A Week of Surprises

The last week has been one of unexpected developments, most of them good, one bad, and one just sort of bewildering.

The first of these surprises came when I returned from my grandmother's house on Thursday, June 28, with Powell following close behind.

"Now, listen," I told my 22-year-old brother, whose tendency for hard partying in other people's residences has caused issues in the past. "I don't mind you staying since Mom and Dad are on vacation, but it has to be just us."

"And Jewfro," my brother said.

"Yeah, that's fine," I replied. Thomas's seventeen-year-old best friend, a talented producer and, with me, devout Game of Thrones nerd, has become like a family member in the last year. "But that has to be it."

"No problem," he smirked. "We'll get down on some Game of Thrones. It'll be awesome."

Three hours later my front door opened to admit Ghetto Boy, fresh out of jail; Black Boy, fresh from a party at his own house; Jewfro, the only welcome guest; and, at last, my brother, who strode through the threshold wearing a massive sombrero.

"Powell, what the hell!?" I exclaimed.

"BB, just calm down," he said. He drew a bottle of flavored vodka from his backpack and grinned. "It's going to be okay."

"Holy shit."

Several shots in this all seemed much less objectionable to me, and I joined in with zest as the young men around our table engaged in an impromptu freestyle rap battle.

"My name is Powell Guy," I sang. "I wear a giant hat/Gonna join the Marines/Nah, nigga, fuck all that."

The backyard exploded in laughter and Black Boy actually shook.

"Nigga, BB just fried the shit out of you!" he cried.

When no one could think of anything sufficiently insulting for me, I jumped in on myself.

"My name is BB Kid/And I am lookin' twelve/And I'm a big old fag/So I'm gon' go to Hell."

All in all it was great fun, even if Powell saddled me with the cleanup, but I was not feeling nearly so exuberant the following evening when a demonic force of nature left me alone and without power in a 200-year-old house in the middle of nowhere.

I held my dogs close to me as the lightning raged and objects hit the house, then drove to a friend's home once conditions had calmed down. I would have done better to stay put. Trees blocked the roads, power lines were down, and the greater part of Mountain Town was enveloped in a darkness that some people in this region have yet to find relief from.

Morning's light revealed the damage.

You may have noticed that the outdoor patio set in the above picture is missing its umbrella. That's because the winds took it off. I found it, after a bit of exploring, in a cow field a quarter mile away. This thrashing was followed by a heatwave more savage than any I can remember, with temperatures here staying at 100 degrees or higher for a week and reaching 105 yesterday afternoon. We in the South are accustomed to searing summers but this is extreme even by our standards.

The weathermen predict relief this week, thank God.

Another and much more welcome surprise came on Friday, July 6, when my grandmother gave me control over one of my trust funds. This wasn't entirely unexpected, as she'd told me she was going to do it about two weeks beforehand, but the reality of it didn't really dawn on me until I was on my way to the bank Friday morning.

This is a bit of money, I thought to myself as I rolled through Mountain Town. What am I going to do with all this money?

I smiled.

I'll get a smoothie.

It is not so much that all of my woes are wiped away, but it is enough that I could pay all of my expenses for the next year without working and have a good amount left. I view it as a cushion, not a crutch, a boon that, if managed wisely, could make my transition from college student to young professional go much more easily.

It comes in the nick of time, too; my parents have been relentless in demanding rent and were unmoved by the fact that the $400 they wanted by the start of the month was more than I had in the bank.

Now I could pay them for years (not that that's the goal) and still be fine.

I did indulge a little bit.

On Friday afternoon I filled up my gas tank without the slightest care. Both yesterday and today I went out to lunch. Earlier I went so far as to buy myself two CDs from iTunes. But already, a mere two days after receiving these funds, the voice of worry has entered my head.

You can't go crazy, BB. You have to handle this well. Once it goes away it's not coming back. This has to last until you find a real job.

As if Christina Aguilera records and cheeseburgers were going to bankrupt me. But that's how I am. I stretched the last fund over four years, though, and that was while I was in college and with a smaller amount in hand, so hopefully I'll be alright.

Another nice surprise: it would seem that my voice is back. It's been running away from me since February or so and now, hopefully, has returned to stay. More on that later, though. I've babbled enough as it is.

A Little Bit Epic

My longest blogging absence in the four years I've been here doesn't really have any excuse to warrant it. I just didn't feel like writing. And I was kind of busy, too.

Friday, June 15, provided me with a particular treat: a photo shoot.

"How much is that costing you?" my father asked derisively.

Thanks for that vote of confidence.

"Nothing," I answered. "The photographer needed a model and asked me if I'd do it. I'm helping him out."

"Good," my father answered. "Because you have $400 in rent on July 1."

Whether you have it or not was the unspoken accompaniment to that statement. Maybe the dumb bitch will choke it out of me.

Friday, in any case, was a lot of fun. It also was not my first photo shoot.

That came in January 2011, shortly after I recorded a demo song and a local photographer gave me complimentary professional-grade photos to send out with my music. I posted the pictures to Facebook, where a friend who saw them urged me to place them on a modeling website. I took her advice and started getting requests to do shoots almost right away. Oddly enough, I can see it.

"I'm not really attractive," I bantered with the photographer on Friday morning. "But I'm weird-looking."

