depression

My Earthly Vagrancy.

~ taran.a.rampersad@gmail.com ~ 1 Comment

It came to me today while I was at the grocery store.

It was a feeling I had a bit over 2 weeks ago that suddenly grabbed my stomach and twisted it. It was uncomfortable, it was something I couldn’t explain, and I didn’t think I had any hints other than the song that was playing.

The song that was playing was “Carry On My Wayward Son”, a song that has woven it’s way into my life as a true classic song should. It’s relatable, and it has been relatable throughout my life. It’s not overplayed on the radio, so when it comes on it’s an event of sorts.

I’m big on lyrics, too, so the Icarus reference was something I picked up on in my teens. It’s probably one of the most underrated songs, in my thinking, but I spend a lot of time alone thinking. Your mileage may vary.

The song, in a way, was a red herring. It was maybe related, but it was just a good comfortable song.

I puzzled over that feeling. I spoke with my psychologist about that feeling, which got me talking a bit about the monotony of life and concerned her a bit about there, “not being a point to things”. It’s not a thought related to ending my life – no, no, no. But this feeling that it’s just dragging on.

I’ve accomplished the things I set out to accomplish, and I nailed it on every count. At every point in life I managed, despite the odds much of the time, to meet my goals and kick the ball forward. My point I was trying to make to her is that it is just kicking a can down the road. The road stretches on to the horizon.

Eventually, everyone would feel tired kicking that ball, I don’t care how happy they think they are. Life has s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s that are dull and during that time you have time to look back and boost yourself with things that you have been a part of, or have done. Then you wind up and kick that ball again. You keep going, because this road only ends when you do.

Forget the lines on the road. It’s a style issue.

Now when you’re on a road in traffic, there’s frustration about other things, like, “Why are all these people going the same direction I am at the same time?” Of course, no one thinks to avoid going in the same direction at the same time, or they don’t have the luxury of that choice.

Empty roads are different. Just you and the ball, the kicking and the noise giving you an odd tempo to drive you on, moving between beats.

The song, as it was, wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that I had been kicking the ball, and everywhere I looked, things were gone. Lost to progress, or some facsimile sold as progress to someone who wanted some.

The base I went through boot camp in – suburbia now. The Corpsman School I went through in Great Lakes – closed, gone. The websites I wrote for – gone. The software I wrote? Either still running in the background somewhere, or retired. People who helped shape me? Gone.

There’s a lot that I did in my life that is just gone, maybe more so because of how much work I did with software and writing on the Internet. For me, it’s a lot, enough so to grab my stomach and twist it hard enough to mention to my psychologist. It’s a lot to look back on and see gone.

I’ve spent a lifetime reinventing myself, and I can think of 16 distinct times I did reinvent myself in 51, almost 52 years.

To look back and see so much I left behind was an aggregated saudade that suddenly hit me in a vulnerable moment.

The only answer is to kick the ball forward.

We Don’t Talk Enough About Mental Health.

~ taran.a.rampersad@gmail.com ~ 4 Comments
RFTaranOhioBackyard

I’m an imperfect human being. Over the years I have had to remind myself of that when I might have been being too tough on myself, too arrogant, or too demanding of others. It’s a way of keeping myself real, and maybe I do it too much or too little at the right and wrong times. I’m an imperfect human being. We’ve covered that.

One of the friends I checked on today – Sunday, I check on friends – is going through a rough patch and mostly I read what she had to write. It seemed she was being very hard on herself, something I know about, and I asked her to consider this quote:

“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.”

John Steinbeck, East of Eden.

It’s a good quote to throw around in your head if you’re unfamiliar with it. Personally, I survived most of my life by being harder on myself than people in authority were. I’m not recommending it, people who get yelled at more frequently seem to be happier for some peculiar reason. This is meant to be lighthearted, work with me here.

I only have my experience to work with, and again, I’m an imperfect human being and when it comes to these sort of things, I happily point people toward where they can get help instead of attempting it myself and possibly making matters worse. Yet there is a stigma with going to talk with someone who can be objective about us, because as friends we are biased.

There are so many stigmas about mental health services that admittedly I haven’t gone myself until fairly recently. It wasn’t anything dramatic, I simply finally decided it was time because it was possible I was having issues and I needed someone objective. For me, I was fortunate and found someone by hopping on Google Maps and searching for a psychologist. It can be more complicated with health insurance, but I lucked out.

We all have blind spots. For example, a guy I know seemed like a real jerk after a few drinks. I cut ties quietly, and one of his female friends mentioned, “I don’t know why he’s like that. It’s as if he’s bipolar when he drinks”, and it dawned on me that I almost always associated women with being bipolar but not men. I mentioned this to my psychologist, and she pointed out some interesting facts: Women are more likely to avail themselves of mental health services, and that women are more commonly diagnosed with the condition.

That gets to we guys. A lot of reels I have been seeing on Facebook recently, relate to we men not having people to talk to. Dave Chapelle went as far as to say that only women, children and dogs get unconditional love. There are expectations of men. I don’t know how true it is, but it resonates with my world experience between friends and my own personal experience. Maybe this is a factor of being of Generation X, maybe it’s a factor of all the workplace stuff that was a minefield during my days in offices, and maybe part of it is a bit of culture that needs to change.

I don’t know.

I do know that there shouldn’t be a stigma related to getting help, asking for help, or going to see a counselor, psychologist or psychiatrist. Personally, I’ve found it valuable, not because I’m a raving lunatic – I am not – but because it allows me to see a reflection of myself through an objective mirror rather than the warped mirrors of life. I have found it helps me keep grounded.

Did I drag my feet getting to see a psychologist? Yes. To be fair, maybe I wasn’t ready yet. Maybe you’re not ready yet. Maybe your friend is not ready yet.

But maybe they need to know it’s perfectly fine to go talk to someone professionally, who isn’t going to judge you based on a personal relationship. Maybe it’s easier to climb the mountain than to carry it.