Tag Archives: high school

The good news about having been lonely and desperate and insecure in high school is that college is a liberating, exciting experience, where you will be surrounded by likeminded companions who are filled, like you, with the searing, visionary intensity of youth.

The good news about having been a neurotic, unstable mess with horrifying attachment issues in college is that being a twenty-something is a time for setting out into the world, starting to build yourself a life worth living, beginning seriously to ramify: a time to explore and, simultaneously, to put down a root or two.

The good news about having spent your twenties lost, confused, and heartbroken, with no idea of who you’re supposed to be or what you’re supposed to be doing, is that turning thirty is a huge relief, because you suddenly find that you don’t care terribly much about the right way to do things anymore because you’ve started to figure out what makes you happy and what makes you wish you were dead, and have started to learn to avoid the second and do the first.

I can’t think of anything bad about my thirties so far. Today I’m thirty-one, and that seems completely unspecial. Which, trust me, is just fine.

I’ll Cry If I Want To

I’m working on a post about how being gay is thoroughly unspecial, too, but it’s not done yet. It’s going to be offensive enough when I’m finished revising it, so there’s no way I’m going to release it into the wild before it’s had time to cool. I know I just mixed my metaphors — like, what am I doing exactly, baking chocolate chip mackerel? — but I don’t care, I’m thirty-one and that sort of thing doesn’t bother me anymore. Even comma splices don’t bother me all that much anymore.

Besides, it’s my birthday and I don’t have to post anything if I don’t want to. To be perfectly honest, I was supposed to write a post last night, but instead I went drinking with my buddies, because they asked me to.

Two Visitations

Speaking of things in the wild: on the way home from the bar last night I saw a grownup deer and two baby deer spiriting their way through the back roads of western Worcester. I stopped the car and sat there. One of the babies startled at a noise I couldn’t hear and nearly fell over; then the whole family vanished into the darkness of a quiet lawn. God!

Then, speaking of visitations, a bat found its way into our house. I didn’t think I was scared of bats, but it turns out that when a bat is zooming around my living room, even if I’m aghast in admiration of the coolheadedness of this thing — the way it banks around my living room as if were navigating some spacious midnight cave with all the time in the world, while my roommate and I hoot and holler — I really, really don’t want the thing to touch me, not any part of me and especially not my face, so maybe I am scared of bats after all. I ran and got a laundry basket, but my roommate just opened the door and let the thing out. I spent all night dreaming of sprawling spiders and looming shadows.

Nozac

There is something special about today, actually: it marks three weeks of no prozac. That’s special because the doc told me two years ago that it would take three weeks to kick in. So maybe after three weeks it’s pretty much out of my system.

I’m hoping to write a piece about that, too — what it’s like to need antidepressants and not believe in them, what it’s like to believe in antidepressants but not want them, what I learned and built out of fifteen years of unmedicated desolation, how the two years on meds compared, and what I hope to learn and build now that that time is, maybe, over. That one won’t be done for some time.

But I feel very good indeed.

Thank You

I’m very grateful for all of y’all’s prayers and encouragement. Not just for those of you who have sent special wishes and prayers for my birthday (aw!), or those who have been praying specially for me since I started talking about being off the meds (special thanks and may God bless and reward you!), but to all of you who read this thing and respond, or even just read it.

I like writing, but writing is hard. Some people might be strong enough to keep writing even when nobody is telling them that what they’re doing is important. I doubt I’m that strong, but I don’t have to find out, because so many of you are there, buoying me up and helping me to keep going.

Thank you.

If you don’t mind their trademark combination of foulness, expletives, poop jokes, and brilliant insight, I highly recommend this article on Cracked: Five Great Joys In Life That Healthy People Never Experience.

If you’re lucky enough to have a condition that can be treated — not even cured, just treated a little — the moment the medication kicks in is like unlocking a secret level in life. All these years, you’ve existed at half power because chronic illness Harrison Bergeroned your ass, so any meds that take even a fraction of that weight off of your shoulders are basically giving you…superpowers. If people thought you were obnoxious after you got those glasses, with your constant prattle about wood grain and cloud patterns, they’re going to strangle that newfound health right out of you the first time you wake up to find it doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does.

“Holy sh★t, have you ever realized how great it is not to feel like you’re going to die after you eat?”

“Have you tried this walking stuff? It’s amazing! It hardly hurts at all!”

That’s how I felt last night. I had 7 or 8 guys over for a poker game, old friends and new. It wasn’t anything remarkable, except if you remember that I’m the guy who, five or ten years ago, would find it terrifying to even be in a room with 7 or 8 other men my age, forget about inviting them over.

