they had to clear the charge with my insurance company (which, incidentally, was not paying for this refill because I didn't have the damn card because I thought that the pharmacy would have my information in its computer system like it always does -- and that line of thought will take me on another rant). In my dream, however, I looked at my bank account and discovered that, as a result of the charge, I had only a few dollars left. In my dream, I freaked out because I have to keep paying student loans, insurance, and sundry other things that don't take a year long, unofficial sabbatical like myself; but, I am unable to earn an income while living in this country; but I can't return to the U.S. because I don't have a job there for another few months and would have to pay all of the usual cost-of-living bills.
This is clearly another sort of anxiety dream happening here.
At first, I thought that I would embrace all of my unpleasant and anxious dreams, use them to learn and grow and all of that other stuff you do to face the Smoke Monster. Now, I'm just annoyed. I want a good, restful, comfortable night's sleep in which I do not feel as if part of me is still awake, keeping an eye out for those monsters under the bed. I'm in Ireland, for chrissakes! I don't have to grade or deal with students or feel burned out or put together talks or wear make-up or do my hair or be social or do anything but drink coffee, write, run, and drink wine. This is the muthafuckin' life, goddammit! Why is my subconscious fucking with me?
Do you see why I think my next chapter is "How Will I Manage to Royally Fuck It Up?"
[Good gawd! A whole damn paragraph simply dissappeared here in the publishing. WTF! Is this my computer or Blogger? Now, I have to recreate it or the rest won't make a damn bit of sense.]
I've been having vertigo of late, and that scares me. Actually, I've have two feelings of vertigo, one literal and one metaphorical (is that a word?). The literal one surprises me because I always gravitate toward the highest point in a room, I lived on the 20th floor, I've not flown a small plane (because it would be illegal if I had actually taken over the controls and flow it over the Chesapeake and around an airport) -- hell -- I've JUMPED OUT of a small plane. Yet, suddenly, in the past few months, I will get this overwhelming terror that the viewing platform at Victoria Square in Belfast will collapse or that a strong wind will blow me off of the trail at the Giant's Causeway. The viceral fear that I will plummet to my death paralyzes me for no clear reason because I know rationally that these things will not happen, and yet my entire body has convinced itself of the imminent danger of splat!
Sill, I think I prefer this more literally irrational feeling because it is a response to actual, physical conditions and I am completely aware of the irrationality of the feeling. I know that the fear is something concocted out of the lower parts of my brain. Most importantly, the fear is so overwhelming that I know that I won't embrace the thing provoking the fear -- I won't jump off the cliff or the viewing platform. I won't accept the disaster of plummeting to my death in order to escape the stress of vertigo.
When I can see a potential for disaster in my life, I feel something very similar to that vertigo. This metaphorical vertigo frightens me more than what I feel in the real vertigo because, in this imagined vertigo, I cannot bear the anticipation of disaster, so I accept it. I let myself go and fall because the disaster of the fall seems much less painful than the anticipation of a fall and much less exhausting that the effort to prevent falling. I give up and get it over with, whatever "it" may be, and the potential for this terrifies me. I can't trust myself.
Maybe that is the source of all of my dreams and the source for this new, real experience of vertigo.
God, I miss my analyst.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Remember Reverb?
In my obnoxiously self-pitying mood of yesterday, I came across this:
So, I submit:
Why Do I Do These Things to Myself?: A Memoir of a Self-Piteous Depressive
(Because if I don't pity myself, who will?)
Chapter 1: "Wait, We Ordered a Child, Not This Squawking, Squirmy Thing!": I Am a Prodigy of Self-Loathing
Chapter 2: Were the Brothers a Necessary Addition?: I Enter the World of Misogyny
Chapter 3: Fake a Happy Childhood and Ignore the Misogyny to Avoid the Beatings Until Moral Improves: I Escape into Books, Learn to Pretend, and Write Novels
Chapter 4: The Ophelia Years: Is High School Really Necessary and Useful to Anyone?
Chapter 5: Minimum Wage Sucks!: O.K., so the Parental Unit Was Right about Something
Chapter 6: Credit for Reading Great Books: Yeah, the School is Sub-Par, but It Opens a World that Minimum Wage Can't
Chapter 7: The Breakdown: I Reach the Limits of Being a Good Little Girl and Collapse for Two Years Straight
Chapter 8: The Miracle of Prozac
Chapter 9: They Can Kill You But they Can't Eat You -- Can They?: Who Says Grad School Isn't the "Real World"? People in the "Real World" Could Never Survive this Beatdown
Chapter 10: The Miracle of Prozac and Feminism: I Become Obnoxious but Awake
Chapter 11: Doctorate Attained: You Earn the Damn PhD from the Shit They Put You Through, but They Won't Give it to You Until You Finish the Damn Dissertation
Chapter 12: Finding The Big Guy
Chapter 13: The Road Not Taken Was Not Taken For a Reason
Chapter 14: Stepping Stones In Something Approximating the Right Direction
Chapter 15: The Miracle of Psychoanalysis: Dismantling a Lot of Fundamental, Bad Ideas - with Peeps!
Chapter 16: Holy Shit! I Might Actually Have a "Happily Ever After"! [Current chapter]
Chapter 17: Now, How Will I Manage to Royally Fuck It Up? [Next chapter]
The End!
If you divided your life into chapters what would you call them? What chapter are you in now? What chapter is next?
- December 15 - Chapters.
Read more: http://www.insidehighered.com/blogs/university-venus/reverb11-time-reflection#ixzz1gcAaiLSs
Inside Higher Ed
So, I submit:
Why Do I Do These Things to Myself?: A Memoir of a Self-Piteous Depressive
(Because if I don't pity myself, who will?)
Chapter 1: "Wait, We Ordered a Child, Not This Squawking, Squirmy Thing!": I Am a Prodigy of Self-Loathing
Chapter 2: Were the Brothers a Necessary Addition?: I Enter the World of Misogyny
Chapter 3: Fake a Happy Childhood and Ignore the Misogyny to Avoid the Beatings Until Moral Improves: I Escape into Books, Learn to Pretend, and Write Novels
Chapter 4: The Ophelia Years: Is High School Really Necessary and Useful to Anyone?
