Living My Father's Regret, Part 2

At the time in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, a U.S. Navy recruiting station occupied the second floor of a building which held our second favorite pool hall; our most favorite, The Ovington Cue Lounge, was just around the corner from the house.  When the mood struck, my friends and I ventured to the building at the intersection of

86^th St.

and

5^th Avenue

to match our skills with the locals.  My skills always not so good put me on one of the long legged chairs lining the walls more often than not. 

On a sunny day, late in May, having said farewell to SUNY Maritime, I took myself to our second favorite pool hall and stopped by the recruiting station, bringing back to the house a few pamphlets.  Well, my father had a fit when he saw the glossy material, in effect ordering me back to college, any college.  He even went so far as to gather a few uncles who talked to me about the necessity of staying in school and getting the degree.  More, he chose the college which I would attend, Long Island University, in Brooklyn, a campus he knew well as many a student of his attended, a few colleagues taught there and he occasionally traversed the grounds after picking up a cheesecake from Juniors, the celebrated restaurant being directly across the street from the school; besides LIU was, still is, in the same downtown neighborhood as the high school where he had been teaching for well over a decade.

Being thrown off tack by this cork-screw of a turn, I was flummoxed in knowing what I wanted “to study” at LIU.  My father asked me what sorts of things I liked doing as a way of coming up with some suggestions.  I was way too intimidated to say scuba diving or working underwater or going to sea; so I said I liked playing sports, which was true enough, but definitely not any passion.  He said that the school had an excellent Physical Education program.  Thus, I was enrolled as a Physical Education major. 

To repeat: When one is uninterested enough in a thing, one should not have to wonder too long or too deeply about the reasons for a rebellion against what one is feeling forced to do.  While I decidedly enjoyed, and was somewhat successful, in the sporting aspects of the LIU experience, the academics of Biology, Math, Sociology, Philosophy, Western Civilization, and especially the strict memorization of Kinesiology, remained too much for me.  I rebelled by trying no harder than what it took to get “gentleman C’s”. 

A custom of this program, and I was told most if not all other programs, was that each Phys Ed major was to take up a competitive sport.  While I was built for football, and loved the game, LIU, Brooklyn, did not field a football squad.  I had to settle for the next best rockem-sockem which was wrestling.  I loved the physicality of it and the training did wonders for my dating life, but it was not the passion success needs.  In other words I was mediocre.  But, I was coming along rather well, in spite of that.  So, in my first, and only, match, I actually won! 

I spent two years on the team, and on an early December Saturday of the second year, the U.S. Naval Academy lost to the U.S. Military Academy for the fifth straight year in their annual Army-Navy football match, resulting the following January in a New York Times story about the Naval Academy opening slots for student athletes.  My father presenting me with the story put on the pressure for me to apply.  By that time I had submerged my passion for the sea and for scuba so I did not look upon going to the Naval Academy as a path to what I wanted to do in life.  Besides, I had been rebelling against academics since I entered college life.  I knew if I were accepted I would do poorly, probably failing out the first semester, which would absolutely ruin my father, and probably not do too well for me, either.  However, against every argument I threw, my father pushed back that much harder.  I applied on the strength of my one win and a good recommendation from my coach.  Incredibly, I got the nomination, but my eye sight, which was 20-20 in one eye but 20-30 in the other, got me disqualified. 

(Here I should mention that a U.S. Marine officer recruiter contacted me about a month after being rejected to the Academy.  He said that if I scored a cumulative point average of 2.3 at LIU for the semester I was completing I would be accepted into the Corp’s officer candidate program.  To be honest, although it was the middle of the Vietnam War, and second lieutenants were dropping like mosquitoes hitting a zapper, I was indifferent to the offer:  If I scored at the entrance level I would have signed-up, but, if not, there would be no tears.  As it happened, I continued to get my gentleman’s C’s, that was that and I had absolutely no regrets.)