To his surprised laugh I raised my hands.

"I'm not knocking myself, but you know what I mean," I said.

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "We would call it 'interesting' rather than 'weird,' but yeah. I think you'd be really good for commercial work. You ought to charge people."

I chortled and waved the suggestion away, but after seeing some of the final pieces I found myself almost agreeing. The real talent in this area, you see, lies far less with the models and far more with the photographers, whose vision is the sculptor's hands to the subjects' crude clay. Many people can be models, but few can bring the honesty and beauty of models to the fore. I, for example, walk around fucked up all the time and have been given a modicum of prettiness as well. No one had ever really captured that combination before, though.

"Wow," I said, gazing through the portfolio.

In some of the pictures I saw a smooth-skinned blonde, strangely childlike, his face alight at the joy of a flower in the woods. In others a haunted and depraved young man stared into the lens with eyes like endless pools of sadness. It was like I was looking at someone else.

There's art in that, and I had no doubt which of us was the artist.

I also had no doubt that I wouldn't be able to show the photos on my blog, though I have never been so tempted to break my faceless rule as I was last Friday afternoon. Maybe some will prove usable.

After that epic event it was time for something even more momentous: unannounced trips to both Starbucks and Chipotle.

"Surprise Number One, commence!" I yelled dramatically as I picked Thomas up from his driver's education course.

"A surprise?" he asked, looking in the backseat.

"It's not there," I answered.

His eyes narrowed.

"Where are you taking me, wizard?"

He was quite thrilled to receive a Starbucks frappuccino but a bit lost when I suddenly shouted "Surprise Number Two, initiate!" turned my car onto a highway moving away from Mountain Town.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Is this food?"

"Yes," I conceded.

His whole face lit up.

"Where are we eating?"

"Soon."

"No, where?"

I smiled serenely.

"Soon."

"Not when, you idiot, where?"

"Southern State."

"You bastard."

He received Chipotle, which he'd never had before, quite well, and Powell later commended me on my actions.

"Dude, that's so cool that you did that for Thomas," my 22-year-old brother said.

"You're damn right it's cool," I answered. "Chipotle kicks ass."

I've seen rather a bit of Powell lately, as he lives with my grandmother in Native State and I've been visiting the two of them since Saturday, June 16. I don't usually stay so long but as my parents, Thomas, and Pie are off on vacation in Deep South State and I didn't see the point in returning to an empty house I decided to extend my time here.

It's been a week of crab balls and cheese cake, and yesterday we had one of the large gatherings for which the Normal Family is so celebrated.

Along with the usual antics (which included Aunt Crazy and Uncle Responsible affecting ghetto mannerisms and Cool Cousin diagnosing both of her parents with dementia) we had the privilege to meet Precocious Cousin, the twelve-year-old son of Liberal Cousin and her husband Tall Man, for the first time in years. This boy, the same age now as I was when he was born, is a clear-eyed, cheerful, bright, and well-adjusted young man. His combination of self-assurance and overall agreeableness is reminiscent of Rowdy Cousin (an eighteen-year-old boy who was also in attendance Sunday) and stands as yet another reminder of how superior the Normal Family system is to the perverse one adopted by Our Family.

Every time I see these people I'm happy to be related to them.

Meanwhile, I took my professional pursuits with me to Native State, and it was here that I completed my application for a year-long, paid internship with a prestigious political publication as my grandmother looked on and send up a prayer.

"You've been working hard," she assured me. "And you deserve this. You need a break."

Perhaps in part that I might continue my search for a career (as opposed to, say, flipping burgers) she told me last night that she was granting me access to one of my trust funds. There is not a terribly large amount of money in this account, but enough that finances won't be a serious concern for the immediate future. It's nice to have that breathing room. And if I can't find work by the time the fund would run out then maybe I'm just not meant to have a job.

Until then I'll keep hammering away. There's got to be something somewhere. 

Selected Entries: September 2004

In September 2004 I was sixteen years old and plunged, immediately after moving to a new city nine hundred miles away from Native State, into a period of such trauma and upheaval that I later termed it the Time of Tumult. 

By the close of August my family had already experienced the death of my paternal grandfather and the arrival of Hurricane Charley, and as September began a second tropical storm loomed on the horizon. Before 2004 ended our home would be battered by a seemingly endless procession of hurricanes and we would see two more family members pass away.

A silver lining came in early September, when Cool Cousin, through her fun nature and generosity, turned an evacuation into a vacation for the Our Family children.

September 1, 2004

Dad, in Native City because of Grand Pa’s death, has flown home because of Hurricane Frances. The storm is supposed to get here on Saturday, yet he wants to leave here tonight, a Wednesday. Given that the storm could still shift north, this seems a rather foolish thing to do. I want to stay.

September 9, 2004

Well, it’s been quite a week. On September 2, a Thursday, I rose at 5:30a.m. and went to school. During fourth period (AP European History) I was summoned to the attendance office, where my father picked me up at eleven o’clock with the dramatic explanation that we were evacuating. Either because all plane tickets were booked or because my parents wanted to save money (you can never really be too sure with them) we decided to drive to Native State, a brilliant idea that we would later regret. 