Chapter 5: Minimum Wage Sucks!: O.K., so the Parental Unit Was Right about Something
Chapter 6: Credit for Reading Great Books: Yeah, the School is Sub-Par, but It Opens a World that Minimum Wage Can't
Chapter 7: The Breakdown: I Reach the Limits of Being a Good Little Girl and Collapse for Two Years Straight
Chapter 8: The Miracle of Prozac
Chapter 9: They Can Kill You But they Can't Eat You -- Can They?: Who Says Grad School Isn't the "Real World"? People in the "Real World" Could Never Survive this Beatdown
Chapter 10: The Miracle of Prozac and Feminism: I Become Obnoxious but Awake
Chapter 11: Doctorate Attained: You Earn the Damn PhD from the Shit They Put You Through, but They Won't Give it to You Until You Finish the Damn Dissertation
Chapter 12: Finding The Big Guy
Chapter 13: The Road Not Taken Was Not Taken For a Reason
Chapter 14: Stepping Stones In Something Approximating the Right Direction
Chapter 15: The Miracle of Psychoanalysis: Dismantling a Lot of Fundamental, Bad Ideas - with Peeps!
Chapter 16: Holy Shit! I Might Actually Have a "Happily Ever After"! [Current chapter]
Chapter 17: Now, How Will I Manage to Royally Fuck It Up? [Next chapter]
The End!
Thursday, December 15, 2011
FMGetting Prescriptions Filled Overseas
I've become a grumpy morning person of late. Not that I ever was a happy morning person. After all, the first thing I do when I wake up is drink coffee and browse the headlines. The headlines will make anyone grumpy. Then, there was the whole getting ready for the day and slipping into a fatalistic swamp of my own imagining in which I know I will either become overwhelmed by or fail at anything that I attempt that day.Usually, that passes once I get moving. Not so much these days.
Right now, I blame two things for this grumpiness. The first is simply chemical. I'm having my usual difficulties in getting a prescription filled in a new place. Depression is really one of the stupidest disorders out there. Not that you are stupid if you have it, but the whole disorder itself -- well, if I believed in a god, I would think he was a petty creature for coming up with such a thing. You are sad and hate yourself for no reason whatsoever.
I will digress here also to explicate on migraines, too. Normally, physical pain is supposed to indicate that something is seriously wrong with your body. "Ouch!" you say, "my foot hurts! What could be wrong? Oh, I broke my toe! Get to the doctor, quickly!" With a migraine, you collapse in agony, restraining yourself from banging your head against a brick wall because that just might provide some form of relief from this excruciating assault on your very brain. Yet, nothing is actually wrong. Nothing is broken, nothing is dented, no little beasties have invaded your body. You have just entered a world in which pain is the norm.
In fact, I recently heard of someone who got a furious headache and ran to the emergency room to find that he was in the middle of a stroke. I wondered how he would know that the pain was bad enough for the e.r. If I were in such pain, I'd just think "shit, another migraine. Another four days I will lose. Please shoot me. Right here on the left side of my head." That's probably how I will die.
Depression is similar, but the pain is psychological. You are just sad, then grumpy, then sad, then hate yourself. Plus, if you grew up in family and a world that was as sympathetic as mine to any sort of pain, you also have these little gremlins running around in your head saying, "Why don't you just get over it? You just WANT to be miserable! You are a weak and useless person! You are doing this to hurt ME! You are a cruel and selfish person!" You start to wonder if those gremlins are right because, after all, what do you have to be so sad about, really? I mean, aside from the fact that you are a weak, useless, cruel, and selfish person who is also lazy and will amount to nothing.
One of the problems in having depression is that you do get overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks. Seriously, you end up sounding like Eeyore, thinking "what's the point? Why bother? It's all going to end up for shit anyway." Except, I don't think Eeyore ever said "shit." At least, she (I decided Eeyore was a "she" because there were not many other girls in Pooh, because my mom was always calling me Eeyore, and because Eeyore wore a pink ribbon.) didn't in the expurgated versions for children.
You become so overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks that any obstacle, no matter how slight, will become an insurmountable obstruction/ Thus, I always hate hate hate hate hate having to deal with prescription refills when I am away from my usual home because there are always all sorts of stupid obstacles that have their own logic and purpose, but just become such a terrible hassle to overcome, especially if you end up in a spiral in which you have absolutely no will to overcome them.
See how stupid depression is? You are in psychological pain, and the lethargy that the depression causes keeps you from doing what you have to do to get relief from that pain.
So, my grumpy mood here is that getting my happy pills has become a major annoyance. Maybe "major" is overstating the case. "Annoyance" is not.
Here I am, in Dublin, running out on my three months' supply of happy pills. Why only three months? Because the damn insurance company wouldn't let me have more on a co-pay. Fine. They have happy pills in Ireland, don't they? Yes, they do. So, I go to the chemist. The chemist says that you have to have a prescription. Well, I have a prescription -- with lots of refills to get me to May. Here is the printout from my pharmacy in the U.S. showing those refills. Here is my quickly emptying bottle showing that I have refills. Here are all of the numbers and names and amounts and whatever the hell you need to just get me the goddamn happy pills. No, that won't work. They need a prescription from an Irish doctor. Go make an appointment with an Irish doctor who will give you a prescription that an Irish pharmacy will fill.
Ah, jeez! In the U.S., they want to "monitor" you. Now, I'm very dubious about this "monitoring" because they want to see you just often enough to be annoying, but not often enough to really determine if the pills are working. Sure, they go down a check list every time, but half of the time I have had to tell my own damn doctor what and how much I am taking, and they are the ones with the chart in their hand. "Is this a test?" I wonder, when that happens. My analyst -- god, I miss her -- is the one who actually monitored my mental health. The psychiatrist just checked the boxes and gave me access to the pills every six weeks or so. I think of the psychiatrist as my "dealer" and the analyst as the mental health professional.
Now, I do understand that the psychiatrists have their own problems with the state of mental health care in the U.S. They have to be the dealers and they have to see you so often but not much more or the insurance company won't cover you; and the cost of running their practice means they have to stack patients' appointments on top of one another with no time for reviewing charts or anything else in between. My understanding of their situation, however, does nothing for me, who must look out for myself. All I can do is not be mean to them when I get frustrated.