I dropped out the next semester and revisited the Naval recruiting station. This time I didn’t tell my father and kept all glossy material away from the house.  Richard Nixon had won the Presidency for the first time.  His play to win the War, Vietnamization, was beginning to bite.  The in-country Navy was being scaled back with Vietnamese manning American equipment.  The blue water Navy in the South China Sea was holding station with the assets already deployed.  In other words, there was far less need for Navy recruits as in times before, meaning that they could be very picky.  And they were:  The final doctor doing foot inspections for recruitment physicals found a problem with my feet!  Rejected, I was because of my feet!  And thus I was rewarded for disobeying my father!

I tried one more time to get on the water.  As it turned out, the brother of a girlhood friend of my mother was at the time the head of the union working tugs in New York Harbor.  I petitioned my mother for an introduction.  But for her reasons, which she did not share with me, she declined.  I meekly accepted having already gotten used to repressing my own wishes for my parents’ insistences. 

Eventually, in my middle age, I got underwater as a scuba instructor, but this was as the entertainment my father envisioned it to be, rather than as a livelihood.  And, unfortunately, it was short-lived, as the lumbar spinal stenosis paralyzing my legs forced me to hang up my fins with only four years of underwater service.

By the time I finished unfolding the narrative to myself the tanker steaming outbound had passed from view as, too, the smaller cargo freighter coming in, the tanker in Gravesend Bay remained at anchor near the channel and for the moment the water calmed of any traffic. 

Reflecting on the story, I’ve wondered how many of us adults have gone through the same experience, sublimating our own wishes, our own personalities, for the sake of what our parents, or others, demanded we do and be.  And then I think of my current education project, putting together an alternative to the conventional way of schooling, and I answer the query myself:  millions upon millions of children over generations have lovingly, obediently, dutifully acquiesced to parents and to other adults in place of their parents as they comply with orders to do as told in school, and at home, most trusting without questioning adult wisdom.  And today, millions and millions more continue to do the same, trusting the wisdom of parents, teachers and school governors.  However, it is a sad fact that the wisdom so demonstrated is mortally flawed:  If my experience tells me anything, it is that parents, and school officers, do not know who their children really are.  They have in mind ideals, perhaps projections of what they hope their, or all, children should be or what they, the parents, and education governors, are not.  

Parents tend to act with the best of intentions; I even credit my father with so doing.  But the best of intentions are almost completely informed by the doubts, qualms, misgivings and failures of parents and they find in their children, in their intentions, a second chance to “get it right”. 

 In this case, my life was shaped, and lived, through my father’s regret, to my own deep and long lasting sorrow.   

Living My Father’s Regret, Part 1

The nurse asked me to step out of the thirteenth floor hospital room so my mother could get some intimate care which family was not suppose to see.   I complied locating a lounge on the same floor in the Brooklyn Veterans Affairs Hospital.  Directly across from the lounge door was a wall full of wide windows opening onto the expanse of Gravesend Bay, New York Harbor channel and New Jersey.  I saw a tanker ship in the Bay at anchor near the channel, another tanker steaming in the channel outbound and a smaller cargo freighter coming in.  As I followed the moving ships feelings of regret for many water borne paths not taken rose with as much awe as the vista itself. 

Over many of my older adult years I’ve wondered what it was that prevented me as a young man from following the strong urge to go to sea.  There were opportunities, or at least the prospect of possibilities, but they were never realized.  Certainly my father, a New York City high school English teacher, had a lot to do with it.  But, still I was an individual, not an appendage to the man’s body, although there were times I felt more that way then being my own person.  So, what was it that prevented me from going down to the sea?

Certainly, I was born to the water.  My earliest memories are ones where I am in the bath tub staying underwater so long that my mother would have to be sure I was alright, which at the tender age I was then was not an embarrassment to me.  I had a fleet of boats I would sail all about the bath water surface until my skin wrinkled.   In the nursery school’s kiddy pool my best friend and I would play tug boat and ship where we would take turns being the tug and being the ship and where one being the tug would guide with his head the other being the ship to his proper docking space.  We played tug and ship for as long as we were allowed in the pool for as many times as we were in the pool.  Where we lived during this time my father and I were able to frequently go bike riding along a wide promenade curving the ark of Gravesend Bay seeing tugs, barges, boats and ships of all sizes and types as we road and stopped to rest. 