It took us seven hours merely to get out of Deep South State, compared with the normal time of three hours. By then, my father sagely pointed out, we would have already landed at Native City International Airport. We made it that night through Sprawling State, Humid State, and half of Growing State, finally stopping around midnight to get six hours’ sleep in a hotel. At six o’clock on the morning of Friday, September 3, we woke and went straight to the car, where we continued on our prolific drive. 

We got through the rest of Growing State, all of Southern State, and finally into Native State, arriving at Grand Ma’s house around midday. That afternoon Aunt Crazy and Uncle Responsible (Grand Pa’s fraternal twin) drove us to their daughter Cool Cousin’s house in the countryside about thirty miles from Washington, D.C.

Cool Cousin’s neighbors are a delightful elderly couple raising their grandson, and they allow Cool Cousin full access to their trampoline and basketball court, luxuries that we took full advantage of. 

First we had a hardy romp on the trampoline, and then we went grocery shopping with Cool Cousin, who got us everything we wanted! I can scarcely squeeze sixty-nine cents for a pack of Tic Tacs out of my father, but Cool Cousin just throws the money at you! It was like she couldn’t stop! After grocery shopping, we went to Blockbuster and rented a small collection of horror films.  

The next morning, Saturday, September 4, we were out of the house by ten, headed for our nation’s capital,. We stopped at the Capitol, which was, for me, a very emotional experience. My ancestors have served the United States from the very beginning in 1776, both in and out of that building, and it is a symbol of our triumph, indeed, of our country’s triumph in securing democracy and becoming a great world power. 

After that we went to the Spy Museum, and, after tiring of the wait to get in, simply strolled to the front desk while Cool Cousin schmoozed with the museum representative, signing up for a membership. A guard immediately led us to the front of a line with about a hundred people waiting. When the elevator carrying passengers to the main part of the museum opened, a second guard stepped in front of the crowd, escorted us onto the lift, and then let others board. As she stepped on one woman remarked caustically, “Oh, it must be nice to be VIP.” Cool Cousin and I shared a look and just laughed, all smiles when we reached the second floor.

There were a lot of exhibits and even some interactive activities, one of which involved climbing into the “air vents.” 

Cool Cousin bought me a pad and stamp reading “Top Secret." After seeing the museum, we went out to lunch, where, in the bathroom, I labeled my brother Powell's shining white butt cheeks “Top Secret” amidst fits of our own giggling. 

We went back to Cool Cousin's house, met up with her friend Liza, and then set out to Sailboat City for a sushi dinner. The sushi was, in addition to being plentiful, very satisfying, some of the best I’ve ever been privileged to dine on. I can understand why Cool Cousin frequents this restaurant so often. Liza spent the night after dinner, while Powell, Thomas, and I watched It. 

The next morning Liza left and we went to the movies. After the movie we went bowling, buying two games, both of which Powell won, but not without Cool Cousin and me close on his tail each time. We left the alley and went to a seafood restaurant outside of Seafood City, right on Native Bay, where we had crabs and scallops, while I enjoyed the private luxury six oysters to accompany the rest of my food. The next day, September 6, Cool Cousin took us back to our grandmother’s home. We essentially did nothing on Tuesday, September 7; but Wednesday, September 8 was Grand Pa’s funeral, a profoundly sad occasion. More tomorrow. I’m going to pray.

September 14, 2004

Our minivan finally arrived home on Thursday, September 9. We returned to school the next day, a feat that, because I still hadn’t quite recovered from being sick, proved herculean for me. Saturday was full of chores, and then on Sunday we went to the beach. I stayed up late Sunday night with required reading, of which I surely have enough to fill the National Archives. 

September 15, 2004

Hurricane Ivan is about to hit us. Hurricane Jeanne follows close behind. Charley, Frances, Ivan, Jeanne.

September 18, 2004

Yesterday was a great Friday and today was an eventful Saturday. Today I went to a rally of the Kerry/Edwards campaign volunteers with my school’s Young Democrats club. It was a very nice event held in downtown Central City, and it offered many volunteer activities, some of which I hope to participate in. 

September 19, 2004

Today was a busy one for me, as I did lots of homework. I’m going to bed very soon. Hurricane Karl approaches from the Atlantic.

September 23, 2004

In a freak chain of events, Hurricane Ivan, which left Alabama and then dispersed over the continental United States, has come back to menace the Gulf once again. Apparently the hurricane’s largest remnants (just some scattered thunder storms) wandered off into the North Atlantic Ocean from the New York coast, picked up steam from some warm winds, and reunited to form a tropical storm. Ivan is expected to hit Texas this weekend, by which time it may be a hurricane…again. 

As if this wasn’t enough, Hurricane Jeanne is predicted to hit Central City by Sunday, possibly followed by Lisa and Karl. How in the world is this happening? I mean, what are the odds? First Charley, then Frances, then Ivan, then Jeanne, then Ivan again, and now two more? 

These storms are such that one receives the impression they’ve been sent to, in a single summer, make up for the many disaster-free years our family has enjoyed.

Aside from the typhoons that now ravage our state on a daily basis, a far more pressing dilemma has presented itself: my research rough draft for AP European History is due on October 5. Consequently, I shall be very busy for the next two weeks, and I can only hope that Jeanne will buy me time.