Anyway, back to my prescription woes. So, I must go to a doctor in Ireland. If the Irish system works like the U.S. system, then who knows how long I will have to wait until I can see that doctor. Then, I have to convince the doctor that I do, in fact, have depression, and that I don't just need to "get over it." (Yes, I had a doctor tell me that once, despite a deep medical chart on the subject, and I wasn't even seeing him for the depression, he just offered that bit of advice up when I went to see him about a migraine -- which he also openly doubted that I had -- which is also why I refuse to see old, white, male doctors -- call me sexist, but I won't). Every new doctor has to be certain that I'm not just a drug seeker -- as if happy pills will do anything for you if you don't need them -- and I end up feeling like a drug seeker in the process. Then, I have to convince that doctor that I need the prescription until May. Then, I run the risk of having him "monitor" me, meaning more appointments. Then, I have no idea how American insurance will fit with the system here --and, well, now you have a glimpse into my fatalistic thought process and the reason that I am willing to run the risk of a few months of a dark depression so as to not have to deal with this until I return to the U.S., find a new doctor who will, seeing as I will be in an existential funk by then, not make me run a gauntlet of proving that I am depressed and then trying whatever "new and improved, better than" free samples that the pharmaceutical rep has dropped on them. (Yes, all of this has happened in the past.) All of which I understand but -- damn! -- my body and my brain become entirely demoralized by having to cover the same damn territory that they have covered however many times I have had to change doctors in the past twenty years of treatment.
I tell ya, I had less trouble back when I was a grad student with no insurance and could just go over to the health center; but, then, a university health center does take mental illness much more seriously than most institutions outside of a mental health facility because -- well, sometimes college is like a mental health facility.
"Fuck this noise," I thought, when the second pharmacist said I had to go to the doctor and the above scenario ran through my head. "I'll just get my American pharmacy to send me my damn pills."
They don't do that overseas, unless you are a G.I. Now, I had to maneuver around this new wrinkle. I could order my prescriptions, have them sent to someone in the U.S. who could then send them to me. I'm actually at an advantage on this one because the Gentleman Caller's kids -- who are adults -- are visiting next week for the holidays. I am having the prescription sent to one of his kids and they will bring them over here for me. Yes, we've turned his children into drug mules.
But, of course, ordering online can't be so easy can it? I'm using my usual, chain pharmacy, which has all of my prescription and insurance information in their system. Except they don't. They have the prescription part -- thank god! -- but they now want the insurance information. The prescription insurance is different from the medical insurance, but I usually don't have to think about that because of the whole computerized records thing. So, I don't have the prescription card with me. Ah, jeez. Now I have to pay full price and make a claim later on the drug, except they won't tell me the full price because -- get this -- they have to check with the insurance company first on what the insurance company will cover.
Meanwhile, the happy pills have run out. Now, had I started this whole process say, two months ago, I would not have run out. I didn't know that there would be this problem two months ago, so I didn't deal with it then. Now, I'm running on empty. Back when I took the Big P -- god, I miss it! -- the drugs took a bit to work into your system, but they also took a while to work out, so I would have some wiggle room here. This generation, however, goes in and out much more quickly, so I'm blaming it for my grumpiness. Better the grumpiness than a full-blown funk. I can recover from a grump better than a funk.
So, my happy pills will be here in a week -- I'm hoping! There is always the possibility that they won't get to the Gentleman Caller's kid on time (3-6 days for delivery was the fastest they had, and the child lives in a major city); but we will hand that one over to Scarlett and think about it tomorrow.
I know I bitch and moan about this, and that everyone should have these sorts of problems. I wonder about people who have life threatening illnesses, who can't go for a week or so without medication without risking something horrible, who can't afford doctor, prescription, or insurance. I wonder about people who have to advocate for their elderly charges or children. What horror stories do they encounter. Do the people who have created this behemoth of a system have any awareness that health care, which should be as easy to acquire as groceries, is such a pain in the ass in the best of circumstances?
Meanwhile, I just want my damn happy pills because I hate being grumpy.
By the way, Hyperbole and a Half once more says it all, this time in regard to depression.
Right now, I blame two things for this grumpiness. The first is simply chemical. I'm having my usual difficulties in getting a prescription filled in a new place. Depression is really one of the stupidest disorders out there. Not that you are stupid if you have it, but the whole disorder itself -- well, if I believed in a god, I would think he was a petty creature for coming up with such a thing. You are sad and hate yourself for no reason whatsoever.
I will digress here also to explicate on migraines, too. Normally, physical pain is supposed to indicate that something is seriously wrong with your body. "Ouch!" you say, "my foot hurts! What could be wrong? Oh, I broke my toe! Get to the doctor, quickly!" With a migraine, you collapse in agony, restraining yourself from banging your head against a brick wall because that just might provide some form of relief from this excruciating assault on your very brain. Yet, nothing is actually wrong. Nothing is broken, nothing is dented, no little beasties have invaded your body. You have just entered a world in which pain is the norm.
In fact, I recently heard of someone who got a furious headache and ran to the emergency room to find that he was in the middle of a stroke. I wondered how he would know that the pain was bad enough for the e.r. If I were in such pain, I'd just think "shit, another migraine. Another four days I will lose. Please shoot me. Right here on the left side of my head." That's probably how I will die.
Depression is similar, but the pain is psychological. You are just sad, then grumpy, then sad, then hate yourself. Plus, if you grew up in family and a world that was as sympathetic as mine to any sort of pain, you also have these little gremlins running around in your head saying, "Why don't you just get over it? You just WANT to be miserable! You are a weak and useless person! You are doing this to hurt ME! You are a cruel and selfish person!" You start to wonder if those gremlins are right because, after all, what do you have to be so sad about, really? I mean, aside from the fact that you are a weak, useless, cruel, and selfish person who is also lazy and will amount to nothing.
One of the problems in having depression is that you do get overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks. Seriously, you end up sounding like Eeyore, thinking "what's the point? Why bother? It's all going to end up for shit anyway." Except, I don't think Eeyore ever said "shit." At least, she (I decided Eeyore was a "she" because there were not many other girls in Pooh, because my mom was always calling me Eeyore, and because Eeyore wore a pink ribbon.) didn't in the expurgated versions for children.
