Fumbling Towards Byzantium

I haven't posted in a while.  Sorry about that.  But after writing about my dad, it's been a little hard for me to make myself post anything that will cause his image to scroll further down (and eventually off) the page. Something about it just seemed... wrong, somehow.  Like if I could just keep writing and let that post move through the queue I'd be erasing him or something. 

On the other hand, that post got such a response (both online and out in the meatspace) that I feel like I need to write more.  I've ignored that, whether out of lack of inspiration or out of fear of letting Dad's post go, or something else entirely.  But I want to get back into it. 

Some of what you may see here will be mindless drivel.  Or me babbling about pop culture, or me whining about why the Mets can't just play consistent baseball, or me scheming on how to get Firestar into Avengers 2.  Some of it will be higher quality content when the inspiration and ability strike me. 

And some of it will be continuing to talk about mental health.  I promise this is not going to become Tara's Depression Blog.  Pinky swear.  But some of you have said my posts on that topic really helped you, and writing things out always helps me to organize them in my brain, so I'm going to stick with that while trying to interject some other stuff as well. 

In a way I feel like I owe this to my dad a bit.  A lot of people at his wake and funeral asked me why I'm not a writer and I didn't have a good answer.  The best I could come up with was, "I don't really know how to be a writer."  But I'm reminded of the advice Neil Gaiman says he always gives to young writers:  "Write. Finish things."  So that's what I'm going to try to do.  Maybe it'll go somewhere, maybe it'll just help me keep my head organized and allow me to connect with all of you who read these things.  Either way I feel like it's a win. 



Post title is an unholy mashup of this Sarah McLachlan song and this William Butler Yeats poem.  Don't you judge me; I'm a complex woman.

The Big Fellah

RIP Patrick Deenihan, 1931-2012.

My mom called this morning.  "Dad's gone home to Heaven," she said.   

Dad would have been 81 next week.  He's struggled with Alzheimer's, heart troubles, asthma, and a host of other ailments for years now.  He passed peacefully in his sleep; a blessing given how frail and disoriented he'd become.  

My dad was born in Ballybunion, Co. Kerry, Ireland in 1931.  He came to America in 1960, and he and my mom were married in 1967. I think it was hard from him always being so far from his family.  He and my mom worked very hard to make sure my sisters and I felt connected to our Irish family as much as we did our family in the States.  

Mom used to tell us, "All the kids think their dad is Superman.  Yours really is."  He was a brick wall of a man with what my friend Josh coined "Popeye arms," a former boxer who had worked farms and construction his whole life and could lift 50lbs. in each arm the way most of us could lift a baseball.  He was a titan with a thick Irish brogue and a voice made gravelly from years of smoking.  My friends would call the house and hang up in fear if he answered, and would stare at him with a mixture of fear and awe when they met him.  But once people got to know him they were always charmed by his witticisms ("Don't get smart, stupid;" "A shut mouth catches no flies."), his kind heart, and his generous nature.  He was a teddy bear wrapped in a grizzly's body.  

Which isn't to say he wasn't tough.  But he possessed the very Irish dichotomy between gruffness and sentimentality.  

Running Up That Hill

So my last post didn't yield much of a response, which made me skeptical about continuing.  But someone suggested I keep going, and to be honest the process is sort of interesting to me, so I'm hoping that this doesn't get too boring or preachy or what have you. 

My intention writing these things is absolutely not to suggest that I'm an expert on mental illness of any type or how to deal with it.  I'm really only a journeyman at dealing with it myself.  But I've made concrete, trackable progress over the past year of which I'm very proud, and if what I've done and experienced can help anyone else, then I'd be thrilled.  If not... well, then I hope you don't mind too much reading what goes on in my addled little brain. 

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back, so shake him off.

After my last post (which got an amazing response, by the way, and I'm really grateful for all your kind words) someone asked me to write about how I deal with my depression.  I'm a little hesitant to do this for a few reasons:

1) I don't love giving advice.  I catch myself doing it, but I don't like it.  Unless someone specifically asks for my opinion I feel like it's not my place to assume I know better than they do what they should do – or that I know better about anything, really. 