Even when we moved to a different part of Brooklyn, we were not far from the water.  We lived in comfortable walking distance to

Shore Road

, the stretch of street, parks and ball fields along and below a ridge of the Brooklyn side of the Narrows, the Narrows being the New York Harbor passage between Brooklyn and Staten Island.  When my friends and I went to

Shore Road

to play ball with our little league or amongst ourselves or against friends from other blocks we were playing just feet from the water.   I must admit, I was far more interested in what was going on in the water, with all the ship traffic, than I was in anticipating my turn at bat or the play in the field.

At age thirteen at summer camp I discovered scuba diving!  And that was duck to water!  Indeed, it was the fulfillment of the play in the bath tub; this time I could stay underwater breathing for as long as the scuba tank allowed and not have to worry that my mother would stop me from this pleasure.  And since we didn’t go any deeper than about twenty feet, we could stay down a long, long time which we did.  I knew then what I wanted to do for all my life:  to work underwater either as a U.S. Navy diver or as a commercial diver.  But, my father having other ideas while allowing me to take scuba training, slammed the door on either career saying that scuba was only something for recreation and working underwater was not a suitable career for me, period.  I was a dutiful son and complied.  In fact once I finished being a camper at age sixteen, I gave up scuba until my own son became interested in it when he was a teen-ager and then I went on to become an instructor.

Actually, my father wanted me to be a scholar-officer in the U.S. military, something which he regretted not being himself although he had the opportunity.  He was in the Army during W.W. II, had taken and passed an entrance test to the U.S. Military Academy but ultimately rejected the opportunity.  Now, he wanted me to do what he forswore.  Which branch of the Armed Forces didn’t matter, so, being that I was water-borne I thought to go Navy, which, if all worked out the way I wanted it to, I could be a Navy diver after all.  But, his insistence on my going in as an officer required me to go directly to college, especially one of the fedeal service academies, from high school, which I really didn’t want to do.  I definitely had the brains for college work, even the tough service schools, but the interest for things academic just wasn’t there having spent four years being academic and being frustrated in being unable to stretch my mind-there is a big difference between being intellectual exercising one’s cognitive abilities pondering the questions aroused by ones reading and by one’s teachers and being academic having to memorize for ready recall in those specific ways schooling imposes the factoids of subject content.  I loved the learned conversation and hated the memorization. But I acquiesced and translated all this angst into an application to the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy, which would have definitely put me on the water, if not under it.  I received the Congressional nomination, but not the appointment.  I had alternately applied to the State University of New York Maritime College where I was accepted and started with a program for incoming freshmen-fourth classman as the military school called them-in July, 1966.

Well, when one is uninterested enough in a thing, one should not have to wonder too long or too deeply about the reasons for a rebellion against what one is feeling forced to do.  While I decidedly enjoyed, and was successful in, the military aspects of the Maritime College experience and even more the seamanship I was learning, the academic nature of the exercise was just way too much at the time.  I rebelled by doing so little academic work that I had to leave by the end of the first year.  And here I begin to understand a part of the answer to my question:  I was living my father’s life, not my own.  I was putting my love of the sea into a framework constructed by my father’s regrets.  Being a dutiful and loving son I could do no less than to do as requested by him, but in the end it built a barrier too high for me to scale on the way down to the sea.

A Lever Long Enough Can Move The Globe But It Takes a Different Kind To Work Through Depression