You become so overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks that any obstacle, no matter how slight, will become an insurmountable obstruction/ Thus, I always hate hate hate hate hate having to deal with prescription refills when I am away from my usual home because there are always all sorts of stupid obstacles that have their own logic and purpose, but just become such a terrible hassle to overcome, especially if you end up in a spiral in which you have absolutely no will to overcome them.
See how stupid depression is? You are in psychological pain, and the lethargy that the depression causes keeps you from doing what you have to do to get relief from that pain.
So, my grumpy mood here is that getting my happy pills has become a major annoyance. Maybe "major" is overstating the case. "Annoyance" is not.
Here I am, in Dublin, running out on my three months' supply of happy pills. Why only three months? Because the damn insurance company wouldn't let me have more on a co-pay. Fine. They have happy pills in Ireland, don't they? Yes, they do. So, I go to the chemist. The chemist says that you have to have a prescription. Well, I have a prescription -- with lots of refills to get me to May. Here is the printout from my pharmacy in the U.S. showing those refills. Here is my quickly emptying bottle showing that I have refills. Here are all of the numbers and names and amounts and whatever the hell you need to just get me the goddamn happy pills. No, that won't work. They need a prescription from an Irish doctor. Go make an appointment with an Irish doctor who will give you a prescription that an Irish pharmacy will fill.
Ah, jeez! In the U.S., they want to "monitor" you. Now, I'm very dubious about this "monitoring" because they want to see you just often enough to be annoying, but not often enough to really determine if the pills are working. Sure, they go down a check list every time, but half of the time I have had to tell my own damn doctor what and how much I am taking, and they are the ones with the chart in their hand. "Is this a test?" I wonder, when that happens. My analyst -- god, I miss her -- is the one who actually monitored my mental health. The psychiatrist just checked the boxes and gave me access to the pills every six weeks or so. I think of the psychiatrist as my "dealer" and the analyst as the mental health professional.
Now, I do understand that the psychiatrists have their own problems with the state of mental health care in the U.S. They have to be the dealers and they have to see you so often but not much more or the insurance company won't cover you; and the cost of running their practice means they have to stack patients' appointments on top of one another with no time for reviewing charts or anything else in between. My understanding of their situation, however, does nothing for me, who must look out for myself. All I can do is not be mean to them when I get frustrated.
Anyway, back to my prescription woes. So, I must go to a doctor in Ireland. If the Irish system works like the U.S. system, then who knows how long I will have to wait until I can see that doctor. Then, I have to convince the doctor that I do, in fact, have depression, and that I don't just need to "get over it." (Yes, I had a doctor tell me that once, despite a deep medical chart on the subject, and I wasn't even seeing him for the depression, he just offered that bit of advice up when I went to see him about a migraine -- which he also openly doubted that I had -- which is also why I refuse to see old, white, male doctors -- call me sexist, but I won't). Every new doctor has to be certain that I'm not just a drug seeker -- as if happy pills will do anything for you if you don't need them -- and I end up feeling like a drug seeker in the process. Then, I have to convince that doctor that I need the prescription until May. Then, I run the risk of having him "monitor" me, meaning more appointments. Then, I have no idea how American insurance will fit with the system here --and, well, now you have a glimpse into my fatalistic thought process and the reason that I am willing to run the risk of a few months of a dark depression so as to not have to deal with this until I return to the U.S., find a new doctor who will, seeing as I will be in an existential funk by then, not make me run a gauntlet of proving that I am depressed and then trying whatever "new and improved, better than" free samples that the pharmaceutical rep has dropped on them. (Yes, all of this has happened in the past.) All of which I understand but -- damn! -- my body and my brain become entirely demoralized by having to cover the same damn territory that they have covered however many times I have had to change doctors in the past twenty years of treatment.
I tell ya, I had less trouble back when I was a grad student with no insurance and could just go over to the health center; but, then, a university health center does take mental illness much more seriously than most institutions outside of a mental health facility because -- well, sometimes college is like a mental health facility.
"Fuck this noise," I thought, when the second pharmacist said I had to go to the doctor and the above scenario ran through my head. "I'll just get my American pharmacy to send me my damn pills."
They don't do that overseas, unless you are a G.I. Now, I had to maneuver around this new wrinkle. I could order my prescriptions, have them sent to someone in the U.S. who could then send them to me. I'm actually at an advantage on this one because the Gentleman Caller's kids -- who are adults -- are visiting next week for the holidays. I am having the prescription sent to one of his kids and they will bring them over here for me. Yes, we've turned his children into drug mules.
But, of course, ordering online can't be so easy can it? I'm using my usual, chain pharmacy, which has all of my prescription and insurance information in their system. Except they don't. They have the prescription part -- thank god! -- but they now want the insurance information. The prescription insurance is different from the medical insurance, but I usually don't have to think about that because of the whole computerized records thing. So, I don't have the prescription card with me. Ah, jeez. Now I have to pay full price and make a claim later on the drug, except they won't tell me the full price because -- get this -- they have to check with the insurance company first on what the insurance company will cover.
Meanwhile, the happy pills have run out. Now, had I started this whole process say, two months ago, I would not have run out. I didn't know that there would be this problem two months ago, so I didn't deal with it then. Now, I'm running on empty. Back when I took the Big P -- god, I miss it! -- the drugs took a bit to work into your system, but they also took a while to work out, so I would have some wiggle room here. This generation, however, goes in and out much more quickly, so I'm blaming it for my grumpiness. Better the grumpiness than a full-blown funk. I can recover from a grump better than a funk.
So, my happy pills will be here in a week -- I'm hoping! There is always the possibility that they won't get to the Gentleman Caller's kid on time (3-6 days for delivery was the fastest they had, and the child lives in a major city); but we will hand that one over to Scarlett and think about it tomorrow.
I know I bitch and moan about this, and that everyone should have these sorts of problems. I wonder about people who have life threatening illnesses, who can't go for a week or so without medication without risking something horrible, who can't afford doctor, prescription, or insurance. I wonder about people who have to advocate for their elderly charges or children. What horror stories do they encounter. Do the people who have created this behemoth of a system have any awareness that health care, which should be as easy to acquire as groceries, is such a pain in the ass in the best of circumstances?