2) I'm still a work in progress.  I've come leaps and bounds over the last couple of years, but I still have my ups and downs and I don't want to give the impression that I've got some kind of a miracle answer or that I've reached some great revelation of zen. 

3) Everyone is different.  What works for me may not work for you.  Every brain works differently, both chemically and psychologically, and the medications or devices that do great things for me might do terrible things to you. 

But bearing all that in mind, maybe I can still give some insight into what works for me and you can take it with a tablespoon of salt and adapt it to your own situation.   So here goes nothing...

Broken Bridge

Call this sort of a PSA if you like.  I've mentioned before that I have major depressive disorder.  I try to be pretty open about this and to be honest and public about how I deal with it and how it affects me because I feel like there's still such a stigma around mental illness (and such a belittling of depression in particular) that if I can do some small part by sharing my experience, I want to try.

So I'm passing along this study that I stumbled on tonight:

Crushing guilt is a common symptom of depression, an observation that dates back to Sigmund Freud. Now, a new study finds a communication breakdown between two guilt-associated brain regions in people who have had depression. This so-called "decoupling" of the regions may be why depressed people take small faux pas as evidence that they are complete failures.

Guilt plays a huge part in my depressive episodes.   I convince myself that the lives of those around me would be greatly improved by my absence, that every fight is my fault, that every mistake I make is a monumental failure.  And then I hate myself for being so narcissistic as to think I could have such an effect on the world around me.  I have my vicious cycle of self-loathing down to an art form.

The problem is figuring out scope:  everyone makes mistakes, hurts someone's feelings, scratches on the 8 ball.  But it's hard for me to figure out sometimes which setbacks are worth my anxiety, especially if someone is angry or disappointed with me over them.  So it's weirdly comforting to learn that there's a concrete reason for that.  It's even more comforting to see this:

"It's likely to be the sign of something that happened because of learned experiences, plus, of course, biology," Zahn said.

That means there is hope that people prone to depression could learn to overcome their guilty tendencies. Zahn and his colleagues are now collaborating with Jorge Moll, a scientist at the D'Or Institute for Research and Education in Rio de Janeiro, to try to train people's brains.

That's pretty amazing.  The brain, even when broken, is an astonishing thing. 

It's hard to explain depression to someone who doesn't have it.  It's hard to make someone with a functioning brain understand how much you're constantly fighting your own.  How no matter what you know rationally, there's always that nagging little voice that sows doubt.  How every failure is multiplied exponentially and every success is minimized.  How your own brain becomes your enemy. I told someone that it's almost like having an alter ego inside your brain who hates you.  A little tiny version of yourself, who knows your soft targets better than anyone, and has pinpoint precision when aiming for them. 

I've come so incredibly far and I'm fighting every single day.  I've seen concrete progress of which I'm incredibly proud, especially over the last year.  Yes, my brain is still disordered and sometimes I fall victim to it.  That will always be the case.  But most of the time I know how to compensate for it and/or bring in external help if I can't combat it on my own.  I've come to think of it like my bad knee:  I had to do PT to build up the muscles around my knee to compensate for what the joint can't do.  I've learned that I can deal with depression the same way.  When my brain starts to work against me, there are devices upon which I can call to pick up that slack.  It doesn't always work.  But as time goes on I find I'm able to make it work more and more. 

A few years ago the things that have happened to me over the last year would have killed me – psychologically if not literally. Now I feel like I'm much more able to handle things as they come.  I still have my meltdowns.  But I've come to accept that sometimes that's going to happen, and that if I let it in and let it pass, I won't waste energy trying to fight it off that I'll need later on. 

But it's hard to make someone who doesn't have my brain understand that progress.  It's hard to explain to my family what an accomplishment it is that I don't call out of work or cancel plans anymore just because I can't face the world.  It's hard to explain why I get so worked up over every little criticism or setback, even when I know it's irrational.

So when I see something like this, I spread it around.  Because every little bit of information helps.  Maybe it'll help someone who doesn't understand why they feel the way they do.  Maybe it'll just help the people around someone like me understand that we might not win every battle, but it doesn't mean we're not fighting. 

