On Wallowing

I'm finding that people prefer pictures to 1000 words.

Here’s the deal.

I’ve droned on and on about depression and anxiety.  Anyone who cares about the state of mental health in America knows it lacks real understanding, funding and research.  It is pivotal to human civilization that we understand how our brains work.  However, on a personal level, all I really have to understand is myself.  It’s the only change I have any genuine control over, and by nature of being human, I am a work in progress.

What is talked about even less then depression and mental health problems is the tendency to wallow in one’s issues.  It is a sensitive topic; something a lot of people would misinterpret as whining, but I think I have a shot of explaining myself. I am guilty of wallowing in my issues. I think way, way too much. I’ve been doing this since I was about sixteen or so.  Bored with life, I would lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling.  In my head, I was asking myself questions, interpreting the actions of others, judging, daydreaming, and a host of other activities that occur within the boundaries of my head.  In reality, I was just lying there. An observer would see a kid lying on his aging comforter in the bedroom of a tiny apartment with his hands tucked behind his head, silent. 

I wasn’t doing anything at all.

That’s the evil behind wallowing.  You convince yourself that thinking and analyzing and worrying are actions, but they’re not.  They are just thoughts; ones which you’ve probably dwelled upon dozens of times before.  It’s like watching reruns in your head.

Aren’t you just tired of your problems?  Aren’t you just tired of the effort it takes to separate them from yourself?  You aren’t the sum total of your thoughts. They are just repeating synapses in your brain. They are just one stupid part of you that gets on your nerves on a daily basis. Your thoughts can be real dicks sometimes.

I’m a thinking person.  I know this about myself.  I’m not knocking the practice for most of humanity. But thinking about your mental health problems is a lot like bringing work home with you.  There are things you can do about it and things you can’t.  Your only job is to sort them.  There is work to be done.  Thoughts you can’t do anything about are to be accepted.  And the thoughts you can do something about, should cease to be thoughts. They need to become actions.  Decisions. Changes.  

It sounds easy, but we all know that this could mean a lot of ground to cover.  Especially if you’re not used to accepting or acting on anything.

I say all of this as one who still wallows.  Not as much, but to me there is no acceptable level of wallowing.  I have the day off today. I slated this as a non-work day.  An off day.  A day to do what I wanted.  Well, that was my mistake (a common one, at that). Wallowers freeze when faced with time alone.  Indecision kicks in.  Should I catch on work anyway?  Should I chill out and read?  Should I do more exercise?  Get more yard work done?  There’s also this bed over here that serves as prime real estate for good ol’ fashioned wallowin’…

When you are healthier and you sort your thoughts, this isn’t such a big problem.  You don’t second guess every move you make because you have strong decision-making muscles already in place.  But if you are just thinking about the same problems over and over again, life itself becomes immeasurably more complicated.

There is another path.  Do.  Yeah, that’s the answer.  We are discovering more that the key to happiness is to engage in activities in which you lose yourself.  You block out the rest of the world and concentrate on a single task, whatever it is. Why do we crave this? Because during those precious minutes (or hours if we’re lucky), we’re NOT THINKING ABOUT ANYTHING.            

We can’t let our problems paralyze us.  Depression zaps your willingness to do things. Whatever strength you can muster to just do something: Work, clean, play guitar, walk your dog, talk to your friends, help somebody out with…well, anything at all. It’s easy to say, I know.  But like anything, it takes practice to get better. We have to spend time away from our issues.  They will be there once we are done.  The hope is we might find some insight in experiences outside of our skulls.

 I’d like to think that writing this is an action.  Technically, it could be construed as wallowing about wallowing, but I did type all of this shit.  That counts.  Plus, I got it out of my system.  Don’t agree?  Then you write something, smart-ass!

Why Dudes Don't Like Me (And Why Alphas Don't Like My Dog)

Really...who could hate this guy?

            I took my dog to the dog park a few years ago.  He’s been back since, once or twice, but the truth is, he hates it.  It’s a lovely little park in Hillsboro, named in honor of a fire department dog named Hondo. It’s fenced so that you can let your dog walk without a leash and mingle with the other dogs. Donovan, our black Lab, ran into the fenced area and was so excited to see all the people and their pets. (Donz is a bit of a spazz.) He was almost immediately spotted by a group of five or six dogs or so.  As a pack, they chased Donovan to one corner of the park. They barked, and I could see that not only were the dogs pissed at Donovan’s brazen entrance into the park, but my dog has rolled onto his back.  He was submissive.  We and the other pet owners had to pull the pack off of him. He was fine, but I knew he would never be the alpha and it would never be in his nature to challenge the alpha.

            We returned to the same park a month or two later, and Donovan never left our side. We sat on a bench and he hid underneath.  Poor dude.  He’s a people-dog. 

            I thought of this incident last year while in therapy.  I actually spent a few minutes talking about it.  The similarity to my personality was worth examining.  You see, it is my assertion that guys hate me.  Guys. Dudes. Men with ample testosterone.  I have a lifetime of examples to back this up, all starting when I was a little boy.  It’s not such an obvious distinction, either.  It’s not that I didn’t share the same hobbies and interests with dudes.  Sometimes I did.  But often I would get a glare, a vibe or a shitty comment from a dude when I was in his presence.  He smelled something on me.  Just like the dog pack smelled on Donovan.  I was low on the totem pole.  I’m not a challenger, and I’m not the leader.  There are only two categories left.  Female, or non-entity.

