Entry 15: Love Vigilante

Watching the Wheels: A Journal of Depression Treatment

Entry 15: Love Vigilante

“It’s not anxiety, it’s your attitude. It’s shitty.” These were the words my therapist told me the other day. He’s blunt and to the point which, as a therapist myself, is something I really need to hear, one reason he works well for me. We were discussing some apprehension about trying something new, pushing me out of a shell that I have been slowly building over the past year, maybe even longer but instead of making a pearl a part of me has been incrementally feeding the beast that lays deep within me. One that whispers tales of nihilism, of the idea that I am truly not a person who is deserving of many things. Of the “need” to isolate. “It’s bullshit. You are allowing something, someone to dictate who you are which isn’t who you are or never were. You have zero evidence of this except your own pain from childhood. From abandonment and trust. When you feel it, name it. Call it out. My advice, go out and have fun. That is something you are good at.”

Words are so important. I tell my clients this, as a writer, educator and therapist I firmly believe how a person talks about the issues in their lives is so very important. Change happens with perspective, a dialing of the knob to help move us towards something different. If I believe some of the unhealthy things I was told, or have come to believe then there is so much I would not have accomplished in my life: sobriety, tempering my anger, going back to college in my 30’s, starting a record label, getting married, getting divorced, becoming a parent, writing a book and even getting to work on time. Being presented with the idea that by changing my language and how I refer to beliefs or issues I have I can move towards something different. Attitude. Anxiety. There is no doubt that I do suffer from social anxiety, this has become apparent since I quit drinking many years ago. The realization that I used alcohol to intermingle, interact, and be an interbeing came in small doses. Going to a show sober. Talking to a crowd sober. Dancing sober. Attending a wedding sober. It hit me one day as I was walking to a show across the street from my house, that I didn’t want to see anybody except the band. I didn’t want to chit chat, that I tend to joke to much, never knowing how to end small-talk conversation, slipping away. But usually after going I was happy to see folks. COVID reinforced this idea of being comfortable with isolation, of letting anxiety reinforce separateness, this was further cemented by having my people, kids, my partner at the time. That was it and it provided all the intimacy I needed. Being. But when the world opened the doors outward, letting the wind of normalcy blow the web and dust of COVID lockdown into the past some of it has very much remained within me.

Circumstances change. Always. Changing is infinite. My mother died. My stepfather died. My son was hospitalized, he was finally diagnosed with autism at the age of 14 but not after a series of crisis that left me feeling desperate and questioning so much of my life. My ability to parent. We can’t stop loving our children and I needed to learn how to love differently. To communicate differently. To change my language about how I talk to him, about him and provide hope. My relationship ended. My father came back into my life after 45 years. And through a lot of this (and ongoing) is a situation where I have felt frightened for not just my relationships but also my livelihood and life. A lot happened. I was blessed in my life, fortunate to live a very comfortable life with people who have loved me and encouraged me. I encountered death many times but as I explained to a friend the other day, when one is involved in a creative world those around us may die early. Drugs. Alcohol. Suicide. They happen. No judgement. While trying to move through experiences, accumulations of event after event I find it easy to have missed the brilliance of the everyday. A smile. A touch on the back. Bringing somebody a cup of tea. Slipping in a line to present the absurd to keep your person at ease. The joy of a dog bounding over a field, hopping like a bunny, tongue out, tail in the air. They happen.

