I'm supposed to be working, but I'm having a hard time working up any drive to do so. In fact, the last few weeks, working up energy to do much of anything has been ... let's say difficult.
One of those things most people don't understand about BPD2 is it's a paralyzer. There are days — even with proper medication and talking doctors — when getting out of bed is an agony most people would not be able to take. They're an extreme minority, but they still happen, and there's really not a damn thing you can do about it except breathe in, breathe out and move on.
My lowest point was before I finally decided I needed help. I couldn't get out of bed. Absolutely refused. I couldn't face the thought of going in to work. I'd been building toward that day for weeks and it was the day my wife decided enough was enough. She pushed me into the car and drove me to the psychiatric ward at one of the local hospitals where I spent a week off of the world trying to find out what the hell was wrong with me.
Since then, it's been years of changing drug cocktails to get the combination that'll work "this time" (I go in for another visit in a week, and it's probably time to adjust my dosage again.). Eight talking doctors later, I'm in a "good" place for the most part. The last one released me, but reminded me I might need more therapy in the future.
I'm looking at a pile of press releases that I'll take back to the office this afternoon (I'm in the unsupervised Granville office this morning, which is the only way I'm getting away with this.) and type to keep busy.
I've mentioned before, but I'm certain I'll repeat often, the worst of this is people tend to look down on people with a mental illness (I refuse to call it a challenge. A challenge means you can beat it. This is not something that can be beat; only met.). Somehow, a mental problem is "our fault." It's a defect that makes us "inferior" and "unfit for inclusion in human society." Apparently, mental illness is the modern-day version of leprosy.
A note to the rest of humanity: I'm sorry if I don't fit your idea of "normal." I apologize for the fact I can still function in society well enough that I can still have a job you think you deserve because you're "normal" (although often, if our employer finds out we're "damaged goods," we may not keep that job, as some excuse will be manufactured for sacking us. It does happen, and proving it's because of our illness is tough, especially since doing so opens us up to further ostracization because it's then publicly known you're "damaged goods," and if your attempts to get your job back are unsuccessful, then you've given other employers a reason to be creative in their way of denying you a job. Yes, it happens — may Lee Studstill rot in the flames of Hell.).
More news for the people who don't like the way I am: I don't either. If I could wake up tomorrow, lop off my left arm and therefore be free of the drugs, the therapy, the days when I can't stand life (or myself) and the crippling depression and highs that come with BPD2, I'd grab a rusty dull half-inch pocketknife and gleefully saw away. But it doesn't work that way.
Today (and possibly for the next several days), I'm going through the motions. I'd rather be anywhere else but work, but I honestly couldn't tell you what I'd rather be doing; my "GAF" button is not only stuck, but the repair crew can't fix their own, let alone find time for mine.
That's why the rum is gone...
Friday, August 29, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
Fallen idols...and not in the usual sense
I hate to say it, but I wasn't surprised. That's actually the part that shocks me.
When I was in my junior and senior years of high school, I had an idol — like we all do — someone I wanted to be like so much; and the thing was I was most of the way there: We had a lot of the same look. Same fashion sense. Same sense of humor. Same hair (nearly). He was almost exactly ten years older than me.
As it turns out, there's one other thing we shared. The trouble is, I faced my demon and won. He didn't.
It's August 11, 2014 and the person I wanted to be when I was a kid — Robin Williams — is dead, an apparent suicide.
Last entry, I mentioned a lot of the signs, and he had them in abundance: Creative, funny and smart with talents in many directions. Robin Williams was almost the poster boy for Bi-Polar Disorder, if not outright depression (Media is currently saying severe depression, but I'm pretty certain he was dealing with BPD I, but we'll probably never know.). But we never saw it coming. Not him. He had it all. How could he...?
But I wasn't shocked. I think I saw it coming, but I didn't put it together until now. He'd be in the spotlight doing several projects, then disappear for a while. Recently, he checked himself into rehab. Not once, but twice.
"To focus himself after some hectic projects," his agent said.
Sadly, I also understand how he felt. In the late 70s/early 80s, Robin Williams was THE man. He could do no wrong (except, maybe 'Toys'). Mork and Mindy, comedy tours, movie roles.
Now, in the next ten seconds, name the last movie he was in.
Couldn't do it, could you? Therein lies part of the problem.
