Growing Up Is Still Hard To Do, Page 3

know, if I’m not there tomorrow to take my brother to football practice the coach will get pissed and bench him for the big game on Friday night ruining a chance for him to show off in front of some recruiters. As a result, he’ll have to attend some half-ass college where the students’ blood alcohol levels are higher than their GPA’s.” Or…

  “If I’m dead, the guys will be one short on poker night and Mikey won’t have an opportunity to win enough money to pay his rent. We’d give him the money anyway but he’s too damn proud to accept it so we have to throw a few games. So since I’m not there, the guys won’t play, Mikey won’t make any money, and his crotchety bitch of a landlord will throw him out on the street.” Or…

  “If I’m dead then no one at work will laugh at Fred’s God-awful jokes and he’ll feel horrible about it. Maybe Fred will stop talking at work all together since anytime he goes for the punchline all he gets are blank stares and crossed arms. Maybe Fred will start feeling so bad about it that his work will go to shit and he’ll get fired. Then he’ll probably off himself too because he can’t stand everyone staring at him but not laughing.”

  I’m gone so everyone suffers. Chaos theory at its finest.

  So, do I think I matter? Am I George Bailey or Dust in the Wind? Well, isn’t that what this letter’s all about? I’m trying really hard to convince myself that I’m the former and not the latter. I think so. After all, I’m taking the time to write this. And if I can convince myself that I do matter, don’t I owe those I leave behind some kind of an explanation or closure? I guess, but you’ll just need to glean what you want from this because I’m not claiming you’ll find any real answers. I refuse to be so lazy as to not say anything but I’m also not going to act like I know which way is up. This isn’t a self-help book and I don’t have “The Secret.” In fact, I hate anyone who thinks they have all the answers anyway. Oh, meditate and you’ll find inner peace. Swear off material items and you’ll swear off stress as well. Shut up! Right before he bit the big one, Socrates solidified his position as the world’s most insightful person by proclaiming that he was wise because he didn’t know squat and was aware of that fact. Anyone who thinks that they have arrived at Self-Actualization is in denial.

  Being this close to death, I guess it makes sense to think about “what it all means.” In my experience religion, life, and death are things you feel rather than know. They’re too personal to be anything else. No matter how hard you try, you can’t feel for another person. Point in case: Suzy, amateur psychologist and class treasurer says to Linda, “It’s ok that your parents are getting divorced Linda. My parents got divorced when I was five but it isn’t really all that bad. I get to have Christmas twice! I’ve been there so I know how you feel.” Well, maybe Suzy’s parents divorced amicably and even still talk civilly to one another when it comes to matters of their children, but maybe Linda’s parents have been fucked up for so long that they damn near killed one another and are currently entrenched in a legal battle over who gets to keep the house. What Suzy forgets is that all she thinks she knows about divorce applies strictly to her. Sure there may be commonalties, but do not for a minute think that you ever have any idea of what it is really like to walk around in someone else’s head. True empathy is admitting that you have no clue what the other person is dealing with but sticking around anyway.

  Dealing with adversity isn’t an issue when it’s tangible. Losing your job or crashing your car may pose a very real threat to your self-security but they are threats that you can quantify. They’re tangible. When the threat lies within your own mind, not only is your enemy invisible, but he knows everything you know. The funny thing about being your own worst enemy is that you can be very good at it without even trying. Living in perpetual fear is a horrible thing, especially when the fear extends to all aspects of your life: Fear when you’re in your car, fear when you’re at work, fear when you’re pumping gas, fear when you’re out with friends, fear when you’re in your own bed. How the hell can anyone operate when they are afraid of their own bed? Crazy you say? Well, fuck you because it can happen. It’s called OCD and it rears its ugly head in all kinds of ways.

