I'm so out of it. If my wife hadn't started talking about the need to dust off our Xmas Stalk (we use an agave stalk as the centerpiece for the annual orgy of consumerism), I wouldn't have realized that we are, as of tomorrow, in the "Holiday Season." Ordinarily, this is something I dread. If it wasn't for the old Ray Conniff Singers recordings still available, I wouldn't make it through until New Year's Day, which is a day of liberation, as far as I am concerned, because I really hate the whole American idea of Xmas. And you can throw in all the other incidental holidays too, like Hannukah, Kwaanza, Festivus, etc. In fact, holidays in general are a bust, because they are now nothing more than anchors for shopping opportunities and also because they force us into celebrations and gift-giving that is neither heartfelt nor healthy.
But actually, that all changed last year, when Bill O'Reilly--yes, that mad ranter over at Fox "News"--raised all of our consciousness about the War on Christmas. At last, I thought, there's a war I can wholeheartedly support! I cleaned my weapons, bought some new ceramic body armor, and was ready to party with whoever was waging that war. As an added bonus, standing in opposition to the "War on Christmas" were the aforementioned creep O'Reilly, plus other rightwing nutfucks like John Gibson and Michelle Malkin. Talk about your convergence of enemies!
The trouble was, I couldn't find any recruiters or the army that was fighting this "War on Christmas." Before I knew it, we were into January, and as far as I could tell, Xmas had come and gone without a shot being fired or a single Santa taken prisoner.
But I'm ready this year, so I'm asking for your help. Where do I sign up to join the "War on Christmas"? Is it an official military organization, or is it still in the guerilla stages? Do I get to wear a beret with a red star on it? What are the chances of victory? Would it really be possible to one day live in a society free from drunken office parties and deadly dull family gatherings? Could I at long last live out of the sight of inflatable candy canes and dancing snowmen?
Just don't take away my Ray Conniff Christmas records. That's real.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Problem Solved!
All it took was a single comment from a terribly desperate reader in France who reminded me of how meaningless my life was. Bingo! I feel so much better now! I really, really want to thank Jimmy the Hyena Nowlan for the therapeutic post, because now I know that however low, pointless, and pathetic my daily life may become, it's never so bad that I have to stalk some schmuck's blog to make myself feel better.
Oh, and Jimmy...how do you know that previous post wasn't a lure that I knew you couldn't resist?
Gotcha!
Really, man, you make it too easy.
Oh, and Jimmy...how do you know that previous post wasn't a lure that I knew you couldn't resist?
Gotcha!
Really, man, you make it too easy.
Black Dog
I'm not a big fan of confessional blogging. It's very popular, I know, to pour one's heart or personal life out in daily installments, and it's likely a very healing exercise for many people. Yet as extroverted as I appear to be, it's highly likely that no one who reads this who does not know me personally has even the slightest idea who Olaf Rotkohl really is (IF, that is, there is anyone who reads this who does not know me personally).
Thanks to you all who do know me and read this, even if it is as "mercy readers" who fear I'd have no readers without them--bless you.
Anyway, since returning from vacation in Berlin in middle August, and very likely starting somewhat earlier this year, I've been slipping into a dark place, finally reaching a level where I'm so acutely conscious of my condition that the awareness itself is also near-paralyzing. I write about it today as a vanity post--you can stop reading now, because (and this is doubly tragic) so damned much has been written about depression that it's just not interesting, and in a way that's the trouble with most serious health concerns--cancer, heart disease, and diabetes, for example. Unless you're afflicted or a partner of someone afflicted, it's an abstraction at best, or, if you are touched by it, it can be a profound embarrassment. No one likes to admit weakness, even when it's beyond one's control.
If there's one thing I can feel good about, however, it's that I have become pretty good at faking being a happy person, even in the blackest moods. It's probably because I'm too afraid to be rude, or maybe it's fear of giving up some advantage to adversaries, or some other stupid reason, but it's probably not healthy to wait until absolute terror fills every public encounter before seeking some support.
