Tsubject: Tsunami

I'm writing this in response to recent posts by my esteemed colleagues, Hockey Dino and Intense Auburn. In short, their posts and discussion were addressing media coverage of the catastrophic earthquake and resulting tsunami in Japan. I encourage you to check them both out before reading further (click on the links above).

The crux of the debate seems to be the scope and prominence of the human interest side of the media's coverage. Too much? Too little? Just right? I find myself to be a bit of a centrist in this discussion.

First and foremost, I want the hard news. How big was the quake? What's the situation with the nuclear reactors? How many killed? How high were the waves? And being a visual person, I want pictures....lots of them. Not being morbid...it's just that the uncontrollable forces of Nature are both fascinating and terrifying to me. And in this instance, I don't think that the hard news part of the story can actually be sensationalized...the facts, statistics, and scope of the disaster speak for themselves.

That being said, I also believe that a certain amount of human interest reporting is not only germane but also necessary to balanced reporting of any natural or man-made disaster. And here's why I say that: We are all human...one big family, no matter where we live. In many cases seeing others trying to deal with the loss of loved ones and belongings can inspire us to be better people. We can be reminded of what is really important and how blessed we are. Equally as important, and on a practical note, telling the story of the suffering inspires people to donate money to the Red Cross and many other organizations that are providing aid and comfort to the survivors.

Here's my idea of appropriate human interest reporting: the story of the 60-year old man who was found 16 kilometers off of the coast, clinging to the roof of his house. Miraculous. Incredible. Choose your own adjective. Very newsworthy. And appropriate for reporting.

What is not appropriate? Shoving microphones under peoples' noses...people who are grieving the loss of everything they owned...and maybe the loss of someone or everyone they loved. This is not news. Whether it's tornado victims in Kansas, hurricane victims in Louisiana, forest fire victims in California, or tsunami/earthquake victims in Japan or Indonesia, raw grief is raw grief. Allow these people the chance to grieve privately. We don't need to see it close-up to understand it. I'm reminded of the lyrics to Don Henley's great song "Dirty Laundry":

"The bubbleheaded bleach-blonde

Comes on at 5

She can tell you 'bout the plane crash

With a gleam in her eye

It's interesting when people die

Give us dirty laundry

Can we film the operation?

Is the head dead yet?

You know the boys in the news room

Got a running bet

Get the widow on the set

We need dirty laundry"

Also not appropriate: interviewing anyone who has or ever had a relative in or near Japan. This is where the media train leaves the tracks in a big way. No one cares. Just report the freakin' news.

Anyhow, just throwing my two-cents worth in on the subject. Not saying I'm right or anything, just have an opinion like everyone else. I will say one thing about the Japanese people. They truly live out their principle of "Gaman". Loosely translated, this means to handle whatever comes your way with grace and to be patient. And if you've watched much of the coverage, you've seen this principle at work. People conducting themselves with great dignity in the face of overwhelming sadness. Cars backed up for miles to buy gasoline and not a single honking horn. Nobody outside of their cars. No fights. Maybe we could take some pointers....

Random Musings

Anyone who thinks that laughter is the best medicine has never taken Xanax.

I think it's time for a new computer. The IP address on this one is 00.000.000.014.

Favorite euphemisms of the week:

For the guys: "Shakin' hands with shorty"

For the girls: "Ya-ya'ing the sisterhood"

Can vampires safely use tanning beds? Just curious.

Guess I'm pretty tragically unhip. I thought WikiLeaks was a bladder-control problem.

I think that Lady Gaga should do some shows with the Goo Goo Dolls. Who could stay away from a Goo Goo Gaga tour?

I watched Alice in Wonderland the other day. I giggled every time someone said "bandersnatch".

Finally watched Twilight-New Moon the other day (yeah, I'm a little behind the times). About 20 minutes into this flick I found myself hoping that some fell creature, be it a vampire, a werewolf, or maybe even Lindsay Lohan, would appear and rip Bella limb from limb and devour her remains. Holy angst-fest! Someone please slap this beeyotch! Thankfully the movie did redeem itself somewhat toward the end.

Well friends, enough random musings for now. I'm laid up with a pinched nerve situation in my neck. No big deal, just some pain and a pretty much useless left hand. Taking some steroids, hopefully they will bring some healing. Much love to you all....

REALIZATIONS

We all have times in our lives when something or maybe several things suddenly become clear to us. Some call them epiphanies. Others may refer to them as awakenings. I prefer the term realizations. Not as dramatic, I'll admit. More utilitarian, less flowery.