September 25, 2004

It is about ten o’clock at night, and the winds of Hurricane Jeanne whistle and roar between our houses and through our streets. Within these walls we are safe, but the world outside is taking a terrific beating and there is a dull growl as Jeanne’s gales meet the solid barrier of resistance formed by our home. Random objects slam into the house, creating a practical orchestra of sounds by which I will certainly fall asleep. We played out in the storm until Mom called us in. 

September 26, 2004

Schools are closed tomorrow. Hurricane Jeanne screeched its way slowly through Deep South State this morning and into the night, subjecting Central City to a day-long beating. My AP European History report and Anatomy project are both due on October 5, so I hope that we have off of school for a long while that I might labor further on these assignments. I shall need true perseverance to shoulder these burdens. I’m going to read the Bible and pray. 

September 27, 2004

It’s always a beautiful Monday when there’s no school, regardless of whatever natural disaster brought on class’s cancellation. No school tomorrow either.

September 30, 2004

The first presidential debate was this evening, and I must say that John Kerry was visibly more composed, dignified, concise, and intelligent than Bush, shattering the Republican campaign’s assertion that he wavered. I believe that Kerry utterly triumphed. I am quite happy. 

The Back and Forth

I hope you will forgive me for dedicated a second post in a row to mental health issues, and in particular for psychoanalyzing myself. This is not going to become a recurring theme. As I have said in the past, however, a blog is great not only as a sounding board but also as a vehicle for self-reflection, and I intend for this update to be a little bit of both.

My whole life has seemed in many ways a constant struggle for happiness, one I sometimes win only to be brought back down again by a crisis, a random event, or reflection on things I've struggled with. Before, I always thought of this in terms of hope versus pessimism, but increasingly I'm wondering if that dichotomy might in fact be a manifestation of clinical mood swings.

My last post got me thinking.

How often do I alternate between low and high? In my depressed moments I'm quick to regard suicide as a solution; but how typically do those depressed moments surface? Is there a usual interval of time between my happy and sad episodes?

This is something I'm going to try and pay attention to for a while, hopefully without unintentionally influencing any cycle that might exist. In the meantime, my journal is proving a pretty valuable resource. Take a look at the difference between June 2 and June 4.


June 2, 2012

Thomas and I made not one but two coffee runs today. I think I need to cut back; I'm starting to get hooked on the stuff.

Other things are happening as well.

My judgement and discipline are slipping. I find myself thinking about my responsibilities less and wanting to drink more. I have the ability, of course, to refrain from doing things I know I shouldn't, but of late I increasingly just don't care. Maybe if hard work were rewarded I would feel differently. It's not, though.

Being dedicated, competent, and conscientious got me nowhere and shows no sign of getting me anywhere in the near future. No matter what I do I can't get a job, as if the entire world were conspiring to deny me any semblance of a real life. Why should I have that? Apparently it's an offense that I ever entertained the idea.

And meanwhile I'm left in this house, in this great yellow mausoleum to rot and go crazy. Like Anne. My birth-mother is borderline and bipolar. Is it that much of a stretch?

I hope to head back to therapy sometime next week. My adoptive mother Marie believes I am manufacturing these issues essentially by overanalyzing, but the story's been the same much of my life: in good times the problems subside, at least partially, only to reemerge with a vengeance when any little thing goes wrong. I can't tell you how many times I decided I "didn't need" therapy because I was having a smooth day. Then I'm back in the gutter and realize I should seek help.

A part of me really just wants to implode and go out after a few epic weeks. Trying to be a responsible adult is so much work and thus far the return has fallen well short of the labor put in.


June 4, 2012

I'm better again, inexplicably and out of nowhere, back in the frame of mind wherein I both conceptualize myself as a responsible adult and enjoy a considerable degree of optimism. It's only now that I'm questioning this mode of thinking and wondering if it's part of a larger pattern of mood swings. For when I woke up this morning it was not in happiness--it was in tears.

My cousin Perfect's recent wedding to her college sweetheart, a celebratory occasion to be sure, had been nagging at me for several days and in my first conscious moments this morning I understood why: Perfect, my one-time friend and childhood playmate, had marked a joyous rite of passage that I was very unlikely to ever experience.

The realization of that soul-crushing absence, of that deficit in so crucial a part of life, made my eyes mist with the day's first light. I thought then that maybe I should just end it, die rather than live a half-life. This followed a depression of several days that I imagined would continue today, but an hour or so later the cloud unexpectedly lifted and I found myself buoyed by hope and self-confidence.

Right now a part of me believes I could have a real job, a husband one day, a real life, all this despite the obstacles. Will I believe that a week from now? I don't know.

Today was a good day, true. I had coffee with Norwegian (visiting from Growing State) at lunchtime and learned in the afternoon that I have a job interview with the Western City Library on Thursday morning. The shift in mood preceded those developments, though.

I wonder if I'm imagining this or if it's a genuine mood swing? I always seem to be on a rollercoaster, in the struggle, fighting, and this would explain a lot. I need to talk about it with the doctor--whom I'm not particularly motivated to see at the moment.  