Chomping down the entire one pound bag of pretzel nuggets took most of the day, Wednesday, as I snacked my way from early morning until late afternoon.  I was trying, and failing, to “catch the bear”, so I could go on-line to locate information for my alternative school project. The immediate project chore on which I am to be working might best be described as a Bullet Point Need Statement.  It is to consist of a targeted population of children, in hard numbers, from which the school is to draw, reasons present schooling of the population is not meeting the needs of the population and reasons my school design would meet those needs.  Now, the targeted population for my project is Special Needs; thus the Need Statement is to have the hard numbers representing the entire Special Needs population of the New York City, a break down of those being served by present public and private placements throughout the City and those who are not being served in any way at all and of disability, disorder and disturbance so it can be argued more specifically on how each disability, disorder and disturbance is being mis-educated and then for me to be able to argue the reverse for my school.  Unfortunately, these numbers are not easily come by as at the moment I am unaware of any group which collects them and the City’s Department of Education guards very jealously such information.  Besides, the total number of Special Needs children in NYC may be a number which does not exist anywhere.  Yet, it is possible that with some time on-line I might generate leads on where I could get such information or, jump for joy, the information itself.  But, I am required to take the step of going on-line for this purpose, and I am balking, big time, at doing this. 

About seventeen years ago there was this colleague, a professor of far greater import than I, who had been fighting all sorts of demons for almost as long as I was at the time.  He told me of a “lever” which moved his emotional predisposition to action from paralysis to action, and as one should understand, a positive emotional predisposition is the key motivator to all self-actualization.  He said, paraphrasing, I feed the bear, order him to leave me alone and then I can get on with what I want to get done.  Now, we’re not talking copious amounts of comfort food:  he was talking a handful of grapes, a single Navel orange, a big Delicious apple.  However, I have taken to things like pretzels, ice cream or cookies.  While it certainly would be healthier eating fruit, it is the self-actualizing step, the voluntary act of eating, feeling the pleasure and fulfillment of the action, and of the food itself, which re-sets the emotional predisposition, which releases the paralysis. And, naturally, it is eating in proper proportions, such as a small handful of pretzels, four ounces of ice cream or four to six cookies which makes the difference between a lever and an act of self-sabotage.

I explain how the lever works though my sideways understanding of Freud’s psychology of Superego, Ego and Id where I substitute the concept of Parent for Superego, of Adult for Ego and of Kid for Id-where the Kid is divided into the Playful Kid, well adjusted, reacting appropriately, etc., and the Bent Kid, maladjusted, vengeful, over-reacting, etc.  The Parent is filled with all the pre-and proscriptions of authority.  The Adult is largely goal oriented, logical, deliberative, interpreting the world in proper perspective.  The Kid is full of impulses, instincts, intuitions, positive and negative-of course, the positive belong to the Playful Kid and the negative belong to the Bent Kid.  

Behavioral paralysis, the inability to do those actions one wishes to do, is a consequence of the interaction of Adult, Parent and Bent Kid.  The Adult proposes an action which the Parent assigns as a pre-or proscribed behavior, a should or should not, a must or must not.  Once the Parent defines an Adult action, the Bent Kid opposes it as the Bent Kid opposes all Parental authority.  In the conflict between the Parent and the Bent Kid, the Kid triumphs, causing no action, or, worse, a self-sabotaging behavior, either way making the Parent impotent voiding the intended action.

The idea behind the eating lever is to generate the Playful Kid feeling of self-actualized pleasure from a range of food associated with pleasure to replace the Bent Kid feeling of vengeance stirred by the opposition to the Parent.  Once the Playful Kid feeling takes over, the combined food pleasure and satisfaction of the self-actualized step, the Adult is enabled to put into proper perspective the Parental pre-or proscription, that is, weighing pros and cons in light of the action’s goals, which has the effect of breaking the paralysis and precipitating action.  So, with a handful of pretzels purposely taken as a lever I can tell the bear to leave me alone, and get on with my school project chore.

However, in the presence of Depression, the lever works but less often.  As was said to me by another friend, “Sometimes you get the bear; but sometimes the bear gets you.”  Unfortunately, in Depression, the bear gets me far more frequently than I get it.  Yet, I try whatever lever I can which might catch the bear.  And I thought Wednesday, that with a handful of pretzels, I could tell the bear, the Bent Kid, to leave me alone and I could get on to what I wanted to do.  Well, that day, the bear, the Bent Kid, got me, and instead of generating pleasure and self-actualizing satisfaction, the Playful Kid feelings, the Depression kept on feeding me more of the Bent Kid’s vengeance which I expressed by continuously going back to the bag of pretzels and just as continuously balking at going on-line for the required information.  So, I never did go on-line for the information.

