More Than Thirty-One Tragedies

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
-- Leonard Cohen

Justice in America, specifically the Sixth Amendment, theoretically requires that a person accused of a crime has the right to a speedy and public trial. In theory there is no difference between theory and reality -- in reality there often is.

I had a backpack years ago that held books and a calculator with a replacement value of several hundred dollars. My backpack was stolen -- it and its contents were never recovered. I was angry at once again becoming a victim. Part of my anger was directed at myself for leaving it where it could be stolen. Several days later I was still in a foul mood which had a negative impact on job interviews I had lined up just ahead of my college graduation.

On Recovery

Do you get scared to feel so much?
To let somebody touch you?
So hot, so cold, so far so out of control
Hard to come by, and harder to hold
Some people get by
With a little understanding
Some people get by
With a whole lot more
-- The Sisters of Mercy

So there are mental health challenges that are debilitating and frightening but once the right meds/treatment are found and taken as prescribed, recovery is absolutely possible. I have met people that this has happened to and have heard their stories. It is awesome that there are happy endings to their challenges which often lead to a renewed lust for meaningful and productive lives.

I also know a few people whose challenges are not only treatment-resistant but, I would argue, recovery-defying. I am one of those people. We are a relatively small slice of the mental health pie -- somewhere around a few percent to 30% depending on which definition of "treatment-resistant depression" is used. I am not the poster child for the group by any means but based on the stories I know about, there are a few patterns. We often hate how misunderstood mental health challenges are -- how often media, both fiction and "news", paint us with a broad brush which perpetuates ridiculous stereotypes. And how often this sets the stage for others offering platitudes, ad nauseam, about holding onto hope, about things happening for a reason, and about curing depression because it was easy for their Aunt Gertrude after she tried a detox cleanse advertized on late-night tv.

Policing My Thoughts

I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain
-- The Police

My anxiety that is frequently triggered by doctors has all sorts of connections to my thoughts. Specifically errors in my thoughts that lead me to a clustering illusion or, perhaps, just plain old confirmation bias. Let me walk through a recent situation and a therapy technique that can help me police my thoughts.

Weeks ago my wife developed joint pain so I took her to a small family doctor's office, with whom we had been established patients for over a year. After the pain was not controlled by the initial suggestions, I took her back to see Dr. A on Friday. Dr. A was late -- my wife was his first appointment of the day. After an exam, Dr. A suggested physical therapy and also a prescription painkiller. Dr. A agreed to write a prescription so my wife could go to a particular physical therapist that I knew was good. Although he could have handed us a paper prescription, he suggested that we use the office's electronic "patient portal" to provide the physical therapist's particulars (name, fax, etc) then he would have a fax sent to the physical therapist's office. At home later that Friday, we used the patient portal to send the info to Dr. A so he could have the fax sent. My wife's next day off was in 6 days so I expected on Monday to make a Thursday PT appointment.

Mileposts I Have Not Passed, Yet

They go:
Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you've been having a lot of problems, you've been going off for no reason and we're afraid you're gonna hurt somebody, we're afraid you're gonna hurt yourself. So we decided that it would be in your interest if we put you somewhere where you could get the help that you need.
And I go:
Wait, what are you talking about, we decided? My best interest? How can you know what my best interest is? How can you say what my best interest is? What are you trying to say, I'm crazy? When I went to your schools, I went to your churches, I went to your institutional learning facilities? So how can you say I'm crazy?
-- Social Distortion

Around kindergarten my dad divorced my mom so he could quickly date, live with, and marry a younger woman who had had a troubled life. This wasn’t dad’s first attempt at playing savior – before I was born he taught history and English to poor, inner-city kids. He remained in the education field after I was born, transitioning into a job to improve teaching methods with the latest theories. How odd it was for him to care so much about helping others while he shifted from being my parent to pretty much being a seagull manager. This term is used in business when a work situation needs attention and a manager swoops in, makes a lot of noise, craps on everything, then takes off. Dad, the eternal optimist, made his noise giving me his assessment seen through rose-tinted glasses, simultaneously voiding my issue of the moment while crushing a little boy’s eggshell-thin ego.

But dad only had me on some weekends – the rest of the time I lived with mom who entered the workforce to keep a roof over our heads. In first grade I convinced both parents that I no longer needed after-school daycare and so became a latchkey child, skateboarding the several miles to and from school alone.