The Great, Long Difficulty

It's not fun to write about sad things. That's why my journals from 2006 and 2007 have such an empty look to them. I'd go weeks without writing, pop in to say there was nothing worth writing about, and then be absent again for a fortnight or so. Those blank pages bore testament to a lot of pain.

For several reasons this blog will not become like that. I've used it throughout the years to reinvent, reassess, reach out, and help me ground myself. A depressed person's diary is a twisted echo chamber of self-doubt and  suffering. A blog, however, is a sun-lit window. A journal leaves you with your thoughts. An audience shows you things you'd miss on your own.

So I'm here for the long haul, as I've been from the beginning. The comparison between now and 2006 is an apt one, though. After all, I'm currently experiencing my single greatest crisis since the life-defining fire I endured at eighteen.

The two are not equivalent, though. What's happening now is bad, but I doubt I'll ever face the kind of obstacles I faced then. That was back when I was closeted, back when the shield of childhood was first pulled away, back when I was so much sicker than I was able to understand. Right now I'm navigating a difficult economy and a bad home situation. Back then I had to navigate a whole world with a brain uniquely unfitted to grasping essential realities, had to learn basic facts about life in a way that a mentally healthy person would find impossible to comprehend.

It's only in retrospect that I realize how vastly impaired I was. Occasionally this still surfaces. I have never, for example, been able to break myself of constant absentmindedness, and just the other day I forgot that a red stoplight in fact signals one to stop. I mean, why the hell would red mean stop? There's nothing particularly intuitive about that.

So there I was, approaching a red light with no one ahead of me, frantically trying to recall which color allowed me to go and which signified that I definitely shouldn't.

If I stop and I'm not supposed to the guy behind me is going to think I'm insane, I worried. But if I go and I'm not supposed to I'm probably going to get broadsided. 

A moment later and a calm inner voice spoke up.

BB, it said. Red means stop.

The whole episode had lasted only a few seconds and in hindsight was actually kind of funny. But you get the idea. Imagine that ten times worse. Imagine it unchecked, a pervasive confusion that could turn a basic activity like driving into an agonizing ordeal. In looking back I'm constantly surprised that I managed to get to the point where I could function at a typical level.

So I'm not dealing with that again. Nothing will ever match how difficult that was. But what's going on now isn't great, either.

I'm stuck in a home I don't like with two people who treat me badly. I don't have the money to leave, and my unceasing efforts to find work have been incredibly demoralizing. You see, I did everything I was supposed to do. I maintained good academic standing throughout college, worked for the student paper, contributed freelance pieces to real-world publications, and had multiple internships in my field, two of them with well-regarded literary agencies. I have applied natural talent and quite a bit of self-discipline to be highly competent in my field. And I can't find a job.

Looking for work is essential to my longterm wellbeing, but looking for work is a draining exercise. I feel a vague wave of depression when I open my e-mail each morning, have to force myself to send out inquiries that I know will only be responded to with polite notifications that the agencies I'm applying to aren't hiring.

There's a persistent feeling of failure in all this that I can't shake. Sure, it's not my fault. Am I certain, though? No, I didn't make the stock market crash. But what if I'm doing something wrong? What if my work just isn't as good as I thought? What if neurological impairment, that demon from my youth, is clouding my vision in some way I can't even perceive and employers are turning me away because of my evident deficit? Was the idea that I could have a normal life nothing but a hopeful delusion?

These are the thoughts that plague me every day.

And they stain all of my other experiences. I can't feel sexy now. What right have I to feel sexy when I live at home and have no job? What could be less sexy than that? Anyone in that position who thinks anyone else would find them sexy is deluded. And when I go out with my friends? I need that interaction so much, especially as the post-university loneliness kicks in, but whenever we're on the town every dollar I spend is a new weight on my conscience.

I've adjusted in certain ways. I've widened my job search now to include editorial positions rather than just agent jobs and I've also applied for reporter openings with various publications. Nothing yet except very part-time work.

The financial drain is getting to me (it's particularly frustrating in light of the fact that I have a really substantial amount of money in trust funds to which I have not yet been granted access) but even worse is the social drain.

Kelly Clarkson, a singer whom I greatly admire, was once asked in an interview what she thought was the worst human emotion.

"Loneliness," she answered without hesitation. "Loneliness is the worst."

It's true.

And going from an environment of near constant social stimulus to one where I am alone in my house almost every day has been very difficult. Occasional outings with friends from Western City (such as the one I will undertake on Wednesday to, of all places, a drag show) and meet-ups with university mates are valuable dribbles of water on my parched lips. But I'm ready for more.

I'm ready to be in a new city in my own apartment, heading into a newsroom or editorial office and making friends in the adult world. I want to pay my own bills. I want to invite work friends to explore downtown. I want to have a career. I don't feel entitled to that, but I do feel that I've done the work I should have done to get there. How much does it take?

This tension has obviously not had a positive impact on my mood. As one would expect of a person in my situation, I'm depressed much of the time, though it's usually dull background noise rather than a roaring current of pain. In other ways, though, my reaction has been more pronounced than the average individual's would be.

I've written about the issues posed by obsessive compulsive disorder before, and the condition, aggravated by stress, is one I'm feeling again in a major way now. As with my other little issue, it's not as bad as it was before. At my symptoms' peak, when I was nineteen and twenty years old and well into the red zone, I crossed campus four times in a snow storm because I believed that if I did not walk from Central Hall to my dormitory with my entire face except my eyes covered I would be murdered. The logic there was a bit hazy, but I didn't question it.