However, today I am not entirely paralyzed in that there are some activities my psychodynamic and Depression will allow me to do. Within the spectrum of what I want to do there are many actions including writing this post.  What I call the trade-off lever gives me permission to do what I can, which if done with some frequency elevates a sense of personal power, the recognition I actually can get accomplished what I set out to do, and increases the “can do” spectrum, perhaps to include my on-line project research.   So, now, I’ve “traded off” doing the specific school project chore to talk about the personal struggle of doing the chore.  And, I suspect, I will be “trading off” further as I relate the history of the project in blog posts to come.  And in so doing I will be not only telling my story, but also I will be re-setting my emotional predisposition sufficiently to occasionally chip away at the research, and at other elements of the school project itself. 

In the end, which ever lever is working, at least I will be getting work done and, after all, getting something accomplished to someone suffering Depression is a big deal, a definite sign of moving in the right direction and of sustained movement out of the deep psychic hole.

Doth Media Images Provoke Days of Rage and Revolution?

We think the media are responsible for everything, George Will sarcastically quipped to Sam Donaldson’s considered thought about the vital role of broadcast and social media, especially, in the uprising in Egypt on ABC’s This Week-Jan. 30, 2011.   Off handedly Mr. Will was expressing a sentiment I encountered in undergrad school of the mid-1970’s.  We Communication Arts majors of the time believed every post-WW II social-political uprising around the world, and those urban riots in the 1960’s U.S., were a consequence of failed expectations borne from an extreme contrast between all those middle class images of American television broadcast throughout the country and exported into world cultures, and the impoverished circumstances of those consuming those images here and abroad.  

The middle class images from cigarette, car and personal care product commercials and shows like Dallas, Mary Tyler Moore and even All in the Family were said to excite the desires of the working classes and the poor for the American Dream.  These folks, the idea went, identified with and aspired to the American middle class life-style, creating and increasing the expectation of eventual acquisition of that life-style.  But, when over time it became ever more impossible for the masses to acquire the American Dream a failure of expectations was created, turning into individual and then social discontent.  And the more intense the discontent, the longer it simmered, the greater the likelihood of uprising until a spark, like a severe rise in the cost of food, or the jailing or execution of one too many dissenters, or a self-immolation coalesced the anger and out to the street the masses would come.  Well, it is a good theory.  And it might have a grain of truth. But, it seems to me rather ethno-and class-centric in that we think the American middle class images are the be all and end all of how life should be lived, and thus we think everyone in our country and around the world thinks, and should think, likewise.  And if we do not life the American middle class way because of powers preventing it from happening, well, then we just have to do something about it, like riot, rebel and even cause a regime change.  But, I have to wonder the degree media images do force discontent and such discontent rage, rebellion and revolution.  I suspect real life, real time experiences are a far more powerful influence.

At the moment I am not about to put my late middle-aged body in front of rows of riot control police, no less columns of National Guard troops with rifles ready.  I do believe in civil disobedience but I've decided to leave such tactics to the young who can far better tolerate the physical abuse than I.  Besides, my real life, real time experiences are not so life threatening to me or to my family's health and well being to radicalize me into action, although it is getting tougher as the price of living keeps rising and the social contract stitched together during the FDR and LBJ administrations is being rolled back by radical libertarians who favor big corporate interests over the common good, but we are not yet anywhere near to a radicalizing situation.  But it may come sooner than we like.