Some people start out terrific in their careers. Some blossom as they get older; George Carlin being the ultimate example of that. Most peak quickly and decline. Sadly, Williams was one of those. During the last 30 years, his shtick never really changed and he went from cutting edge to routine to a parody of himself. He could look behind him and see his shining glory, but he saw nothing to match that glory in front of him.
I understand that. Deeply. I spent 10-15 years in radio, with some of my best work in Springfield and Peoria. In fact, as a fill-in disc jockey, I won my slot with the stations' prime demographic in two consecutive years. I say "stations'" instead of "station's" because I worked at two different radio stations those years. And won. Easily.
Although it's nothing of the sort, most people see DJs as "this close" to the entertainment world. Even a small town radio announcer receives a bit of awe and special treatment from people, even if it's on a subconscious level. It's an ego boost. And it becomes a drug that's hard to break from.
I miss that "fame," that "ego boost" that made me feel like I was something special. I don't miss the people I worked for or with, though. Radio is a toxic atmosphere. I don't think I ever worked at a station where half of the staff wasn't either afraid or knifing someone in the back. But damn, the feeling of being on the air or at a public appearance and knowing that people are hanging on your every word (and they ARE YOUR OWN WORDS) is a high that I can't explain.
...and one I'll likely never have again. Theater fills in somewhat, and the occasional stand-up is better yet, but my days of reaching more than a handful of people at a time are behind me.
Now, that's the same for Robin Williams.
R.I.P., Mork.
When I was in my junior and senior years of high school, I had an idol — like we all do — someone I wanted to be like so much; and the thing was I was most of the way there: We had a lot of the same look. Same fashion sense. Same sense of humor. Same hair (nearly). He was almost exactly ten years older than me.
As it turns out, there's one other thing we shared. The trouble is, I faced my demon and won. He didn't.
It's August 11, 2014 and the person I wanted to be when I was a kid — Robin Williams — is dead, an apparent suicide.
Last entry, I mentioned a lot of the signs, and he had them in abundance: Creative, funny and smart with talents in many directions. Robin Williams was almost the poster boy for Bi-Polar Disorder, if not outright depression (Media is currently saying severe depression, but I'm pretty certain he was dealing with BPD I, but we'll probably never know.). But we never saw it coming. Not him. He had it all. How could he...?
But I wasn't shocked. I think I saw it coming, but I didn't put it together until now. He'd be in the spotlight doing several projects, then disappear for a while. Recently, he checked himself into rehab. Not once, but twice.
"To focus himself after some hectic projects," his agent said.
Sadly, I also understand how he felt. In the late 70s/early 80s, Robin Williams was THE man. He could do no wrong (except, maybe 'Toys'). Mork and Mindy, comedy tours, movie roles.
Now, in the next ten seconds, name the last movie he was in.
Couldn't do it, could you? Therein lies part of the problem.
Some people start out terrific in their careers. Some blossom as they get older; George Carlin being the ultimate example of that. Most peak quickly and decline. Sadly, Williams was one of those. During the last 30 years, his shtick never really changed and he went from cutting edge to routine to a parody of himself. He could look behind him and see his shining glory, but he saw nothing to match that glory in front of him.
I understand that. Deeply. I spent 10-15 years in radio, with some of my best work in Springfield and Peoria. In fact, as a fill-in disc jockey, I won my slot with the stations' prime demographic in two consecutive years. I say "stations'" instead of "station's" because I worked at two different radio stations those years. And won. Easily.
Although it's nothing of the sort, most people see DJs as "this close" to the entertainment world. Even a small town radio announcer receives a bit of awe and special treatment from people, even if it's on a subconscious level. It's an ego boost. And it becomes a drug that's hard to break from.
I miss that "fame," that "ego boost" that made me feel like I was something special. I don't miss the people I worked for or with, though. Radio is a toxic atmosphere. I don't think I ever worked at a station where half of the staff wasn't either afraid or knifing someone in the back. But damn, the feeling of being on the air or at a public appearance and knowing that people are hanging on your every word (and they ARE YOUR OWN WORDS) is a high that I can't explain.
...and one I'll likely never have again. Theater fills in somewhat, and the occasional stand-up is better yet, but my days of reaching more than a handful of people at a time are behind me.
Now, that's the same for Robin Williams.
R.I.P., Mork.
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