So I trudged through the freezing, ice-caked night from one end of Major University to the other, only to discover upon arrival in my dorm that a single lock of hair had escaped my hood. Back to Central Hall it was.

My diagnosis with severe OCD in May 2008 did a lot to help me. I could recognize when the disorder was influencing my actions and could combat it through coping strategies that allowed me, without recourse to medication, to largely beat down a pretty extreme manifestation of obsessive compulsive disorder.

OCD, along with depression and my other difficulties, will likely never menace me as they did before I took charge. They can still pack a punch, though. Lately I've found myself more and more confronting the grotesque images I struggle so much to erase, consumed by moments of frenzied terror where my body jerks to combat the overpowering fear and I beg God to protect me. If I don't do this thing, then this other thing will happen.

Then there's the mood swings, heightened like everything else by stress. I'm actually not sure what these are from and wish I knew, because identifying my OCD made it a lot easier to fight. My last therapist wondered, too.

"What's really concerning me about some of these extreme highs and lows you're having is that they appear to be cyclical," he'd mused.

Go figure.

I don't think it's bipolar, though. I looked that up, and those mood swings are chemically determined. Mine respond to events. So if, for example, something good or bad happens, I'll have a positive or negative reaction. The reactions are exaggerated, though. The other morning I looked cute and was a vision of confidence and sociability. When I thought my parents were going to evict me, though, I was totally down to kill myself. And then they changed their minds and the fatal mood passed. It doesn't always happen, but boy do I feel it when it comes. Minor setbacks can provoke prolonged periods of anger or depression and equally minor achievements put me on Cloud 9. It's like being on a roller coaster and it's been that way for a very long time.

Now see, this is exactly why I don't discuss these things in real life: this post is reading like a catalogue of psychological disorders. Anyone who knows me in the outside world would tell you I seem perfectly normal (a hard-earned perception, by the way). But in going back and reviewing this even I kind of want to put me in a padded room.

I'd at least be carrying on the family tradition; my birth-mother Anne has been committed something like seventeen times and suffers from, among other things, borderline personality disorder, a serious mental condition "marked by prolonged disturbance of personality function...an unusual degree of instability in mood...marked impulsivity... [and] markedly and persistently unstable sense of self. In extreme cases this disturbance in the sense of self can lead to periods of dissociation."

She's a joy.

But I'm not like her, and that's not wishful thinking talking. Anne is literally psychotic. I am a normal person who's had to deal with some abnormal problems. The fact that I graduated college, lived on my own, and did any of the many other things the doctors said I'd never be able to is testament to that. I can have a real life. I deserve it. I want to believe I'll achieve it.

So that's where I am: in a situation typical of many recent graduates, experiencing the same pitfalls and emotional side-effects they are but having my pain augmented a bit by factors most of them don't have to deal with. I really want to make it through this. I'm not sure I know how.

Cause for Celebration

The past few months, and especially the past few weeks, have been a difficult time in my life, marred so much by pain, by failure, by the demons of abuse and illness. On May 12, however, there occurred something worth celebrating: Thomas's seventeenth birthday.

"Hey, dude, I'm making some eggs. You want to get down on this?"

That's how my brother greeted me on the morning he turned seventeen, when he came down from the second floor and I came up from the basement at around ten o'clock.

"Yeah, sure," I answered. "Have at it."

This easy camaraderie has been a happiness to me in the years since I graduated high school, and is all the more surprising given the level of antipathy he and I had towards one another during my own teen years. I see now, though, what I couldn't see at fourteen: that most children have goodness in them, that Thomas was no exception, and that a lot of his spitefulness and acting out came from parents who alternately overindulged and severely disciplined him. That kind of thing could mix anyone up.

Around the time that our boorish, bullying brother Powell really started to spin off the rails, driving the eldest and youngest siblings together as the middle one was cleaved out, I made a decision: I would treat Thomas with decency and respect and see what happened.

The effect that had on our relationship is a testament to the extraordinary powers of basic kindness.

Thomas regards me highly now, more highly even than he regards our parents. And I love him.

Watching him mature into a sweet and affable young man, to whom amicability and, when he makes mistakes, contrition, come with equal quickness, has been one of the greatest joys of my young adulthood. He is flawed, to be sure, and given to many of the pitfalls common among seventeen-year-olds, but already in him there is a level of moral self-awareness that neither Powell nor my father ever achieved.

I saw a very tangible demonstration of this about six months ago.

Thomas and I had both been waiting to use the shower, and I'd decided to let him go first on the grounds that he'd be quicker than me. This mass of hair takes time to wash, after all. He only asked that I allow him to finish some chores before he took his turn.

I was initially okay with this, but when half an hour passed I called up the stairs.

"Thomas! I'm just going to get in. You're taking too long."

"No!" he shouted back. "Do not get in! You'll use up all the hot water. I'm seriously almost done. I'll jump in in a minute."

After another thirty minutes was gone, I'd had enough.

"Thomas!" I yelled again. "It's been an hour! This is ridiculous!"