Meanwhile, I just want my damn happy pills because I hate being grumpy.
By the way, Hyperbole and a Half once more says it all, this time in regard to depression.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Running About
My blisters have blisters that have blisters:
That usually happens with new running shoes. These running shoes are decidedly not new:
No tread of any use, and some of no real use also gone. You don't want to know how flat the soles are, and even the gel arch supports that I added have significantly less spring than they once did. I shudder to think what an X-ray of my feet might reveal.
Now, I have new shoes -- with tread!:
These are actually closer to hiking shoes, I suspect; but the T.K. Maxx (yes, T.K., not J) had a wide selection of different types of athletic shoes, and these were the only pair in my size. Seriously. I have a very average sized foot, so my size is always out, everywhere.
My feet feel much better after running now, and running itself is less of an effort. It is still and effort -- more so than when I run on a treadmill, but there seem to be physiological reasons for that. After I measured my two-hour route on the map, sure that it must be 10 miles long since I can run at least that many on a treadmill in that period of time, I discovered that the route was only 8 miles plus a few feet. Sure, I go slower, contend with hills, and have to jog in place for interminable amounts of time at traffic lights -- and don't get me started on the obstinant pedestrian obstacle course! Still, shouldn't I have gone further? This was a very demoralizing bit of information.
Last year, I lost about 20 pounds and gained some great fitness. I wanted to keep at least a bit of that here! In fact, in a testament to my own improved mental health, I am more concerned about losing fitness than gaining weight. I feel very butch and powerful, not to mention more than a little bit self-satisfied, knowing that I can run over 10 miles. I want to go more!
Finding that I ran only 8 in two hours -- a pace that is closer to my walking? Well, something must be off or something that I don't know about must be at play. So, I looked up "road running vs treadmill" on the Great and All-Knowing Google. Turns out that I may not be going as far as fast on the road as I am on a treadmill, but I am not getting weaker, I'm getting a tougher workout. A treadmill helps you more than you know, if you don't know. On the street, your hamstrings and butt have to do more work. So, I'm actually gaining strength there, and that is a place where I would like more muscle. That is the opposite of de-moralizing!
Now, I have new shoes -- with tread!:
My feet feel much better after running now, and running itself is less of an effort. It is still and effort -- more so than when I run on a treadmill, but there seem to be physiological reasons for that. After I measured my two-hour route on the map, sure that it must be 10 miles long since I can run at least that many on a treadmill in that period of time, I discovered that the route was only 8 miles plus a few feet. Sure, I go slower, contend with hills, and have to jog in place for interminable amounts of time at traffic lights -- and don't get me started on the obstinant pedestrian obstacle course! Still, shouldn't I have gone further? This was a very demoralizing bit of information.
Last year, I lost about 20 pounds and gained some great fitness. I wanted to keep at least a bit of that here! In fact, in a testament to my own improved mental health, I am more concerned about losing fitness than gaining weight. I feel very butch and powerful, not to mention more than a little bit self-satisfied, knowing that I can run over 10 miles. I want to go more!
Finding that I ran only 8 in two hours -- a pace that is closer to my walking? Well, something must be off or something that I don't know about must be at play. So, I looked up "road running vs treadmill" on the Great and All-Knowing Google. Turns out that I may not be going as far as fast on the road as I am on a treadmill, but I am not getting weaker, I'm getting a tougher workout. A treadmill helps you more than you know, if you don't know. On the street, your hamstrings and butt have to do more work. So, I'm actually gaining strength there, and that is a place where I would like more muscle. That is the opposite of de-moralizing!
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Guess the Season!
Pretty pink flowers:
Pretty yellow flowers that look like forsythia, but are, upon closer inspection:
not:
Pretty purple flowers and a white rose in front of a funky tree:
The funky tree is called a "monkey puzzle tree." At first, I thought it was a cactus of some sort, but on closer inspection, it also seemed a bit like a pine. The authoritative Wikipedia says the latter.
I took these pictures while walking this past Sunday, wrapped in leggings, warm-up pants, leg warmers (don't judge! You would, too!), a t-shirt, a turtle neck, a thermal lined sweat shirt with hood up, a cat burglar stocking cap, gloves, and a thick scarf. The temperature was in the low 40s (Fahrenheit). My body is sometimes a little confused here because my eyes see the flowers, my skin feels the cold, but my head says "it's Christmas time so the weather should be colder."
Nonetheless, I've grown to like even the dreary days; although I do resist the urge, on those dreary days, to hop on a train with a bag of sugary comfort food, and ride around the country listening to audiobooks and knitting all day -- or at least all of the above minus the train ride. I've learned to embrace the dreary coldness and pull it about me like a wool comforter, which it resembles. In fact, sometimes an actual wool comforter helps! Sometimes, acceptance is the only way to hold off the depression because fighting the grey will only frustrate you and send you into the pit of futility.
The grey also makes such surprises as flowers in December ever the brighter.
By the way, we just had snow. Snow and flowers in December!
I took these pictures while walking this past Sunday, wrapped in leggings, warm-up pants, leg warmers (don't judge! You would, too!), a t-shirt, a turtle neck, a thermal lined sweat shirt with hood up, a cat burglar stocking cap, gloves, and a thick scarf. The temperature was in the low 40s (Fahrenheit). My body is sometimes a little confused here because my eyes see the flowers, my skin feels the cold, but my head says "it's Christmas time so the weather should be colder."
Nonetheless, I've grown to like even the dreary days; although I do resist the urge, on those dreary days, to hop on a train with a bag of sugary comfort food, and ride around the country listening to audiobooks and knitting all day -- or at least all of the above minus the train ride. I've learned to embrace the dreary coldness and pull it about me like a wool comforter, which it resembles. In fact, sometimes an actual wool comforter helps! Sometimes, acceptance is the only way to hold off the depression because fighting the grey will only frustrate you and send you into the pit of futility.
The grey also makes such surprises as flowers in December ever the brighter.
By the way, we just had snow. Snow and flowers in December!