When I became a Buddhist, I realized that the ideas of “right mind”, “right action” and “right speech” rang true for me. Right speech. The view of being non-judgmental is imperative to my life, I am prone to judge, being conditioned to stand up for the little guy, for the underdogs, to have a profound distrust in authority can lead to being judgmental. But there is a deeper thought process here, of being open and learning how to understand the interconnectedness of everyone, of everything. I tell my clients to try not to judge the things that have happened to them, yes be angry but to stay in anger can lead to bitterness and once wine becomes vinegar it is very difficult to drink. It is possible but to swallow vinegar is not a great idea. When my mother died, I did not ask “why did this happen to me”, when my stepfather died, I did not ask “why did this happen to me.” When my best friend died in the middle of a dark cold street. I did not ask. When I did get sober, I was angry. I spent hours and emotional energy asking, “why can’t I drink like other people?” and “why was I born an alcoholic?” Prudent and normal questions, important for me to ask but I learned over the years that approaching it as “it just is” helped me come to terms to it. This has been harder to do with my depression which has become so acute the past few years that some of the things that save me are my dark sense of humor. I told a friend of mine who asked my how my day was going. My reply, “great, I just renewed my frequent buyer cards at both the Rope Store and Poison Store.” Or darkly saying, “lucky man” when I hear someone died. Those who know me understand the gallows humor, the fact that I say I am going to go swimming in the Atlantic with a suit made from meat, complete with a sausage necklace, all the better of getting eaten by a shark. It would be a great story for my friends, “dude fucking went swimming with a sausage suit and got eaten by sharks. What a complete dumbass.”

Other friend, “um, I think that was the point.”

“Oh, I guess so. You know, I think he even wrote about it.”

“He did.”

As I write this, nestled into a worn-out yellow chair in one of my favorite coffee shops I can see white cumulus clouds in the distance. Hovering quietly against a pale blue sky. I always loved looking at the clouds but it wasn’t until someone taught me about their brilliant majesty this gaseous floating artworks the climbed high and played a trick on young child-me to believe they were solid form, that I could reach out of the window of a plane and pop a piece of them into my mouth and let it dissolve as if it were cotton candy. Science sort of ruined this for me and it took me many years to be able to marvel at the specialness of this things that upon closer look are not anything, just a part of. They come and go, and they really don’t have a beginning, they just form and dissipate. Sometimes they appear ominous, sometimes they appear to be like animals lazing on a field of blue, but they are just what they are. Suicidal ideation is something that I have lived with for many years, there are moments during the day where one of these thoughts is released as if it were a rouge raindrop for a cloud and can pull me down For many years there was some shame in letting anybody know that this was happening to me, as if I were doing something wrong, that my brain was broken. That I encouraged my own death wish. The truth is that there is no way to control them and if anything my life would be more enjoyable, more interesting if this didn’t float out of some dark hiding place in my skull. I no longer judge the thoughts, but I do very much label them, partially since I have an understanding of how that hiding place formed. I can remind myself that I can see it, label it and turn away from it. To not engage. No longer judging the thoughts. They just are. Eventually they have seemed to have lessened in intensity through the treatment I have been receiving.

In the same way that it has taken me quite a while to look back into the clouds, an almost sacred act that once opened my world and later morphed into a flinch of longing and sadness; I understand that my thoughts are very much the same. Where is the beginning and where is the end, can I wrap my hands around a thought, a wish, a place of internal wellness?

Environment. How do I fit into the world, more specifically into the environment in which I live. On my walls there is artwork that I find inspiring, a painting I made for my mother when I was in my mid-twenties. It was painted on a wooden board, it includes Abraham Lincoln, my old dog Richard, a streetlamp and a guy bent over a bar nursing a drink. There is a halo of light from the streetlamp over Richard’s head and she is looking over the shoulder of the man. None of this was intended, something I noticed almost thirty years after I painted it after hanging it in my living room. Angels, I painted one but do I believe in them? Not so much. Across from that is a Billy Childish print of Rachmaninoff, whose “Vespers” is something I listen to often, as it’s hallowed sounds of longing fit snuggly into my ears as I search for something greater, more supernatural than I dare believe in. Next is a panel from a graphic comic I wrote about an experience with the Ramones. It’s drawn by the incredible Andy Bennett who inked all three comics I wrote. It includes my two children sitting and singing along to the Ramones in my car. Along the other wall is a small photo I took of my daughter when she was 8 as we rode through the Dutch countryside on a train, she looks like a beautiful young Dutch girl, her head wrapped in a scarf staring out the window into the flat farmland. Next is an amazing paining my son made, that is breathtaking in its use of colors and sophistication. There is a Howard Finster that speaks to the love of God, sewed and painted on a religious yoke. Another Billy Childish painting, this one a rudimentary acrylic painted on the back of a box of a ship sailing through a storm, three masts that resemble the three crucifixions of Christ.