Still, today remains a bastion of plenty and even if a lot of that plenty disappeared, I would not be so inclined to see it as cause for radicalization.  And certainly the televised images of what I do not have and would like to have really have not moved me to take up street protesting.  So, my family has been enjoying blueberries from Chile recently on sale in our local supermarket.  If I can’t get blueberries in January which has been the rule up until recently I definitely will not feel it a cause for me to be on the way to the barricades.  We tried Rachael Ray’s Egg Foo Young a couple of Saturday’s ago, the one we saw her preparing on one of her shows several months ago.  I would certainly miss the oriental vegetables like bean sprouts, bac choi and water chestnuts along with the variety of Chinese noodles if somehow we were prevented from enjoying them, but the inability to secure these types of food commodities is, for me, equally not a cause for going into the streets.  Likewise, that there is absolutely no way we can afford any of the exotics as seen on BBC’s Top Gear like the Ferrari California or the Lamborghini Murcielago, or the Bugatti Veyron, no less my favorite, the Aston-Martin DP9, or the new American entry into the exotic market, the SSC Ultimate Aero, or that when we had to buy a car we settled for a Nisson Sentra instead of the GTR which was featured on a Top Gear episode, creates no cause for me to feel disillusioned, disappointed or dispirited, especially to the degree that I would be on the streets with a placard parodying the Janis Joplin tune:  “Oh State, guarantee me a Mercedes Benz, my fiends all have Porches, I gotta make amends…” , or the libertarian version, “Oh, Corp, won’t chu buy me a Mercedes Benz…” And finally, that we live in a tiny bungalow instead of a palatial house as seen on Homes of the Rich and Famous, and like television programs, really does not force a resentment in me of any degree, no less one which would propel me onto the barricades.  Indeed, while I would like the money to afford the life-styles of the rich and famous, I am okay where we are and hold no resentments for those who are better-off, much better-off, whether I see them on television or in their natural habitats in New York City's exclusive neighborhoods, or in the Hamptons on eastern Long Island, or on the Island's Gold Coast, the North Shore.

But I have to wonder if, along with tens of millions of neighbors, friends and colleagues, my family could no longer afford the staples we have come to rely on to survive, like guaranteed safe bread, rice, beans, potatoes, milk, fish, chicken, eggs, fruit, vegetables, along with clean water and air, as might happen if the radical libertarian agenda becomes the law of the land, transferring the wealth of the nation continuously upward to the top two percent leaving the rest to fend for scraps, then, we just might see uprisings here and I will disregard the fragile state of my aging body and face down the symbols of oppression of the common good, the police and both the National Guard and the U.S. Army.

Indeed, I have to wonder if this radical personal responsibility-small government society comes to pass eliminating or reducing to starvation levels the Social Security upon which my wife and I will be in need in five to eight years when we both stop working, upon which our one hundred percent disabled son relies and will need to depend for the rest of his life, if it eliminates or reduces to death inducing levels the Medicare upon which my 94 year old mother needs to live to be 95 and upon which we will need for life sustaining medical payment when we no longer have job provided medical coverage, if it excludes or reduces to insolvent levels the Medicare Drug benefit my mother needs to sustain life and my son to stay mentally even, and on which we will rely eventually as much because of the health problems created by the government supported toxic American corporate-industrial diet as inherited predispositions, and if it eliminates or drastically reduces accessibility to Medicaid to all those who in spite of working as they are told to do yet still can’t afford life saving medical care, I think you will see me definitely on the barricades, bent over, ill and aged as I might be.

And you bet you will see me on the barricades if the society of wealth hoarders and privilege, backed up by the power of the state, dictate the only shelter my family can afford in our old age with our disabled son is a tarpaper shack or a cardboard box!  Yes, sir, if we revolve to a world like that of the nineteenth century, or that of the 1930’s, then regardless of age and infirmity, I will be in the vanguard of the revolution!

Perhaps it is what is happening in the real world, the living world of daily existence affecting health, sustenance and survival, rather than the world of images which has the more profound affect on bringing people into the streets demanding a restructuring of social, political and economic orders.

The Depression Post: An appreciation for the response

As long as I lived in my boyhood Bay Ridge, Brooklyn home I didn’t have to worry about throwing a party and no one showing up, although I’ve always harbored the fear since a very small child.  Indeed, our basement was one of the first on our block to be “finished” and all my friends loved it so much they wanted to be down there as often as possible.  I was about twelve, if memory serves, when my parents renovated the basement.  Prior it was a dark, cool, musty storage space with a coal fired furnace and a black as night coal bin.  Well, they traded the coal for gas and pipes for bin and set off the new boiler in its own palatial space in the back while creating in front a wood paneled big room complete with sliding door storage shelves, a six foot long bar and several Danish Modern benches and chairs. 