Monday, December 05, 2011
Silly Lists
I confess that, as much as I love Ireland and am not ready to return to the U.S. just yet, there are some things that I miss. Here is a list.:
Although some of these things are available in Ireland, like a gym, they are not worth the investment of a few months use. The whole running shoe thing, however, must be addressed soon because I no longer have any real tread on the bottom and my feet hurt more than they should after a run. Indeed, I believe that this particular issue shall be addressed this evening. On the whole, I will return to most of them in a few months, so their loss is a mere inconvenience (except for the analyst).
In a year, I could make a list of things that I will be missing then. That list will probably include:
- My car.
- In fact, the whole act of driving. We are not even renting cars here because we intend to keep the roads of Ireland safe.
- Being able to go to Target and buy new running shoes.
- Being able to find everything you need at one grocery store. I now understand why "shopping" is called "going to the shops" here because that is exactly what you do. You go to several shops. It is more interesting, but sometimes less convenient, even if all of the shops are on the same block.
- My own bank account. More precisely, since I do have my own bank account in the U.S., a local bank account that will not charge me a billion dollars in fees to use a non-them ATM and convert the currency.
- A local bank account where I can deposit the odd check that washes up from this or that.
- A steady income.
- My analyst -- oh, do I miss my analyst!
- The rest of my clothes.
- The rest of my shoes, especially my boots.
- Low-fat anything, but especially Ben and Jerry's Low-fat Cherries Garcia Frozen Yogurt.
- Netflix, or whatever the hell they are calling themselves these days.
- Mad Men reruns.
- My chairs and sofa.
- My office chair and desk.
- My bed -- dear god! I miss my bed! With all of its pillows. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since I got here, and every night I have dreams that range from unpleasant to waking up screaming (o.k. that was only once or twice, but still). Hence, number 8.
- The gym.
- My books.
- The Gentleman Caller's books.
- Just plain access to books on American history without having to pay huge shipping sums.
Although some of these things are available in Ireland, like a gym, they are not worth the investment of a few months use. The whole running shoe thing, however, must be addressed soon because I no longer have any real tread on the bottom and my feet hurt more than they should after a run. Indeed, I believe that this particular issue shall be addressed this evening. On the whole, I will return to most of them in a few months, so their loss is a mere inconvenience (except for the analyst).
In a year, I could make a list of things that I will be missing then. That list will probably include:
- Weather that is not below freezing and never sweltering.
- Oddly enough now, the weather in general.
- Being able to run outside, anywhere.
- Jogging by castles and places with names that have become slang, if quite old-fashioned, expressions.
- Being able to walk anywhere. Seriously, I'm certain that, if you put you mind to it, you could walk from one side of the island to the other on a paved path.
- Being able to take public transportation to almost anywhere.
- Double-decker buses.
- The smell of burning sod. People don't burn firewood in their fireplaces here. They burn chunks of turf, which has a slightly different, tangy scent that has become rather comforting.
- The odd feeling of being pegged as benignly curious the minute I open my mouth.
- The slightly off-kilter feeling of everything being the same and yet not, and wanting to investigate the reasons for that further.
- Small shops.
- Smallness in general, or being in what I used to call a "short city" having grown up in one of very tall skyscrapers.
- Not teaching and only having to write -- dear god! I will miss that!
- Having essentially no responsibilities.
- Not having to put on the uniform -- hair, make-up, etc. -- every day. That is, just going natural and in jammies every day.
- The feeling of knowing that the sea is not too far away -- I can't explain that one, especially since we aren't near the shore, which is miles away; but for some reason I can feel it. Must be psychological.
- A pub on every corner, especially ones that do not play loud music, or any music at all.
- The knowledge that you can hop a plane to pretty much anywhere in Europe at a fairly inexpensive price (you know, relative to being in the U.S.).
- The constant sense of adventure, even when adventure is a pain-in-the-ass.
- Good yarn.
Dunluce Castle, County Antrim, Northern Ireland (October 31, 2011)
Sunday, December 04, 2011
NOT Olivier's Version, THANK GOODNESS!
This week, the Gentleman Caller and I decided to go to the Irish Film Institute and see the new version of Wuthering Heights. Earlier this fall, we saw Jane Eyre, the one that was released in the U.S. -- when was it? Last spring? That version erased race from the story by making the "Madwoman" and her brother clearly white.
I never really loved Jane Eyre, although I grew to appreciate the story and the things that Charlotte Bronte was saying. I also admired Jane's flintiness. Still, I just hated all of the male characters, and hated that Jane had to choose to spend her life with one of them. This particular version of the film reiterated my reasons. I kept thinking, "GAWD! These men are full of shit, all tyring to mansplain Jane to Jane. Shut up, Rochester! Just SHUT THE HELL UP!" I suppose that was some of the point that Charlotte Bronte was attempting to make. I think she hated them, too, but Jane was trapped in this world so had to make the best of it. Better to make the richer creep blind and dependant on her, right?
I digress.
But, as long as I'm digressing, I discovered the comic strip, "Hark, A Vagrant" the very day after I saw Jane Eyre when I came across an article about the artist in Salon.com. The very comic referenced in the article was one about the Brontes. Hee!
Anyway, I had come across an article about the actress playing the older Cathy, which made me look up the movie, which led to my discovery that Heathcliff was cast as black. Interesting. This I had to see.
What a powerful film! I have seen the Olivier version and am convinced that he totally did not understand the book. I'm not overly certain that he understood much of the Shakespeare that he interpreted, but I'm not in a position to elaborate with any great knowledge on that. In fact, not having actually read Wuthering Heights in more years that I can even remember -- I may have listened to an audiobook version of it in the past decade in a half -- I'm probably not in a position to say anything with any authority on the adaptation of the book.
Of course, that hasn't stopped me before.
Making Heathcliff black enhanced his isolation and sense of not belonging. Little asides, both vocal and visual, connect him to the slave trade. His back has scars from branding and beating, and someone says something about Daddy Earnshaw having found him in Liverpool. For me, that made any further beatings, such as when he is thrown against a wall and his back thrashed in a way reminiscent of images of slave whippings, more chilling and hateful, connecting this remote location to a wider world of violence and brutality.