In the other room another photo, this one of my son, all of age four at the beach in the Netherlands. Naked and standing on a water worn abandoned piece of pier, his back to the camera, arms outstretched as if the ocean is his kingdom, and holding a bag of chips in his hand. What every man desires. Opposite is a piece by Daniel Johnston, someone who has inspired both myself and my children. Another Billy Childish print, this one of a crucifix with a serpent crawling around it, called “God and the Devil Intertwined.” On the dining room wall are two Jad Fair papercuts. By the stairway is a painting of Richard Brautigan by my friend Derek Erdman. I bought most of these later in my life, when I could afford it (mostly due to a small inheritance from my stepfather) and it has taken me years to see how art inspires me.

Environment. The living room shelves are stacked with books and records, on my mantle are a Buddhist statue, a card of the Four Noble Truths, and crucifix my brother bought me years ago and flowers. Always flowers. On the bookshelf next to it are dried flowers from my mother’s garden, from people I have loved along with photos of my mother, my children, my grandmother and uncles. Love. Reminders. There are plants in the corner, some from my friend Eric, who asked me to hold them for him a few years ago. More plants my daughter was keeping, orchids, spider plants and more books and records. The dining room is filled with more records and CD’s that reach towards the ceiling. The A’s get little play. I have learned to create an environment that allows the opportunity to be successful. A car is only as good as the road it is driving on. It starts with me. When feeling blue, a dark blue that is almost black, I can look at these things and be reminded and encouraged. Yes, there are things that pull on me like a child tugging on his mother’s sleeve of sadness, but this is life, this is experience. Some things I have had to move out of the room, too much sadness. They have been put in a box and perhaps, one day I can touch them with my fingers. Tracing the memories with the love and longing I felt for other people. Connection.

A day where the heat is trying to melt the back of legs to the lawn furniture, everything is sticky. Even the mosquitoes are sweating. A service dog was laying underneath a table on the coffee shop patio, it’s posture and blank expression said it all, “this is making me question my loyalty.” The dog’s owner was chatting to a friend and drinking a tan icy caffeinated drink, waving her hands wildly to emphasize a point, her friend nodding in agreement. I sat a few tables away, headphones on so I could not hear what they were talking about, feeling pity for the dog I spoke words of encouragement. “That’s a good dog, I know it’s hot.” Tail flapping up and down a few times, its owner turned towards me and waved, smiled. I didn’t know her except for seeing each other a few times a week over the past few years, sometimes with both of our dogs sniffing each other out. She had tattoos on her arms, a flower, a cat, stick and pokes on her forearm, the back of her hand and on her ankles. Cute characters, one of a simple milk carton. On her thigh she wore a skull in black ink that was her way of mocking death until the day that she would succumb to it with her final breath. I didn’t know her story, but she told it in many ways. She leaned over, gripped her friend’s hand, and kissed her on the cheek. They got up, smiled and hugged. She placed her chair under the table and walked by me, stopping for a moment to allow me to pet the dog. Pulling my headphones down, I spoke to the dog again who wagged her tail some more and gazed up at me. “That’s a good dog; you are so good.” Thump. Thump. Thump. I looked up at the woman, “Oh hi, I’m Bela. Sorry about talking to the dog.” “Not a problem, her name is Daisy. I know who you are, I think everyone does. My name is Amy, I had you for a class I think.” I didn’t recognize her; she saw my puzzlement. “Oh, it was online during COVID. My girlfriend also had you last year, she said you are hilarious in person. Stupid COVID.” This is where I don’t know where to stop or to keep talking. I told some jokes, making short small talk and she laughed. Was it politeness? “Well, we have to get home. Daisy is pretty tired.” Connection. At one point a few years ago my daughter said to me as we were walking around the neighborhood, “Dad, it’s embarrassing. You know everyone, can you not talk to everyone? Please?” “I like talking sometimes, and I don’t know everyone. I hardly know anyone’s name.” We continued walking and when we entered the coffee shop and stood in line the person in front of us turned and introduced himself, “Hi, I know you but you don’t know me, but I just finished your book. I really liked it. Just wanted to say hello.”

His partner nodded, “yes, he did because he wouldn’t shut up about it.” She smiled. I knew it was not an insult.