"Can you just fucking wait!" he called down. "Holy shit!"

I stopped, taken aback by the explosion of disrespect, before finding my wits a moment later.

"Oh, you're not talking to me that way," I responded. "I'm going now."

"I'll talk to you however the fuck I want!" he called after me.

I didn't reply, though. There's no use in reasoning with a person when they're that inflamed. Instead I just went down the stairs, turned on the water, and enjoyed a nice long lathering in my bathroom. When I walked into the kitchen a while later I regarded Thomas coldly and proceeded to pour a glass of soda without any verbal acknowledgement of what had happened.

Before I could ignore him for more than a moment, though, he fell on me in a hug.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to shoot my dick off as soon as I said it."

I suppressed a laugh at his choice of words and, after pushing away, stared back at him with all the seriousness appropriate to the situation.

"That's fine," I said. "I'm not mad. But it is unacceptable for you to talk to me like that. I never speak to you that way."

"I know," he said. "I was totally out of line."

"Okay," I said. "It's alright, then."

That was it. And there hasn't been an incident since.

So, yes, I worry for Thomas. He's demonstrated some poor decision-making skills and exhibited a level of apathy toward academics that rings hauntingly similar to Powell. But I hope for him as well. I hope for him because he respects the people who respect him; because he takes ownership of his ethical infractions; and because for all the eye-rolling he displays when I bring up the SATs, I think he really does want to go to college.

Hope and worry epitomize my feelings towards this seventeen-year-old brother. I see so many stepping stones he could take but so many cracks he could fall through as well. If he wants it, if he works for it, there's a place for him to find fulfillment and success in this world.

I'll do everything I can to help him get there.

Selected Entries: August 2004

In August 2004 I was sixteen years old and had just moved to my glamorous new home in Deep South State. My relationship with my parents, fractious at best during most times, was entering its brief golden stage, as in contrast to Anne, with whom I'd just spent the summer, they seemed much more tolerable.

Unbeknownst to me, I was also embarking on what would be one of the most turbulent few months of my life--so turbulent in fact, that in my personal history the era would later be named the Time of Tumult. Natural disasters and a succession of deaths in my family made this a difficult few months. Of all the Selected Entries I have posted thus far, this one is most worth reading. 

This month's Selected Entries starts in July, when I arrived in Central City.

July 29, 2004

According to the woman on my left, we’re now above the Growing State coast. The plane is three miles up and, because it’s a bit bumpy, my handwriting is messier than I would normally permit. The couple next to me is amicable, friendly, and, in the case of the wife, just a tidge bit pleasantly eccentric. It’s really beautiful in the sky, but I’m excited to land and be reunited with my family.

July 31, 2004

When we got to the garage in the airport I was shocked by the heat. After the exhausting enterprise of carrying two suitcases in such boiling conditions we got into Mom’s new car and drove home.

When we arrived there was no one there, as Powell had gone to the movies with First Twin and Second Twin (who are visiting), Pie was at daycare, and Thomas was with Mom at his karate class. 

Dad went through the garage but rather than follow suit, I waited for him to unlock the front door. Call it silly or superstitious, but I wanted to start this off on the right foot, and I certainly wasn’t going to access my new home through an out-of-the-way side entrance. I stepped up into the house and felt awe. The windows were beautiful, the ceiling twenty feet high, the sunlight filtered in just the right amount to gorgeously illuminate the interior.

August 9, 2004

Today was my first day of school at Central City High, and I loved it. I rose at 5:30a.m., showered, and ate a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. When I first got up, though, I drank an entire cup of cranberry juice, which I’ll be sure not to do again s it caused my stomach considerable distress. We have six, no, seven periods here, a big change from Beautiful Town, where we had only five. The classes were really short, only about fifty minutes each. I’d only just become acclimated to one when another would begin!

First period was Spanish III with Ms. Spanish Teacher, who is by far one of the coolest instructors I’ve ever met. My Anatomy Honors teacher is a chiropractor who insists on being addressed by “doctor.” My English III Honors instructor, a twenty-something woman named Mrs. Negligent, is a cheerful woman who shares my low blood sugar and offered me some food whenever I need it. My AP European History teacher scared us all with his description of a college-level course so difficult that barely anyone pulled a B. The other kids in my AP European History class are so smart that I’m worried about not being able to keep up. We’ve begun our first book in there, called A World Lit Only by Fire, which we have until Labor Day to finish reading.

August 12, 2004

 Hurricane Charley is moving towards Deep South State. Our schools have officially been closed for tomorrow, and there was a bit of a panic at Central High today. A sort of mini-storm (Charley, Jr., I like to refer to it) hit the high school at the end of the day, reining in quite a pandemonium, indeed.

It began to pour heavily during seventh period, and, while there was a supposed “lull” in the storm we were dismissed about ten minutes early to reach our buses. Unfortunately, the “lull” was anything but and when we emerged from our portable it was into a world of wind, rain, and thunder. The maze of portable classrooms was made even more complex by the tangle of children fleeing to the breezeway, the giant enclosure upon which our entire school centers.

The breezeway itself was actually worse, with students running en masse for the few exits. Periodic screams pierced the din of rapidly conversing voices and pounding feet. As I looked to my left a surge of slipping, sliding, soaked humanity made its way across the school, some walking, many running, all frantic.