Naturally, the kids on the block with whom I hung used the basement as a kind of neat club-house.  Being a responsible son, I would ask permission for my friends and me to hang out each time they wanted to go there.   And my folks would respond in the affirmative. We thought highly of our masculinity-the crowd I went with was all boys.  However, the fact of the matter was that, to a guy, we were polite, well mannered and respectful.  Still, the junior high age does come with some itches which occasionally required attention.  So, I felt I needed to “play cop” protecting the fine workmanship of the renovators and the stored family property.  On occasion, that duty pressed so hard on me I pleaded with my folks to say “no” when I asked for permission.  Putting the blame on them worked well, as all understood and were appropriately sympathetic to my plight living with parents so cruel.

Well, this blog is the party I am throwing now and I have the great fear that no one will show up.  Yet, I live in the hope that someone, or, in fact many, will come to take notice of the thoughts freed After Great Pain, in the words of Emily Dickenson’s poem.

What has pleased and surprised me has been the response to the post on Depression.  I want to thank all who gave great support and even better advice.  I thought it proper to give a collective response, some of which I have supplied separately.

I agree about finding help for my mother to both give me a break and to provide her the kind of intimate care I, as a male son, cannot give.  My wife and I have started a process looking for a home health aid to come on a regular basis and expect to secure the services of one within the next few weeks.  The Visiting Nurse Service here has begun coming, so at least there is a regular medical person seeing my mother.

Her decline has been rapid.  While she has had trouble walking for the last five years it was never to the point of a wheel chair all the time, just shuffling around with a walker inside and outside the house.  About two years or so ago she was hospitalized for congestive heart failure reducing her mobility more.  In the house she remained able to shuffle back and forth with a walker, but outside she needed the wheel chair.  However, about two months ago the bottom fell out where she just couldn't move without the use of the wheel chair and the kinds of assists I described.  And, what was worse was the dramatic decline into senility.  I mean, she would forget a thing or two, a little more than the usual and on a more than a frequent occasion, but the forgotten thoughts were truly of no consequence.  And then, Bam!, right into this child-like state where being dislocated and dependent has become routine.  Frankly, my wife and I were caught off-guard, ill-prepared to know what to do other than to press me into service. 

I do not need this circumstance to slip into Depression.  Heck, when my wife informed me over thirteen years ago we would be moving from our Brooklyn home where we had been for nearly fifteen years up to the Southern Berkshires because of a really good job offer she accepted, I replied, that that was really great, and then I added, that I could be Depressed anywhere, but the Berkshires are certainly one of the better places for being Depressed.  And that was true on all accounts.  As I said Depression has been a fact of life since as far as I can remember.  When looking back I seem to be able to identify these feelings definitely when I was eleven or twelve, but I have to wonder if they were there earlier.  

Over the years I've gotten help for it but like a good rugged individual American I feel I can conquer it all myself. I was working with a really good therapist up to three weeks ago but had to stop because I could no longer afford it: I had to pay totally out of pocket as he did not accept any insurance.  I had been very reluctant-heck stubbornly obstinate-in accepting I needed medication to lift the mood.  In our culture one is suppose to be able to heal oneself.  I have what one would call the American diet diseases:  hypertension, type 2 diabetes and high cholesterol.  I denied for quite some time that I needed medication to control these disorders as I had the deep abiding American faith I could do it myself without any pharmaceutical assists.  But, then I went to teach in the New York City public high schools which required a physical exam.  The examining physician really laid into me for being very hypertensive telling me that it was only a matter of months before either a heart attack or a stroke put me six feet under.  I resented being treated like a delinquent child, but his dire warning did the job.  I immediately afterwards sought out my doctor, promptly filled the prescriptions and started on the life-time routine.  The psychologist, on the other hand, treated me like an intelligent adult arguing cogently that I should conceptualize the treatment of Depression the same way I think about the physical ailments.  Emotionally, I was ready to hear what he was saying and secured a prescription for an anti-depressant from my primary care doctor, only to be prevented from having it filled by our health insurance company who wanted me to take a different medication.  This kind of hassle in such a tentative mood put me back into a reluctant frame of mind.  Additionally, we are in the middle of changing health insurance companies.  So, here I sit in a kind of limbo until we get all this stuff straightened out.  There is a concept in sales that goes that if a buyer is ready to put money down, you had better have the product right in front of him; otherwise he will walk away from the purchase.  I almost feel that that is happening here.  Indeed, my resolve weakens by the day. 