  Psychologists may label anxiety and obsessive compulsive behavior as two distinct problems but I’d argue they’re the same thing, or at the very least, lead a symbiotic existence. You feel anxious so you give into a compulsion that temporarily relives your anxiety but ultimately fails to correct the problem. Sometimes the compulsion only fuels more anxiety and you have to start all over again. To some degree everyone is a little bit obsessive. Some people need to check and recheck that they have locked the door at night before they go to bed. Other people can’t stand to sit in a bedroom in which a dresser drawer lies slightly ajar. When vacuuming, some people even attempt to ensure that all of the impressions in the rug line up at ninety degree angles. You might argue that a so called obsession is simply good old fashioned smarts and initiative. I mean if the guy who mowed the field in Yankee Stadium didn’t give a shit if the lines in the outfield were straight, the place would look like hell from the Good Year Blimp. Or I’m sure avid golfers around the county would be pretty pissed off if the hole into which they were trying to hit their ball wasn’t exactly three inches across. Paying excessive attention to detail alone does not denote obsession, Type A personality, otherwise known as “anal,” maybe, but obsessed, no. Obsession comes in one flavor and one flavor only: “Extreme.” Those with Anxiety disorders and OCD are the most devoted followers on Earth and their religion is Fear.

  People with anxiety disorders are a different breed altogether. You know that Mel Brooks movie, Spaceballs? When Dark Helmet and the other baddies in their haste to catch up with the good guys, blow on by the speed of light, shoot into “Ridiculous Speed,” and top out in “Ludicrous Speed”? Well, that about sums up the mindset of those of us “unbalanced” people. Our amplifiers clearly go to eleven and we can’t shut the fucking things off. This is no sweaty-palmed, slight shudder of fear; this is absolute sick to your stomach dread. I’m talking about taking three shits a day because you are so nauseated that your body can’t process food. I’m talking about washing your hands 100 times a day until they’re cracked and bloody because you are afraid of germs, refusing to shake someone’s hand because you can’t be sure of where its been, having it take you two fucking hours to get ready in the morning because you need to use specific soaps, towels, tooth paste, razors, toilet paper, etc. And God forbid if you have to use a public restroom because that is obviously a cesspool. Not everyone who has OCD is afraid of germs, that just happens to be my particular brand. I once saw a documentary on TV where this lady was so afraid of snakes that she was afraid to go in her backyard. She didn’t even live up in the mountains or anything. You could have told this lady that you were 99.9% certain that there were no snakes in her yard and she still wouldn’t want to go outside. Crazy bitch right? Well, to her, that .01% makes all the difference. Unlike the young shark sitting at a poker table in Vegas, to people with OCD and Anxiety Disorders, the odds don’t matter. “Almost assuredly safe” translates to “still potentially unsafe.” If there is any room for doubt, no matter how minute it might be, it is enough to turn your whole world upside down. And being that the game of life does not lend itself to the concept of certainty, people like myself don’t play too well.

  I don’t really know what’s worse about anxiety attacks – the way its puts you into a panic mode in which the only way to bring your stress level down is to go through some ritualistic bullshit, or the way that the problem completely alienates you from those around you. While you are caught in the grips of the dark, fearful reality in your mind, those closest to you only see that something’s a little bit off. At first, one might dismiss those little things like cleaning off the sink every time you use it as harmless quirks that make us all interesting; the same way some people can’t bear to look at a pair of mismatched socks. But soon they begin to catch on that these things are not just little idiosyncrasies, bu
t rather, obsessions that make you unbearable to be around. I mean who wants to sit in a room garnished with the beautiful scent of cleaning ammonia 24/7? Who wants to go through four rolls of paper towels per week? Who wants to see someone wash his hands after getting out of the fucking shower as if they had just bathed in tar instead of clean water? Who the hell can put up with that stuff? The answer is nobody, yet you can’t help it because the panic drives you. It doesn’t matter that it is irrational, all that matters is making the fear go away and the quickest way to do that is to give in to it.

  So I’m imbalanced, why not just take some drugs like half of America and at least take the edge off? Well I did, but drugs by themselves don’t really help. Paxil, Zoloft, Prozac, whatever, I tried them. There is something to be said for the fact that in some instances these drugs work no better than a sugar-pill placebo. Sure, there is neurological evidence linking serotonin levels to depression and that sort of thing but that’s only one side of the coin. It’s like taking a kid