In front of the school were some fifty buses (forty-eight, to be exact) that wait daily for students to embark. In the rush to get there, though, many were hopelessly out of place and a multitude of students couldn’t locate their number. This caused a good deal of running and yelling as the thunder steadily increased. It was at this convenient moment that a large thunderbolt chose to hit the school grounds.

I happened to be in the perfect spot to watch while the zigzagging electrical line wounds its way down from the sky and I was still standing there, awed, as it made contact, impacting the grounds with a sonic boom. There was a bright flash and the very earth beneath us shook. The occasional shout from the crowd was suddenly augmented to a simultaneous, wall-shattering shriek. As the air vibrated from the charge different voices could be distinguished rising up from the cacophony, some yelling for their friends, others just screeching.

I found my bus after a brief period of uncertainty and fear, boarding in my drenched attire and thus escaping the hysteria. Other dripping students joined me in this unlikely sanctuary and just about everyone managed to find our bus. When we got home, it was sunny. Hurricane Charley is expected to hit the coastal cities tomorrow, with Central City being affected only by its outer edges. I’ll pray for those people, but I’m just glad that it’s not us.

August 13, 2004

The sky outside is black now, at 2:49p.m. The wind is blowing fiercely right now, and we’ve lit candles to avoid using electricity. I don’t know for certain that we’ll live through this. Oddly, I’m not afraid. Faced with death, I know that God is there. If I am killed, He will take me up into Heaven, along with the rest of our family. I just hope that I’ve lived a good enough life, and I hope that I’ve been good enough for God. I know that I’ve sinned my whole life, but I do believe in Him. If we have to die, I hope that it’s quick and painless.

Later

7:03p.m.

Our doors are locked and windows bolted. It is now just after seven o’clock, and Hurricane Charley is due here, full force, in three hours. I’m in my bathroom, which has no windows, writing this on the roomy floor of my shower. Naturally, the shower isn’t actually on. Going outside is unthinkable, and it’s now too late to heed the evacuation orders that many others abided by. Mobile homes (such s the one that my mother’s aunt, lives in) and prefabricated homes are under mandatory evacuation.

Contrary to what we believed last night, Hurricane Charley made landfall south of the coastal cities and is now on a collision course for Central City. We’re one of the fortunate whose houses are structured, that is, made entirely of solid concrete and essentially cemented to the ground. Our stone walls and ceilings keep out the Category 4 winds that would otherwise tear us limb from limb, but those living in mobile or manufactured homes are not so lucky; the storm will shred their abodes and their bodies to pieces.

We’re probably not in any danger…I hope. I’m glad that I’m here, though; if anything happened to Pie, I would want to be dead, too. Today, a Friday, there was no school, and a state of emergency has been declared in our county. 

August 15, 2004

A lung has been procured for Grand Pa and, as of 5:30 this afternoon, he began what promises to be a long and complex surgery. The attainment of the organ this morning has elated many disheartened spirits and answered innumerable prayers, not least of all those of my grandmother, who seemed like she was losing hope.

Grand Pa, you see, was tiring of the exhaustive struggles he faced on a daily basis, and earlier this week had refused to go back on a ventilator, asking only that he be given enough pain-killing medications to die peacefully in his sleep. This lung is, quite literally, a breath of life, both into him and into my frantic grandmother. I hope that the surgery is a success and that her yearnings for his recovery will be fulfilled. We won’t know until tomorrow how everything went, for, as I said, the surgery is extensive, and according to Mom it can last up to eight hours.

Mom and Dad are both thoroughly sick of the traffic situation here, which is quite impossible. Over half of the streetlights and stop signs in our county were either knocked out or rendered useless by the winds of Hurricane Charley. The rather obvious result is chaotic roads that are breeding grounds for accidents, there having been over two hundred automobile accidents in Central County yesterday alone. Central County students are now enjoying a five-day weekend, all expenses paid, courtesy of central Deep South State’s perilous roadways. That’s right, there’s no school on Monday or Tuesday, much to our adulation.

And, what’s more, Hurricane Earl is due to arrive here on Wednesday, which could get us off for the entire week!

August 16, 2004

Grand Pa’s surgery has had some complications, and apparently it doesn’t look good, but I believe that he will pull through. We have off of school for the rest of this week and next Monday. Classes will resume on August 24th. 

As if that weren't enough our dog, Millie, died this morning.

August 25, 2004

School started back yesterday, and I’m glad of it. Pie walked to me today!

August 30, 2004

Grand Pa died today. More tomorrow.

August 31, 2004

Grand Ma is hysterical, inconsolable, as were Powell and Thomas last night. Grand Pa’s death comes as a real blow to everyone who waited the years for him to receive a lung. Thinking about it makes me sad but I haven’t cried. 

As if Grand Pa leaving this world wasn’t enough, a massive hurricane, the Category-5 titan Frances, is headed straight for Deep South State. As of this morning it was on a course for eastern Central City (in other words, exactly where we live and our entire lives are centered), much to my dismay and internal agony. I prayed intensely last night and the Lord may have answered me, as the system seems to have shifted just a little bit to the north. I will pray more now and watch the news in the morning.