I made a deal with myself when I started this blog, the bastard child of The Prodigal Glenn, that I hope to abide by. I passed two resolutions in the Congress of my brain: first, that I would never blog just for the sake of blogging, but only when I had something humorous or meaningful (or maybe both) to say; and second, I vowed never to blog while hyper-emotional, whether on a manic high or a depressive low. It was a close vote, mind you. Four of the voices in my head voted yes, two voted no, and two didn't bother to show up.

My realization occurred last night, here in the solitude of my room. Sitting here in my own little world, my back to the television, playing computer solitaire. Listening to repeats of Law & Order. I can't tolerate silence these days. I must have noise. Being stuck alone with my thoughts and no distractions is terrifying. Long story short, the TV is on 24/7.

Miracle of miracles, up popped an episode of Law & Order that I had never seen (or heard) before. I didn't think that such a thing existed. But it was the subject matter of the episode that drew me in. The plot concerned a young journalist/writer afflicted with dysphoric mania, which is a close cousin of my own illness, bipolar disorder, type II.

When you actually look at the symptomology of the two mental deficits, there is not a great deal of difference, especially for someone like me who has a lot of mixed episodes. This poor gent was a very gifted and engaging writer, full of personality and life at times. And also a horribly depressed problem drinker/crystal meth addict who had brought a great deal of unhappiness to his family and friends with his escapades. Either a ray of sunshine or a dark thunderstorm. Sometimes both at various times during the same day. Hmmmm....did this remind me of anyone (minus the crystal meth, of course)?

Anyhow, long story short, this lad wanted to kill himself and enlisted the help of his girlfriend and his brother to assist him. A bunch of Xanax, a bathtub, then a legal controversy. Now don't panic, I'm not there right now. My realization, my moment of truth, came while listening to other characters on the show discuss his illness, his state of mind, and how he came to be this way. Namely, that it was an organic brain condition. That he did not wish to be this way. And that sometimes the pain of living with the illness was just too much to bear. Tears flooded my eyes several times during the show.

And a light bulb slowly sparked and began to glow in the awful darkness of my mind.

Through all these years, I have been fighting two battles. One against the ravages of bipolar disorder. And the other against myself. For although I have intellectually known that bipolar disorder is an illness, no different than my thyroid cancer, I have treated myself as being at fault for having it. I have tortured myself endlessly. Loathed my existence. Cursed God for creating me. Imprisoned myself in this room in the belief that no one out there really wants to see me anyway. Isolated myself from those who want to unconditionally love and help me without judgment. Despaired of living to the point where I have sought to escape this mortal coil. Ended up in psychiatric wards where I have seen the most god-awful sights.

In short, I have been fighting a two-front battle. And I was always defeated before the first shot was fired.

Fighting something like bipolar disorder is a daunting task in and of itself. I have said it before, and I'll say it again, I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. Not for a single moment.

What was my realization? That I'm not a bad person. I can be funny, charming, and a real hoot to be around sometimes. At other times I can be very quiet and somber. And at other times I can be a holy terror, a dark tempest throwing lightning bolts of unhappiness and hurt in all directions. But in all of these states, I'm still a good person. A good person with a bad disease. A good person who sometimes does stupid things and says hurtful things.

Am I saying "Well, nothing is ever my fault, you just need to deal with me"? Heck no. I think of the apostle Paul, who said in the book of Romans, "Shall we continue to sin that grace may abound?...God forbid!". I don't want to use my mental deficit as an excuse or a crutch. I want to endeavor to deal with it more effectively. My realization is simply this...I will no longer condemn myself, or view myself as a lesser human being, because I have a mental illness. I'm going to accept myself as God made me.

Might not seem like much to you. But is sure is to me. And it's having that simple knowledge make the journey from my head to my heart that makes a world of difference. Maybe you're struggling with something today. Maybe depression, maybe something totally different. Something not at all your fault, but yet you beat yourself up mercilessly about it day in and day out. Pause for a moment and accept yourself. Work on loving yourself and forgiving yourself. That's what I'm going to be doing from here on in. If I can at least face life's battles and be on my own side for a change, maybe I'll do better.

Okay, so this wasn't as dramatic as "Holy crap! Here comes Moses down off of Mount Sinai! His hair's on fire and he has a smoking iPad in each hand!" (containing the Ten Tweetmandments, of course). I'm not surrounded by the the Shekinah Glory or anything. I haven't parted any bodies of water nor have I walked on any.

