There's a Pill for That!

It’s funny how I think sometimes. I wonder at the motivation that propels me. When I’m feeling a little down, I tend to shut myself up away from people. The simplest statement can make me go absolutely nuts, and bring about much ranting and raving (sometimes foaming at the mouth will occur, though thankfully not often).

Today was one of those days. You know the kind of day I’m referring to. The kind of day where the alarm clock goes off and you don’t hear it, yet miraculously manage to snooze button. Where you wake up 2 or 3 hours late for work in a blind panic, stumbling over all manner of debris strewn about your room. The day where you can’t find your left shoe, not even in its habitual location under the kitchen range. Where the water heater works just up until you get up a good head of lavender foam. The day when the gas your gas tank has strangely “dissipated” to places, persons or vehicles unknown.  The day where you would have been better off staying in bed shouting to the top of your lungs: “Je suis en grêve!” Essentially, the day when Murphy’s Law comes into full effect.

Typical of my nature, on such a day I usually allow myself get bogged down by morose feelings. Self pity is the emotion that is first and foremost in my blue funk series. I seem to need to savor the sad melancholy. Odd, that.  So I dug myself in, locked my bedroom door. Sad country songs could be heard wailing from within the walls of my self imposed exile from amidst the living. Luckily for me, I tend to become a cleaning demon at this point and woe be unto the merest hint of a speck of dust. My rag and I become a formidable tag team unit in the vanquishing of all things unclean.

It was in this mode that I arrived at my closet door, with the intent on thinning out the herd of officious garments that no longer had any fashionable reason for being present. And it’s then that I re-discover, sitting forlornly at the very rear, waaayyy out of sight my little cigar box that I’ve carted around with me since my college years (We’re talkin’ mid eighties here!)  I had totally forgotten its’ existence, though strangely it had been religiously transported along on my many moves and travels around the globe. Believe me, this is a feat of unimaginable magnitude, as there have been many, many, many such trips.

I hadn’t seen or thought about this little memento from my college days for a long time. The little cigar box brought back memories in a profuse deluge of bittersweet memories. Recollections both good and bad, leaving in their wake a silent ache for things I’d forgotten to remember. I sat there, on the floor next to my bed going through all manner of souvenirs that I’d collected during my stint at Ye Ole Alma Mater.

Eureka! Here’s the faded picture of me riding that motorcycle that I bought for a song and a dare my sophomore year. I’d been extolling my antics on that fierce iron steed to my son a while back. Naturally he doubted the veracity of every word of my colorful account of my colorful biking adventures. But in my hands I had the inimitable proof of how cool his Mama had been in her hey-day. I had always meant to dig up this evidence to prove my moxie!

And look, goodness gracious! Here’s Bags, a dear and treasured friend. Robin, Moya, Katie, even Kajova the magical omnipotent German shepherd who resided in our dorm unbeknownst to the collegiate “officials”. And in the background stands Berkely house proud and bold, the dorm that holds many treasures and secrets of a youth well spent. The place where I passed through the horrors, difficulties, pleasures, ecstasies and discoveries of becoming an independent adult.

And then…. There she was. Her countenance all smiles. Her freckled face glowing with young hopeful beauty. The gleam in her eye speaks of ambition and her life force, undeniable in its vivacity is easily discerned by the sparkle in her eyes. The steadfast friend who is ever there with a solid, considerate shoulder to lean on. An empathic ear, that listens without judging. A friend who does not criticize and who is always willing to take your character, flaws and all at face value. And regrettably, the friend who’s passing has left a gaping void. Colleen. My freshman year roommate. A sad tear rolls down my cheek when I recall the brief, yet solid friendship we shared our first year out of the nest.

I feel a shameful sorrow for having forgotten for even a second the tragedy that brought her demise. How could I have let time dull the sense of urgency I felt when speaking of her. How did I lose my determination to keep her memory alive, at any cost? When did I lose that fervor that I felt, which even now is slowly rising as an ancient dinosaur from a place deep within history’s unyielding embrace? Remorse holds me in its contemptuous grip. And a poignant regret at having for one minute forgotten this paragon who deigned to call me friend comes to the fore with an overwhelmingly compelling force that very nearly brings me to my knees.

A sense of defeated sorrow pervades my senses with languid progress as I go through my little treasure/memento cache; reliving memories that have long since gone by. Too many years bridge the span to now pick up the pieces of the broken shards that had been casually left on the curb along life’s twisting path. How could I possibly attempt to begin such a formidable undertaking? And all the while the little voice in my head is incessantly whispering reproachful castigations for my failure in seeing my pledge through to it’s realization.

Ah, bitter is the pill that I must now swallow, for I realize that my passion was lost along the course of my stay. Alas, I rue the verity that there’s in fact very little that I can do to bring the force of her persona back to full, vibrant life. I’m ashamed to admit that I was hard pressed to at first remember all the detailed events surrounding that devastating day. That tragic day when I was forced to experience my initiation to adulthood by the full and horrific experience of tragic loss of life, no holds barred, no penny spared.