And I should know better--I've been down this road before, and there are treatments that can be highly beneficial. The trouble is, however, that the key fact of depression is that one cannot even imagine ever feeling like living fully again. The universe reshapes itself into a narrowing helix along which one can only spiral down further. Hope is alien. Withdrawal is the only refuge, and it only takes one deeper.
As I write this, I await the deliver of some prescriptions that have helped in the past. Due to my own failures to act in a timely manner, and partially due to an unnecessarily Byzantine health care system in this country, even for those with health insurance, I've been spending the last few weeks crawling along inside the black dog, hanging on by my fingernails not to slide any further down that cone where I sincerely fear I might get wedged and never crawl out again.
I apologize for taking up space to write so personally, but if there is one benefit beyond my own selfish expiation, it is to tell anyone who reads this that there should never be shame or fear in seeking help when you find yourself not just having a bad day or two, but weeks and months of despair and hopelessness and hatred for every time you have to speak with another person. It's not weakness, it is illness, and in most, maybe all cases it is treatable. The devil in the affliction is that it disables even the faintest light of possibility that life can ever be enjoyable again, and that is the tragedy. If I didn't know intellectually that treatment is there and can work very effectively, I'd have given up long, long ago. But even as I don't feel hopeful, I have memory of having had a time in my life when every morning was the beginning of a fascinating day and I could not believe how lucky I was to have the world before me, so beautiful, and so full of possibilities.
If you ever find yourself here, deep inside this black dog, please tell someone. Find help. Talk to your doctor.
It's no way to live, and there are no heroes who continue to dwell here.
Thanks to you all who do know me and read this, even if it is as "mercy readers" who fear I'd have no readers without them--bless you.
Anyway, since returning from vacation in Berlin in middle August, and very likely starting somewhat earlier this year, I've been slipping into a dark place, finally reaching a level where I'm so acutely conscious of my condition that the awareness itself is also near-paralyzing. I write about it today as a vanity post--you can stop reading now, because (and this is doubly tragic) so damned much has been written about depression that it's just not interesting, and in a way that's the trouble with most serious health concerns--cancer, heart disease, and diabetes, for example. Unless you're afflicted or a partner of someone afflicted, it's an abstraction at best, or, if you are touched by it, it can be a profound embarrassment. No one likes to admit weakness, even when it's beyond one's control.
If there's one thing I can feel good about, however, it's that I have become pretty good at faking being a happy person, even in the blackest moods. It's probably because I'm too afraid to be rude, or maybe it's fear of giving up some advantage to adversaries, or some other stupid reason, but it's probably not healthy to wait until absolute terror fills every public encounter before seeking some support.
And I should know better--I've been down this road before, and there are treatments that can be highly beneficial. The trouble is, however, that the key fact of depression is that one cannot even imagine ever feeling like living fully again. The universe reshapes itself into a narrowing helix along which one can only spiral down further. Hope is alien. Withdrawal is the only refuge, and it only takes one deeper.
As I write this, I await the deliver of some prescriptions that have helped in the past. Due to my own failures to act in a timely manner, and partially due to an unnecessarily Byzantine health care system in this country, even for those with health insurance, I've been spending the last few weeks crawling along inside the black dog, hanging on by my fingernails not to slide any further down that cone where I sincerely fear I might get wedged and never crawl out again.
I apologize for taking up space to write so personally, but if there is one benefit beyond my own selfish expiation, it is to tell anyone who reads this that there should never be shame or fear in seeking help when you find yourself not just having a bad day or two, but weeks and months of despair and hopelessness and hatred for every time you have to speak with another person. It's not weakness, it is illness, and in most, maybe all cases it is treatable. The devil in the affliction is that it disables even the faintest light of possibility that life can ever be enjoyable again, and that is the tragedy. If I didn't know intellectually that treatment is there and can work very effectively, I'd have given up long, long ago. But even as I don't feel hopeful, I have memory of having had a time in my life when every morning was the beginning of a fascinating day and I could not believe how lucky I was to have the world before me, so beautiful, and so full of possibilities.
If you ever find yourself here, deep inside this black dog, please tell someone. Find help. Talk to your doctor.
It's no way to live, and there are no heroes who continue to dwell here.
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