A few drinks in and, thanks largely to having watched Warrior1 a few nights ago, I got the idea that after the game, wrestling would be a good idea. A lot of other people agreed, and we tore it up for a while — none of us particularly in shape, none of us knowing what we were doing, but everybody having a great time. We only smashed one lamp, but it wasn’t even a nice lamp.

Hitting people and smashing things is, obviously, fun enough on its own, even before remembering that I’m the guy who, back in high school, faked a stomach illness because I was too terrified to participate in field day. And now I’m wrestling in my living room, in front of 7 other guys who are ALL CHEERING, and I’m not even worried about if I’m gonna win or how I’m gonna look? And not only that, but I don’t do half bad?

I never would have believed it.

Like the guy on Cracked says, our condition is treatable. I’m not talking about SSA itself (the verdict is still out on that), but everything else, the stuff that really matters — the loneliness, the insecurity, the not-belonging.

The treatment is harder and slower than we’d like, but Oh man, it’s worth it.

1 You really have to see this movie. It’s about forgiveness in the face of tremendous, unforgivable dysfunction and hurt. That, and also ass-kicking. My kinda flick, and it’s on Netflix instant watch.

I was having a great night out at the bar — I was with mostly men, a situation that would have once tied my tongue completely, but I was doing great! I left the booth to use the bathroom. I was so pleased with myself for being social, and relaxed, and non-awkward, and normal, that I congratulated myself in the mirror.

Out loud.

For being so normal.

Then I heard the toilet behind me flush. I left the bathroom very quickly.

Conversation is like using a public urinal: the less attention you pay to it, the better it flows.1 I don’t mean Deep, Meaningful Conversations (DMC’s)2, I mean what’s usually called Shooting The Shit (STS). It’s something I’ve always been bad at.

In high school I occasionally got invited to all-male sleepovers, where the conversation followed a predictable pattern: first poop jokes, then talking about girls, then loopy dreamspeak until the last person passed out. I could very rarely get into the rhythm of these things, and would divide my time equally between being terrified that I’d say the wrong thing and terrified that I wouldn’t say anything at all. It was like a first date, all the time.

I was discovering coffee around the same time, and on one occasion I found that being heavily caffeinated lowered my inhibitions a little bit.3 so I would prep for these gatherings by drinking no fewer than three cups of instant Folger’s. Horrible stuff, and it didn’t usually work, though it did help with the paruresis.

Later on I somehow got the idea that conversation wasn’t Really Conversation unless it involved either half-baked metaphysical theorizing or profound self-revelation. The college I attended was a hotbed of seekers, oddballs, and eccentrics — among I tried to cultivate a reputation as King of the Oddballs — so this served me pretty well during those years. It worked less well after graduation, when I was confronted with the vast throng of more-or-less normal people.

And, again, it wasn’t just a problem of of talking to people: it was a problem of talking to other men. I’d freeze up, just go completely dry in my effort to say the right thing. I always wanted to talk theory and generalization, but conversations between men seem to consist in telling each other facts, and I seemed to be ignorant about most of the facts they cared about — and terrified to expose my ignorance, or to say something unmistakeably fruity.

Do most men talk that way because it’s how they’re wired, or is it a smokescreen, a way to avoid the important things? Probably some of both. But, really, it isn’t just men: even back then, I could do it too, when I wasn’t talking to someone I was desperately hoping would like me.

Besides, talking about Important Things all the time isn’t how people work: humankind cannot bear very much reality,4 or anyway not on a typical Thursday afternoon. It’s not how we usually get to know each other, and doing it all the time would be exhausting.

I’m getting better at it, the talking, the relaxing, but I’m still new at being good at it. Any time I get through a few hours of Shooting the Shit with my male friends and realize at the end that I wasn’t thinking about whether I was nervous or tense or awkward or fruity — wasn’t thinking about much, in fact — I feel great, and grateful, like I’ve done something worth celebrating.

It’s the little things. Like not being a tense neurotic nervous oddball maniac.

1 Yes, I am an occasional sufferer of paruresis, commonly known as “stage fright.” Sometimes I find that trying to silently recite Kubla Khan helps me get going, but I usually get stuck after “gardens bright with sinuous rills.” What the hell is a rill? That must have been some good dope STC was smoking.
2 Or DMC’s, as we used to call them in college. The term was coined by my friend M. to describe the kind of conversation that was always going on at 2am after heavy doses of alcohol and heavier doses of Hegel. DMC’s usually ended in tears, mutual professions of deep fondness, the forging of entire new paradigms of thought, or all three. Or sometimes you’d just pass out.
3 I know, alcohol does the trick a lot better, but I didn’t figure that out until college. Just as well.
4 See TSE’s Burnt Norton.