I remember reading the book the first time, and I remember wondering why people thought that it was such a great love story when it seemed to be about horrible abuse, and that the abuse begat more abuse, and that all of the characters were ultimately vicious. The director does not shy away from that unrestrained and perverting power. Wuthering Heights is a savage world, and the Grange isn't much better, with only a polished veneer. So, Heathcliff seems a much more sympathetic character and his vengeance at the end seems the logical result of his treatment since birth. You can't be kind and sympathetic in these worlds because you will end up destroyed -- like Isabella.
I had no sympathy for Cathy, and I'm not sure if that is a product of the story or of the actress who plays the older version of her. The actress playing the younger version was a revelation. She was tough and scruffy, a product of the landscape as much as her family. Yet, she could also show affection for Heathcliff through her rough exterior.
The older actress's performance I can hardly evaluate because I was too distracted by the impossibility of this younger Cathy growing into this older Cathy. Not simply the looks -- the two Heathcliffs did not look that much alike, but you could believe that one became the other -- but the way that she played the character had very little in common with the younger version. You couldn't even write the differences off of her change in environment. She just was not the same character. As for that character, she kept saying that Heathcliff had betrayed her by running off. Well, she had become engaged to Linton! What did she think was going to happen? How did she think things were going to work?
Of course, again, I haven't read the book in a while. The book has all of "I am Heathcliff." The film does not. The film is clearly from his point of view, so the film cuts out of that confession when Heathcliff does and I'll have to go back to see what she actually concludes. Still, in the confines of the film, the viewer doesn't know what her side of the story is, so the viewer comes away thinking, "what an irrational woman! Did she expect to keep him on the side in her marriage? Did she think anyone but herself -- or even herself -- would find that acceptable?" That may not be fair to the character.
Nonetheless, this film was haunting. The moors seemed so big and desolate in panoramic views, and yet also teeming with life through extreme close-ups. But the life is also not friendly. It's nasty, brutish, and short. You are either the rabbit in the trap or the one doing the trapping, and there is no reward in being the rabbit. The trapper doesn't have things very well, either. This seems very much like the book that I remember reading.
Is it playing in the U.S., yet? The fact that we had to see it in an art house suggests that it isn't in wide release even here.
Here is the trailer:
Here is "Hark, A Vagrant's" interpretation of the book, parts 1, and 2, and Kate Bush, for good measure.:
That also reminds me, the film keeps most of the story -- and there is a lot of story in the story -- but dispenses with the framing device and the next generation of Earnshaws and Lindleys. Heathcliff wins, but, like the trapper, it isn't much of a victory.
I actually think I may go back and read the book, now.
I never really loved Jane Eyre, although I grew to appreciate the story and the things that Charlotte Bronte was saying. I also admired Jane's flintiness. Still, I just hated all of the male characters, and hated that Jane had to choose to spend her life with one of them. This particular version of the film reiterated my reasons. I kept thinking, "GAWD! These men are full of shit, all tyring to mansplain Jane to Jane. Shut up, Rochester! Just SHUT THE HELL UP!" I suppose that was some of the point that Charlotte Bronte was attempting to make. I think she hated them, too, but Jane was trapped in this world so had to make the best of it. Better to make the richer creep blind and dependant on her, right?
I digress.
But, as long as I'm digressing, I discovered the comic strip, "Hark, A Vagrant" the very day after I saw Jane Eyre when I came across an article about the artist in Salon.com. The very comic referenced in the article was one about the Brontes. Hee!
Anyway, I had come across an article about the actress playing the older Cathy, which made me look up the movie, which led to my discovery that Heathcliff was cast as black. Interesting. This I had to see.
What a powerful film! I have seen the Olivier version and am convinced that he totally did not understand the book. I'm not overly certain that he understood much of the Shakespeare that he interpreted, but I'm not in a position to elaborate with any great knowledge on that. In fact, not having actually read Wuthering Heights in more years that I can even remember -- I may have listened to an audiobook version of it in the past decade in a half -- I'm probably not in a position to say anything with any authority on the adaptation of the book.
Of course, that hasn't stopped me before.
Making Heathcliff black enhanced his isolation and sense of not belonging. Little asides, both vocal and visual, connect him to the slave trade. His back has scars from branding and beating, and someone says something about Daddy Earnshaw having found him in Liverpool. For me, that made any further beatings, such as when he is thrown against a wall and his back thrashed in a way reminiscent of images of slave whippings, more chilling and hateful, connecting this remote location to a wider world of violence and brutality.
I remember reading the book the first time, and I remember wondering why people thought that it was such a great love story when it seemed to be about horrible abuse, and that the abuse begat more abuse, and that all of the characters were ultimately vicious. The director does not shy away from that unrestrained and perverting power. Wuthering Heights is a savage world, and the Grange isn't much better, with only a polished veneer. So, Heathcliff seems a much more sympathetic character and his vengeance at the end seems the logical result of his treatment since birth. You can't be kind and sympathetic in these worlds because you will end up destroyed -- like Isabella.
I had no sympathy for Cathy, and I'm not sure if that is a product of the story or of the actress who plays the older version of her. The actress playing the younger version was a revelation. She was tough and scruffy, a product of the landscape as much as her family. Yet, she could also show affection for Heathcliff through her rough exterior.
The older actress's performance I can hardly evaluate because I was too distracted by the impossibility of this younger Cathy growing into this older Cathy. Not simply the looks -- the two Heathcliffs did not look that much alike, but you could believe that one became the other -- but the way that she played the character had very little in common with the younger version. You couldn't even write the differences off of her change in environment. She just was not the same character. As for that character, she kept saying that Heathcliff had betrayed her by running off. Well, she had become engaged to Linton! What did she think was going to happen? How did she think things were going to work?
Of course, again, I haven't read the book in a while. The book has all of "I am Heathcliff." The film does not. The film is clearly from his point of view, so the film cuts out of that confession when Heathcliff does and I'll have to go back to see what she actually concludes. Still, in the confines of the film, the viewer doesn't know what her side of the story is, so the viewer comes away thinking, "what an irrational woman! Did she expect to keep him on the side in her marriage? Did she think anyone but herself -- or even herself -- would find that acceptable?" That may not be fair to the character.