"I've come to embrace those parts of my mind that are peculiar and broken.  I understand now that's what makes my mind special."  -Walter Bishop, Fringe

Post title stolen from this song.

All-Stars, baseball, nostalgia, and a little bit of regret.

I don't get it – that other team doesn't even have David Wright.

A press conference was held this morning at NYC's City Hall to announce that the 2013 MLB All-Star Game will be held at Citi Field.  This is pretty exciting to me as a life-long Mets fan who gets exhausted watching everyone in the free world tie themselves in knots with adoration for that other NY baseball team who shall remain nameless.

This means that next July, all of baseball will be abuzz about my team for a change.  For this reason I'm extra glad that the Wilpons (Worst.  Owners.  Ever.) have listened to fan rage and made changes to City Field in the past couple of years to make it a real Mets park instead of the Brooklyn Dodgers memorial it was when it first went up.  Do I wish it was called Bob Murphy Stadium?  Sure.  Do I think they should retire the numbers of guys like Carter, Hernandez, and Piazza and honor some of the team's more recent history?  Absolutely.  But I like seeing the old, battered Home Run Apple outside the main gate, and I like that they built a Mets Hall of Fame inside the stadium.  And as sentimental as I remain about Shea Stadium, I do like seeing home games in a place that isn't a total dump.

But I am sentimental.  Most baseball fans are, for varying reasons.  Mine has mostly to do with my dad.

My Dad

My dad took me to my first baseball game when I was 12 years old.  It was my present for graduating elementary school on the Honor Roll.  This was a big deal, because usually it was my mom who took us places – not because my dad wasn't involved with us, but he worked a lot and was active in the volunteer fire department, so most of our social calendar was handled by my mom. 

But this time it was just me and Dad and the Mets.  I borrowed my friend Jessica's jersey since I didn't have my own.  It was hot and sunny, and the Mets lost horribly to the St. Louis Cardinals, but I didn't care.  I got to see Kevin Elster hit a 2-run home run (and see that apple rise in person!), ad Doc Gooden broke his wrist.  The guys behind us got kicked out for getting drunk and mooning the crowd.  It was awesome.

That was also the day I realized for the first time just how much affection my dad expresses through food.  There is no greater tragedy to my father than someone not having enough to eat.  He constantly worries for whether his daughters are well-fed, and at that game I think he literally bought me every kind of food that walked by in a vendor's hands.  I ate pretzels and hot dogs and ice cream and had sips of my dad's beer.  I had mustard on a hot dog for the first time.  I probably gained five pounds in three hours.

That day is one of my favorite memories of my childhood and of my dad.  And in a weird bit of symmetry, the Citi Field All-Star Game is tentatively scheduled to take place on his 82nd birthday.  My first thought was, "Oh wow, I have to save up so I can take Dad to the game!"  Because I'd love to repay him for that experience, and for giving me a love of baseball.

But my dad isn't in great health, so it probably isn't a realistic dream.  It's too bad.  He still smiles when I talk about how the Mets did last night when I see him.  He still watches the games.  I think if he were up to it, he'd have a lot of fun.

A friend of mine suggested I make a little mini-All Star Game for him at home – get vendor-type food, a few cheesy souvenir cups and/or foam fingers, and watch the game with him at home.  That might be a good idea.

Whether I get to watch the game with my dad or not, I'm definitely looking forward to a week's worth of baseball festivities focused on my team.  I hope David Wright enters the Home Run Derby again.  I hope the National League wins, and that the World Series is at Citi Field too.  And I hope one way or another I get to experience all that fun with the man who made me the fan I am today. 

Mayor Bloomberg and the Mets ownership announcing the 2013 All Star Game with Mr. Met.

Walk Unafraid... and Unstupid.*

I've mentioned before that I work retail.  More specifically, I work retail in a mall.  This means that I spend an awful lot of time dealing with crowds of people.  This means that I spend an awful lot of time being really really frustrated at the appalling percentage of people who have no idea how to conduct themselves in public.  Somewhere along the line little things like etiquette, situational awareness, and the capacity for simple thought went out of vogue.  I miss them.