It was just a very comforting, soothing moment for me. As if someone wrapped a soft, warm blanket around my shoulders and whispered in my ear, "Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done". Maybe God still loves me after all.

My Top 10 Bedroom Lines

10. Of course I believe in safe sex. You'll be tied to the bed, so there's very little chance that you'll be injured. Think of the ropes as romantic seat belts.

9. I don't care if you're on your menstrual cycle. I'll follow you home in my Mercury.

8. It'll be okay. I haven't had an open sore in weeks.

7. Most of my sexual partners are fine after a course of antibiotics and several years of psychotherapy.

6. Don't mind that donkey. He's just a beloved family pet who happens to sleep here in my bedroom.

5. I'm actually a virgin. I'm just not very good at it. So be gentle with me. Or not.

4. Those rumors about me being promiscuous? Don't believe them. They were started by a bunch of women I had sex with.

3. Before we get started, you need to tell me your safe word or phrase. Hopefully I'll be able to understand it through the duct tape.

2. Will you be upset if I scream out my own name? I'm not used to having anyone else in the room when I do this.

1. I'm SO sorry. When I talked about you pleasuring "little Glenn", I assumed you knew that he was the midget who lives next door to me.

The Darkness Pulls

To what would I liken the Darkness?

A cloud? A black hole? An abyss?

No, the Darkness is more alive.

More personal. More conscious.

Like a great snake.

An anaconda perhaps.

Slowly pulling itself over me.

While it squeezes the life from my mind and soul.

I fight it.

Yet the darkness pulls me in.

What brought the darkness to me?

Was it genetics? Or my own wrongdoing?

All I know is that it has always been here.

Many think I am to blame.

Bad decisions and bad judgment brought it here.

I too think I am to blame.

I was born bad. One of God's mistakes.

Better people repel the Darkness.

They have victory over it.

I fight it.

Yet the darkness pulls me in.

Something about the Darkness comforts me.

It has no hidden agenda.

It wants what it wants.

There is no falseness or deception.

It feeds on everything good. Love. Joy. Hope. Faith.

It devours happy memories.

It is like a burglar who thieves very small things.

So that you don't notice he's been there.

But after ten thousand burglaries.

You find that your house is nearly empty.

I fight it.

Yet the darkness pulls me in.

Can I be rid of the Darkness?

In times past I thought so.

But it has since grafted itself into me.

So that I cannot see things as they are.

And I cannot feel things as I should.

I would ask God for help.

But I have squandered His aid too many times.

I need Harry Potter to cast a Patronum spell over me.

To banish this Death Eating Darkness.

Or for Luke Skywalker to destroy this Death Star

Which threatens to destroy me.

I need a Frodo

To drop the ring of power

Into the cracks of Mt. Doom.

Destroying the Being who gave birth to this Darkness.

Then reality hits me. There are no heroes.

That is fantasy. I am, in fact, alone.

I fight it.

Yet the Darkness pulls me in.

Sometimes I drink.

To dull the pain.

To escape the Darkness.

Not permanently, I know.

I think of a man drowning in a raging sea.

If you threw him a rope and pulled him into a boat.

But only just for a few hours

Before you would throw him back into the foaming torment.

Would he turn down those few hours?

I'm guessing not.

Many call me weak.

Tell me I'm an awful person for this.

Yet among those of us who dwell daily

With the Darkness

There is an understanding. A fellowship.

Any reprieve from the Darkness is precious.

Whether through drink. Or smoke. Or other means.

Others can judge.

But to feel normal.

Hell, just to feel anything period

Even for a short while.

Is awfully nice.

I fight it.

Yet the Darkness pulls me in.

Pills, pills, and more pills.

Sometimes they keep the Darkness at bay.

Oft times they simply numb me.

Don't feel good. Or bad. Just don't feel.

Others seem to think that they are akin to

The Magic beans in Jack and the Beanstalk.

Oh, if that could only be true.

Don't get me wrong.

The pills are good. They are not evil.

Yet they sometimes seem

Like Band-Aid's

Being used to patch a crack in the Hoover Dam.

They aren't hurting.

But they will be swept away by the whelming flood.

I fight it.

Yet the Darkness pulls me in.

Sometimes I look back.

To how I used to be.

When the Darkness was just an annoyance.

Before it began to encompass me.

I remember Love. And Faith. And Hope.