“Um, thank you, and you still want to say hello to me?!” I felt awkward.

Saskia whispered to me, “see what I mean? Totally embarrassing and then you usually say something dumb.”

That part was true.

“I think people just know me because I’m old and I’ve lived in this neighborhood for years, sort of like how people recognize the big tree at the end of our street or the McDonalds.”

She rolled her eyes, “Dad, why can’t you just accept that people know you?” I don’t know. It always has made me uncomfortable.

The ground wasn’t ground, it was cracking in small clumps, mirroring altocumulus clouds, small pockets of cold water separating them. Islands. I was as fragile as the water I was walking on, holding breath while waiting for the lake below to open its jaws. Splitting what was once solid into liquid. I didn’t know why you thought I was strong, maybe it was my humor, who doesn’t like a person who can laugh at pain? Maybe it was the idea that I was able to share something that many keep hidden as if the telling itself is an act of courage, but it isn’t. Like creativity I felt it had to be told. Perhaps God created the universe because they had no choice, had to burp out the pain and out came the universe with one sticky clot called Earth. Strong. Courageous. Hmmm. Not so sure. Perhaps it was my acceptance that you found attractive, even then this comes in slow degrees, not always easy or even noticeable even when putting in the effort. I speak from my new ongoing acceptance project. The lake opened, the small islands of ice separating in unison with the strong current underneath, turns out the top wasn’t that solid. I was then a cell, moving along a path towards a cancer that was confusing the rest of us cells, just doing our job with a sudden shift. Who was I? Vessels of vessels carrying the ingredients of life. And death. I was with you at the beach, your small hands doing the screaming of excitement for you as you yelped and reached for the world. With every wave you dove into you came out feeling alive, even the seagulls smiled down from above. “Daddy, that bird took my sandwich” and then you added, “but I don’t care, maybe he was hungry.” I was with you when you held your breath as the plane took off, as you felt the wheels leave the runway a small gasp left your throat, at once magical and dangerous. You turned to me and smiled, I held your hand tight between the aisles. I was strong.

Last night I saw Peter Hook and the Light, I was hesitant to initially go and passed on buying a ticket although New Order/Joy Division were so important to me growing up. I didn’t feel I had the emotional space to feel that deeply. My friend Ken messaged me and said he couldn’t go, and he would be happy to give me a ticket. I had a few rough days; I can pinpoint the reasons (which helps but doesn’t always change the feelings) and had considered not going. I did my routine during the day, worked, walked, meditated, read my morning reading, went to the gym. After the gym I spoke to a friend afterwards and she asked me if the gym worked for my mood, and I told her the truth. It didn’t but maybe the show would. I took a shower, found a pair of pants that my son had not “borrowed” yet and drove to the venue. Hoping to see one of my best friends’ Chris there I messaged him and said some hellos to others. Everybody wore their gray wigs and middle-aged body suits, and I quickly made my way towards the side of the stage which is place I normally see shows. For the first half hour I wanted to leave. Feeling empty, the thought of going to bed seemed ideal but it would also not let the power of music change my mood. At the start of the second set where they did a string of Joy Division songs and then peaking with “Love Vigilantes.” Suddenly my heart was soaring. When “Love Vigilantes” started, I thought of my first love Jenny who would play it on her small Casio keyboard. I recalled the first time I played it for her in high school she had no idea that music could sound like this, “hey, rewind it. Play that again” she whispered on my bed. After I did, I danced around the room, and she joined me. Last night I got goose bumps listening to it, I got tearful, and I went home feeling more alive. On the way home my son messaged me, “dad, where are you?” I was driving by his mother’s house. “On my way home from the show.” “You are right by our house, come over. We are making Strawberry Shortcake from scratch; my mom is finishing the whipped cream. She said to come over.” Turning the car around, I parked in the driveway of the house I used to live in, the house where our children were conceived, where they still call home, I grabbed my Taco Bell and headed inside. No evident sadness. There at 11:30pm, I ate homemade Strawberry Shortcake in my old dining room with my ex-wife and teenage boy who asked me questions and filled my plate with delicious morsels of love. It ended up being a good night.

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