            The sense is that I disgust them. I don’t belong there. I’m not a jerk or an asshole.  I’m just...not worth their time. Luckily, I don’t spend a lot of time in their proximity.

            I can’t help this.  There isn’t a way around it.  It’s trapped in our lizard brains.  It’s the same archaic stimulus that tells you that someone is strong or sexy or creepy.  It’s a feeling.  I can’t say anything to convince you that I’m not submissive.  To a dude, all my attempts are just squeals and buzzes.

            However, to many women, I don’t get that reaction.  The same vibe is interpreted differently.  I am a safe man to be around.  It must be a whiff of something not unlike estrogen.  I’m a good guy, a good father, a responsible guy.  Women confide in me more often than men. And the men who confide in me are more or less like me.  There have been a few women who have given me similar looks as dudes.  My guess is that they subconsciously know I ‘m not the type of man they are attracted to and thereby I’m not a likely suitor.  This goes on a few levels deep of course.  In reality, they’re cool.  (I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to speculate what women are thinking about. I’m not that dumb.)

            Regardless, my ego wants to emulate the alphas in different ways. Even though I know the reality…I still have a brain that dreams big. I want to write heroic stories and be cool in front of everyone and have a big personality. I daydream about being bigger than life.  Then and only then will the alphas understand my true greatness!  But then my daydreaming is over.  I slink back to my home.  It’s comfy and cool.  Time to read another novel about time travel.

            My therapist said that these members of societies all have their roles to play.  Behaviorists have studied pack animals and these scenarios occur with every generation.  The fighters, the leaders, the hunters, and the nurturers all contribute to the whole.  Although I believe a human being can rise above his station, there is something about their brain wiring that always knows what kind of person he really is, deep down.

            Donovan and I stay behind.  We aren’t fighters.  Others are designed for confrontation and slaying the enemy. Not us.  We hang back. I think and write and raise my kids and read and learn and create and watch superhero movies.  Donovan…well, he sleeps and eats.  And steals my spot on the damn couch. 

The Day I Almost Punched an Old Man in the Face

This is what fighting is, right?

            If you are offended by salty language, you have officially been warned.  Because I’m letting it fly.

            I must give a brief explanation of job before I begin.  I am an independent contractor that takes photos of homes for insurance companies.  There is a bunch of boring construction terms involved, but half the day is driving around the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and the other half is computer, form, sketching stuff. I like it.  I make my own schedule and it gives me time to write.  There is only one downfall. I have to occasionally deal with assholes.

            It’s very rare.  I would say 1 out of 200 visits to homes have any type of negative interaction.  That’s a good ratio. Mostly I show up, nobody’s home.  I take photos and measurements of the areas I’m allowed to go, then I split. Easy.  That is essentially all you need to know.

            Also, this post isn’t about a story of a possible fight, it is about something that occurred in my brain.  It is a new development.  It is something that could only have experienced though therapy and anti-anxiety medication. 

             I arrived at a home in a rural area.  I knocked on the front door.  No one was there.  The home was not fenced, so I could do my thing.  I prepared to take my photos. An old man, corn-fed, in his sixties or so, shouted at me from about fifty feet away.  I figured it was a neighbor.  The other option was that the home was on the same property as the old man’s home.  Turned out, that’s exactly the situation.

            I said to the guy “Is this so-and-so address?” He did not answer me.  He continued toward me, beet-faced, shouting incoherently about notifications, and what I can’t do, and I don’t know what.  Normally, if there is a misunderstanding, I explain who I am to the homeowner and what I’m doing there, and the person says: “Oh, my mistake. I knew you were coming.”

            But this crusty ol’ bastard still approached me and something different happened inside.  Previously, altercations meant my flight instincts kicked in.  My heart rate went berserk, I lost the ability to communicate clearly, and then I felt like a pile of dogshit half an hour later. This time, I was much cooler.  I felt the adrenaline kick in, but it was maintained.  I was floating on top of the wave, rather than being buried by it.

            For a split second, I was ready to take a swing at this festering shitbag. He was too close, with anger that was all his own.  I was speaking in my softest voice. Suddenly, a feeling popped up out of nowhere.  I didn’t have the urge to run.  I wanted to beat the piss out of this grizzled old fuck.  But I wouldn’t.  I don’t take swings.  I don’t have to.  Plus, I need to keep this gig to pay the bills.

Instead, I broke his tirade by saying “Is this your house?”  It wasn’t twenty-first century, corporate friendly, Wal-Mart greeting in tone. It wasn’t receptionist at HR, clerk at the bank, all sugar-coated and empty. It was condescending.  I was cutting him off, because I wanted to get the hell out of there. It was 99% because the money’s not good enough to deal with country-fried pricks, and I’d like to think that the other 1% was because I wanted to pop this guy right in his dumb fuckin’ face. After he told me he owned the home, I got in my car and left without another word. (Okay, I said “Have a good day.” Doesn’t sound as cool, though.)

Remember, I’m not overjoyed by the violent intent, of which I had complete control. I don’t want to fight anyone.  It was the glimmer of self-value. I was happy that I walked away from this stupid situation doing exactly what I wanted to do. In the old days, my gut would make me slink away, feeling like I was at fault.  Now, there was something else in my body that told me that I didn’t have to put up with this shit.

            The moral is just that. Don’t put up with unnecessary shit. Say something or leave.  On your way home, you can imagine how you would have fought your way out of it.