And the tears stream down my face.

I try to remember my own youth.

But it is obscured by a veil.

Lost forever. More tears stream.

I want to feel good things again.

I want to know what it is to be carefree.

If only for a nanosecond now and again.

But the Darkness grimly shakes its head at me.

"This is not to be for you."

I fight it.

Yet the Darkness pulls me in.

Inside my soul voices cry out.

A constant din, disturbing every thought.

Good things within me dying.

Screaming as the darkness envelops them.

I've grown used to this cacophony.

It is all I know.

The Buddhists say that "Life is suffering".

In my opinion, they got it right.

And I wonder

If someday I will tire of fighting.

And simply relax and let myself slip into the Darkness.

What would await me there?

Rest from my suffering?

A better place, Heaven if you will?

Or a red-hot Hell, since I have been

Such a god-awful excuse for a human being?

I do not know.

For now, all I know is this

I will keep fighting it.

And hope that the Darkness does not pull me

The whole way in.

An Absence of Passion

Passion: 1) any powerful or compelling emotion, such as love or hate.

6) a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything.

The Steelers lost Sunday. Normally I would have been a complete wreck by the end of the game. I probably would have been in a total funk for several days. During the game I would have thrown objects, such as small children and coffee tables, at the television. My language would have been enough to embarrass a Merchant Marine sailor, and would have included made-up curse words (e.g. "fingelflooker", "fudgybork", "pisswhiskers", etc). I would have whipped my Terrible Towel around with such force that small animals would have been sucked up into the vortex I created. And Heaven forbid that the Towel hit you, it would pull an eyeball straight out of your face (and don't think we're taking you to the ER until the game's over!). In past days, I would have wanted to go out and vent my frustration after a loss like Sunday's. Maybe drive to the city and murder a hobo. Rob a 711. Pick up a crack whore and drive around with her for a while.

But I wasn't even that upset. I was mildly disappointed. Don't get me wrong, I WANTED my Steelers to win. I have bled black and gold since I was old enough to understand football. I can clearly remember the Immaculate Reception and every single Steelers Super Bowl victory. But something was different this year...NO PASSION.

The Daytona 500 is coming up on February 20th. Normally I'd be wearing my Tony Stewart underoos and racing helmet around the house. I'd be making engine noises while walking in the Mall, squealing my tennis shoes at every turn. Walking directly behind people to increase speed. Holding secret Matchbox car races in my room. Tying a 2 X 4 to the front bumper of the Soccer Mom Special (my mini-van) so that I could spin out slower vehicles on the highway.

And yet none of those things are going on this year. I haven't even checked out NASCAR.com to see which drivers switched teams, who has new sponsors, etc. I'm not even in any NASCAR fantasy leagues, something I usually enjoy a great deal. Oh I'll watch the race...make no mistake about that. But it'll be different this year....NO PASSION.

My lack of passion has affected every area of my life. I'm not even interested in self-massage anymore. I've tried aromatherapy candles, Barry White music, talking dirty to myself, and special lotions...anything to set the mood. But still nothing.

Passion drives us as human beings. It has fueled every great discovery, every amazing and life-changing invention. It has won wars and preserved freedom. It is what took us to the Moon. What cured Polio. What brought down the Berlin Wall. Nothing remarkable or significant ever happens in this world until a person or group of people has the passion to get it done.

Sure, you also need energy. You also need intelligence. You also need resources. But take passion out of the equation and all of these things are of little use. There's no drive, no direction, no focus.

What are we without passion? We're sacks of skin and bones, simply going through the motions of living. Bad actors in a horrible play. We can try faking it, but it's usually apparent to all (unlike my orgasms, which I fake quite convincingly).

Where did my passion go? I could simply blame bipolar disorder, maybe whine around about how it robbed me of my passion. But truthfully, I lost it. I allowed life to beat it out of me. I'm to blame. And only I can get it back. I'm like Austin Powers looking for his Mo-Jo. Like Snoop Dogg looking for his hoes (Where da hoes at?). Like Justin Bieber looking for puberty.

What is it that holds me back? I think fear. I've become afraid to get passionate about anything for fear of being bitterly disappointed. Or for fear of failing, something I've elevated to a high art form. If I drift through life without passion, I may not enjoy things, but I also don't suffer a lot of crushing defeats. To have passion is to risk. It makes you put yourself out there. Nothing worthwhile is ever accomplished without passion.