But today's rant/helpful guide is focused on one specific thing: walking.  Sounds simple, right?  One foot, then the other.  But my day-to-day has taught me that an appalling number of people are either unaware or unconcerned with the greater nuances of walking in a public space.

And so I bring you:

How to Walk In Public Without Being a Moron

Rule #1:  Watch where you're going, dammit.

Does this seem obvious?  I thought so too.  But experience has taught me otherwise.  Do us all a favor.  Put your phone down for a second (or at least don't get mad when we laugh at you if something like this happens to you).  Stop reading the receipt from whatever you just bought or searching through your purse for your keys or whatever the hell you're doing and look at where you're going and what's around you.  We'll all be happier for it and you'll be less likely to wind up in a fountain.

If you need to do something that diverts your attention for more than a few seconds, stop walking.  Which brings us to...

Rule #2:  Watch where you're STOPPING, dammit.

Places that are not OK to just stop suddenly and have a conversation/look for your keys/drool on yourself:

• entrances, exits and/or doorways of any kind
• the middle of the sidewalk
• any aisle or walkway not wide enough for people to easily get around you
• the top or bottom of the escalator
• right outside the elevator

Would you just stop your car in the middle of an intersection?  No.  Because your car would get hit and you would wind up in a neck brace paying for someone else's car repair.  But the fact that pedestrian collisions don't (usually) end in fiery balls of twisted metal is no excuse to act like an idiot.  Take a few steps out of the doorway or past the end of the stairway.  If you're in the middle of a mall, step to the side of the foot traffic area.  In short, get the hell out of the way.  Other people have places to go and having to suddenly change course because you are unaware that other people exist isn't fun.

Rule #3:  It's a small world.

You're out with your five best friends.**  You're walking.  You're each about a foot away from one another and you're weaving together and apart like some sort of semi-sentient giant amoeba.  You're doing this at a glacial pace.  I HATE YOU.

I know we all like our personal space, but sometimes you have to suck it up for the sake of not being a jerk.  Other people will want to move around you, and you taking up as much space as possible and moving to and fro in weird, unpredictable ways makes that annoying, if not impossible.  Be aware of how much space you're taking up.  (There's actually an old Goofus and Gallant strip that deals with this, but I can't find it.  Oh well.)

By the way, this goes for those enormous monstrosities we call strollers nowadays, too.

Rule #4:  Watch your kids.

Kids are fast.  Kids do not understand (or much care for) logic.  Kids, while aware that other people exist, often don't give a shit because they're laser-focused on any one of 400 other things at any given time.  So if you're in charge of a kid in a public place, keep them close.  Hold their hand.  React in some way when they dart out in a random direction suddenly, trip someone, or just up and run away from you.  (Honestly, I wonder how more kids don't wind up kidnapped or accidentally falling into meat grinders with the way parents seem to ignore them, but that's another post for another day.)

Sure, you're not going to catch them every time.  But even trying means that you're teaching them how to exist in public, and that would really do wonders for the next generation since so many adults ambling around now are basically a lost cause.

Rule #5:  Passing lanes aren't just for drivers.

There's sort of an unwritten rule of escalators:  walk left, stand right.  Some people like to walk up or down the escalator for extra speed.  Some people like to coast.  Obeying this simple rule makes both kinds of people happy.

Do you like to walk slow?  Do you just mosey along, letting your mind wander as you saunter along?  If so... well, I just don't understand you.  But more importantly, be aware that not everyone shares your zen world view and open schedule and please get to the side.

Are you a speed demon?  Do you zip to and from your destinations like you're training to be the first carless NASCAR champ?  (This is more like me.)  If so, be aware that not everyone is in such a rush.  Look for courteous opportunities to pass slower walkers, and don't bump people as you zip by because you're too busy rushing to pay attention (remember Rule #1!).
 

There are probably a million more ways we can all be less annoying to our fellow bipedals, but these are sort of my top five.  These are the things about which I mutter under my breath while zipping and weaving through the crowds on my lunch break.  Got any other suggestions/pet peeves?



*Post title is a bastardized R.E.M. song title. I'm sorry, Michael Stipe.
**You clicked that?  You fool!  You're welcome for the earworm.