On that April day, the last day of spring break, I lost more than just a roommate and two very dear friends. I lost the veil of innocence that had up till then sheltered me from the cruel facts of life. I lost my sense of security that this was just the beginning of life for me and my peers. I lost respect for the civilized society of which I was a member that would allow such atrocities to be carried out. And that would dole out punishments hardly befitting the crime.

Yes, I am part of that society. That culture, that permissive awareness that we call civilized behavior. Wrapping our inabilities to properly appellate an immense, abhorrent defect in the behaviors of the so-called “addictive personalities” in shiny pretty boxes. Which we then tie with colorful bows, and display on special shelves, with special considerations for their varied imperfections that have special needs.

We give these little pretty boxes a certain dominance of our authority and management of our God given rights by these special treatments for their special afflictions. We offer the little boxes, bright colored ribbons and stickers that bear the warning “Fragile, Handle With Care,” so that all would know of the need that these packages have for extra special attention and care in handling. We provide the packages with a special storage space, that is made to be as comfortable and as agreeable as is possible.

But my belief is that the truth is that all we’re really doing is giving those pretty little boxes the keys to the medicine (oops, gift-wrap holder/container/whatever) cabinet. In obliging their weaknesses, we encourage their dementias. In granting them relief of woes that they themselves should be solely responsible for, we give them the reigns and bit that allow them to masterfully bring us to stride. Most of us even willingly financially support this action by paying skyrocketing insurance policies that in turn faithfully provide the little packages with their bright and colorful wrappings and ribbons and special shelves.

It is my personal belief that the time is come to call a Spade a Spade and (as we say in St. Maarten) Give Jack his Jacket. Too many excuses are being made for abhorrent social behaviors in the guise of “mental illnesses.” You’re either manic depressive, bi-polar, schizophrenic, suffer from anxiety disorder syndrome, or you have an addictive compulsive disorder. If your leg twitches, it’s now Restless Leg Syndrome, if you can’t sleep, it could be caused by obstructive sleep apnea, if you sleep too much, well, must be Narcolepsy. Heaven forbid we should call someone lazy! We give exotic, grandiose and often unpronounceable names to all manner of diseases heretofore known as simple character traits. Different people, different traits…go figure, who woulda thought!? And you say there’s a pill to fix it? Where oh where do I sign up for this marvelous treatment of my twitchy toe?

We seem to be obsessed with the need to neatly and precisely label each and every little minor tic or mannerism that the Homo Sapiens species normally displays. In doing this, we are unfortunately providing the means for the slackers, loafers, good-for-nothing sloths to take advantage of a system that has gone so far south of what I personally believe should be the norm. There’s now a perfect pretext that’s medically certified and endorsed by our governments and insurance agencies. We are, in fact, financially supporting these “personalities” with their daily fixes and doses for the easy life.

I understand addiction, believe me. Been there, done that, bought the shirt. However, I do not support, nor in any way endorse the considerations granted these so called “addictive personalities.” We are all, each of us in his own way addictive personalities. What do you call the young man who simply has to see his favorite team win the pennant, cup, or series? What about the mother who has to be sure that her children’s homework is done in what she deems as a presentable manner? What about bathing? Combing your hair? Brushing your teeth? None of these actions will cause life to cease in their absence, yet they’ve become rituals repeated over and over each and every day.

Even as children, we recite rhymes on the playground that bear omnipotent caveat, e.g. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.”  How could anyone possibly resist the lure of obsessive compulsive disorder? Who wants to break Mommy’s back? Not I! Therefore I shan’t ever set one tiny digit on any crack. Just to be safe, I’ll steer clear of tiles, or even carpet for that matter, TONS of cracks there! In the not too long ago, this was known as eccentrics. Me?  I’m severely addicted to breathing! Living! Smiling!

In giving these addictions names and identifying traits, and treatments, we are providing excuses for irrational and unnecessary actions from our fellowman. Actions that have repercussions far and wide, and echo through the ages, by the incidents they recklessly cause to happen. The bull needs to be taken by the horns. The masks and veils and pretty packaging ripped off. Let’s have the piper paid, shall we?
The punishment should equal the crime. Until such time as we stop pussyfooting around the hard and difficult issues of today’s society, we will always be at a disadvantage to individuals who are more than willing to keep the blindfold tight around our humane sensibilities.

It is my profound belief that we are approaching this challenge in a bass-ackward manner. It has become increasingly evident that treatment is not the cure. You don’t stay a tantrum with candy.

But then again, who am I to judge? I do not claim to be an expert in psychology, sociology, or any other ology. I am, however, a human being, with two eyes, ears, and a mouth. I do hope that my foot is not too tightly wedged therein that easy removal cannot be accomplished.



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Footnotes
1  This article is dedicated to my college roommate Colleen Barry who's life was tragically taken when a car driven by a drunk driver collided with the car carrying her and two dear friends Paula and Jennifer, killing Paula and Colleen instantly. Jennifer fell into a coma that lasted two days, after which she succumbed without ever having regained consciousness. It was a day that will forever bring sad tears in its' recollection.