And so, I need to get passionate about reclaiming my passion. It's been gone for a long time. If I ever get it back, look out world. I could be a force to be reckoned with.

Like A Phoenix??

"I have a grip on reality. Just not this particular one." ~ Source Unknown

At various and sundry times during periods of manic behavior I have likened myself to a phoenix. Yes, a phoenix, that mythical, graceful firebird who builds a nest of twigs after a lifespan of 500 to 1,000 years, ignites and burns to ash, and then is gloriously reborn. The cry of the phoenix was said to be like a beautiful song. In truth, during those times I was more like a mentally challenged loon who annoyed the other birds for a while by continuously flying in a circle, all the time sounding off like a vulture with a beak impediment. This loon would then fly directly into a sliding glass door at a high rate of speed and ricochet unconscious into a flaming barbecue grill, where he would unceremoniously burn until an annoyed grillmaster would fling his charcoaled carcass off to the side.

Unlike the phoenix, there will be no miraculous rebirth for this loon. But, after a period of time our smoldering friend will begin to move, then walk, and eventually fly again. And in his eyes he will be very phoenix-like and his song will be magical, at least to his own ears. But inevitably he will crash and burn again.

This has been the story of my life for the past six years. I detailed some of my adventures on The Prodigal Glenn blog should you ever wish to read about them. And if you read through those old blog posts, you could pretty easily tell what phase of the bipolar cycle I was in at any given time.

It's not a cycle that I wish to keep repeating. I've allowed bipolar disorder to rob me of many things. It's a vicious illness, and yet it can be managed. Somehow over the past few months I seem to have found that middle ground (at least for quite a bit of the time) between the highs of mania and the lows of depression. Or maybe I've just become accustomed to the lows of depression and now deem that to be my normal state. I don't actually know. And I'm not going to make any great claims of discovery and/or self-enlightenment. I've had to dine on too many of those in the past (eating crow as it were, to continue the bird theme!).

I know that I should be freaking out. I separated from the Government in late October after almost 28 years of Federal service and have applied for a disability. I haven't had any income since mid-November when I withdrew the money from my TSP (401K) account. I've been flat broke since December 20th, when I had to spend my last $160 for copies of medical records from Butler Hospital. My checking account is overdrawn, my cellphone has been shut off, and my auto insurance has been cancelled. I should be as nervous as Michael Vick at a Humane Society convention, but I'm not.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not turning cartwheels and singing the Hallelujah chorus. But I'm surviving. Somehow. Someway. And I'm hoping that when this bird gets his wings back, he'll be content to be a simple robin. Not the majestic phoenix or the out of control loon, just a happy little robin.

And yet to me, being that happy, steady little robin would be a greater miracle than being the mythical phoenix. Although with my luck, there will be some rotten little kid out with his brand new Red Ryder BB gun that day. I'll just have to pray that he shoots his eye out.

HONEY, I'M HOME

Yes, the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated. As Miracle Max (Billy Crystal) says in The Princess Bride, "There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive." I'll cop to being mostly dead for the past several months.

I'm kind of like Conan O'Brien...back doing the same thing, just with a different stage and format. What is it that draws one back to blogging? Novelist Leo Rosten said that "Every writer is a narcissist. This does not mean that he is vain; it only means that he is hopelessly self-absorbed." Not sure how true that is. All I can say for sure is that in my case I just plain missed doing it. Though some of what I wrote was upsetting to others to read, it was in fact very cathartic to me.

This new blog will be a bit more hard-edged and a bit less politically correct. Though I will not type a single word with the intent of offending someone. It's just that I had reached the point with The Prodigal Glenn where I was overthinking every word I typed for fear of offending someone. This time around I intend to write fearlessly. About bipolar depression. About relationships. About drinking. About family. About spirituality. About life in general. And if you happen to find yourself offended by something here, feel free to leave and not come back. I don't care. My days of letting other peoples' opinions of me define me are over. Not to seem ignorant, but if I can't write honestly, what is the point of having a blog?

Along those lines, I will be moderating comments. This doesn't mean that I won't publish comments that disagree with something that I write. Far be it from me to be that egotistical. I just want to be able to screen comments that are simply mean-spirited slams on me, potshots taken anonymously and meant only to injure.

I encourage each of you to become followers, and I'll get a Facebook Fan Page up and running soon. In the meantime I'll be busy readying my first actual post. I hope that you will join me often, that you will feel free to comment, and most of all I hope that you find laughter, love, and truth on these pages. May God richly bless you all.