Nonetheless, this film was haunting. The moors seemed so big and desolate in panoramic views, and yet also teeming with life through extreme close-ups. But the life is also not friendly. It's nasty, brutish, and short. You are either the rabbit in the trap or the one doing the trapping, and there is no reward in being the rabbit. The trapper doesn't have things very well, either. This seems very much like the book that I remember reading.
Is it playing in the U.S., yet? The fact that we had to see it in an art house suggests that it isn't in wide release even here.
Here is the trailer:
Here is "Hark, A Vagrant's" interpretation of the book, parts 1, and 2, and Kate Bush, for good measure.:
That also reminds me, the film keeps most of the story -- and there is a lot of story in the story -- but dispenses with the framing device and the next generation of Earnshaws and Lindleys. Heathcliff wins, but, like the trapper, it isn't much of a victory.
I actually think I may go back and read the book, now.
Saturday, December 03, 2011
Hark, Patrick Pearse and John Connolly!
My wake-up routine in the morning involves coffee and reading the comics. Thanks to the lovely world of the intertubes, a person can read comics not selected by one's local paper, and among those that I like to read is "Hark, A Vagrant" by Kate Beaton-- comics for history and literary nerds. She doesn't post every day, so I click her "Random" link to see older strips. Imagine my delight to come across this comic. You could probably count on one hand the number of people in the U.S. who get it. I would not have been one of those people except for these artifacts of my stay here.
First, in a restaurant called The Bank (housed in a former bank, and very lovely), the decor includes the busts of the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising. Right next to one another you will find:
Patrick Pearse and John Connolly.
The bartenders at The Bank also know how to make mixed drinks properly, as in "not from a mix." This is a rarity in this city, based upon the Gentleman Caller's research. He's still scarred from his swamp green martini made with vodka and "martini mix." I don't know much about martinis, but I did take a taste and it was pretty foul, even for a martini.
I digress.
Patrick Pearse with his brother, ran a school for "sensitive boys." The curriculum immersed young men in Irish culture at a time when such was a revolutionary act. (I'm also certain that at least one of the two brothers was gay, but I may be basing that on stereotypes and not evidence.) The school, St. Enda's, is now a museum and I discovered it one day while jogging.:
The South Dublin County history website point out that Pearse rode his bicycle from St. Enda's past the Walled-Up Woman castle on his way to Dublin on Easter Sunday 1916, never to return. The rising failed miserably, although William Butler Yeats -- another poet, but not one in charge of a revolution -- had a different interpretation:
They met their end here, by firing squad:
I rather like the idea that a teacher and a poet was a revolutionary. I like being in a city where writers are honored as much as revolutionaries. Two of the candidates in the late presidential election were academics and the winner is also a poet.* That would lead to mockery and homophobic comments about the candidate's manhood in the U.S. (Yeah, sure, I know a certain Gingrich has a PhD in history, but does anyone take him seriously as a scholar of anything? He clearly knows nothing about the Progressive Era or the Gilded Age, otherwise, he wouldn't be trying to return the U.S. to 1880, or thereabout.)
In fact, I'm reminded of something that the Big Guy wrote about the power of words. He wrote, after studying the speeches in the first book that he owned, The Columbian Orator,
Mostly, I like that a comic artist made up a strip about them. It's not something that you see everyday.
------
*I should perhaps also note that I have no idea about their politics, and I haven't really begun to survey the political parties or their historical and social contexts here. That means I could be making an analogous statement to saying that the U.S. is cool because an alleged historian is running for president.
First, in a restaurant called The Bank (housed in a former bank, and very lovely), the decor includes the busts of the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising. Right next to one another you will find:
Patrick Pearse and John Connolly.
The bartenders at The Bank also know how to make mixed drinks properly, as in "not from a mix." This is a rarity in this city, based upon the Gentleman Caller's research. He's still scarred from his swamp green martini made with vodka and "martini mix." I don't know much about martinis, but I did take a taste and it was pretty foul, even for a martini.
I digress.
Patrick Pearse with his brother, ran a school for "sensitive boys." The curriculum immersed young men in Irish culture at a time when such was a revolutionary act. (I'm also certain that at least one of the two brothers was gay, but I may be basing that on stereotypes and not evidence.) The school, St. Enda's, is now a museum and I discovered it one day while jogging.:
The South Dublin County history website point out that Pearse rode his bicycle from St. Enda's past the Walled-Up Woman castle on his way to Dublin on Easter Sunday 1916, never to return. The rising failed miserably, although William Butler Yeats -- another poet, but not one in charge of a revolution -- had a different interpretation:
I write it out in a verse -Pearse, Connolly, and the rest ended up here, in Kilmainham Gaol, on this block:
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
They met their end here, by firing squad:
I rather like the idea that a teacher and a poet was a revolutionary. I like being in a city where writers are honored as much as revolutionaries. Two of the candidates in the late presidential election were academics and the winner is also a poet.* That would lead to mockery and homophobic comments about the candidate's manhood in the U.S. (Yeah, sure, I know a certain Gingrich has a PhD in history, but does anyone take him seriously as a scholar of anything? He clearly knows nothing about the Progressive Era or the Gilded Age, otherwise, he wouldn't be trying to return the U.S. to 1880, or thereabout.)
In fact, I'm reminded of something that the Big Guy wrote about the power of words. He wrote, after studying the speeches in the first book that he owned, The Columbian Orator,
The reading of these speeches added much to my limited stock of language, and enabled me to give tongue to many interesting thoughts, which had frequently flashed through my soul, and died away for want of utterance.Reading, learning new ideas, learning new ways to express those ideas, helped him to develop his own and his ways of expressing his own. Right there, you have the whole argument for a real education, immersed in ideas, in literature, in philosophy, in history, in the humanities. I suppose that is why we humble, seemingly innocuous humanities professors seem so dangerous and must be outsourced and undermined. Right?
Mostly, I like that a comic artist made up a strip about them. It's not something that you see everyday.
------
*I should perhaps also note that I have no idea about their politics, and I haven't really begun to survey the political parties or their historical and social contexts here. That means I could be making an analogous statement to saying that the U.S. is cool because an alleged historian is running for president.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