Now, I do not believe in divine intervention.  But there are times I have to wonder.  I had just fallen into a deep depressive sleep on this past Saturday afternoon when I was jolted awake by the phone next to our bed.  My wife answered on another extension.  She reported that the caller was our local State Assembly District Leader with whom I’ve been working for the last six years.  He had a couple of extra tickets for the evening’s Hearts and Shamrocks Dance-it’s one of the annual fund-raisers for the Queens County St. Patrick’s Day Parade Committee.  He wondered if we wanted to use the tickets as his guests.  Karma was a popular idea during the late 1960’s.  At the time I had no idea what it was so I asked.  I remember whoever it was responding saying something like, Karma is the intellectual and emotional predisposition to perceive genuine opportunity.  It’s like Tom Hanks in Cast Away in that as the contents of the FedEx boxes washed up on shore, he was able to see what he could make from all the flotsam and jetsam coming at him.  Eventually, a large piece of a port-a-john washed up which he saw as the sail he needed to propel himself off the island, his strong Karma allowed him see the opportunity and by taking advantage of what he saw he got off the island.  So, I saw the opportunity to get out of the house, to dance with my wife and to get happy.  And what do you know?  The lever worked, the mood lifted some, at least enough for me to build on it.  Indeed, the District Leader asked me to accompany him to a community town hall tonight featuring our Mayor, another genuine opportunity has presented itself of which I am going to take advantage.  I understand this does not substitute for medication, but at least, I am on the way out of the deep hole.

Again, thanks.  Your responses have been very reassuring.  Additionally, I no longer have to live in fear of throwing this party and no one coming.

The Personal Struggle: Depression

According to the journalist Andrew Sullivan, “a blog, unlike a diary, is instantly public. It transforms this most personal and retrospective of forms [a diary] into a painfully public and immediate one. It combines the confessional genre with the log form and exposes the author in a manner no author has ever been exposed before.”   http://www.thealtantic.com/doc/200811/andrew-sullivan-why-i-blog

Certainly, I wish not to become self-indulgent loading my blog with self-pity and regret on the limitations life has and is placing on me.  But, if I am to give a full account of the pursuit of the dream of opening an alternative school, I am required to let the personal struggle tell itself, along side the professional one.  So, disclosure is important to the story, but I will promise not to create such a melodrama, although done correctly I would think melodrama an excellent marketing device.  But I will worry over marketing at some future time.  This individual post sets the scene upon which I will report and comment from time to time as issues arise.

I have a four day beard which itches as much as the athletes foot I had when a teen-ager.  Looking in the bathroom mirror at the salt and pepper on the face and the severe red blotches underneath I make a vow that now will be the time to clean up, to rid myself of the maddening itch.  I turn on the hot water mixing it with enough cold in the stoppered sink to get the right temperature.  I pick up the soap. But then I feel sick, a wave of sadness crashes over the entire body just as the waves use to do when I was able to swim, and have fun, in the ocean.  I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. I drain the water from the sink and slink off to return to bed, slumber and hiding.

Depression is the way of my life.  Intellectually I’ve known it for decades, but emotionally I have been in deep denial.  I continue convincing myself that as I am a good person, someone of fine character, strong of muscle, thought and opinion, I need no help, either through therapy or medication to overcome the debilitating sadness which prevents movement to accomplish even the smallest of tasks.  And, you know, it is the smallest of personal tasks, like shaving, or brushing ones teeth or changing from sleepwear to street wear or making an American cheese sandwich, which cannot be done.  Of course, the larger things like job hunting, or writing for publication, or participating in community activities go by the board just as easily.  Indeed, going outside the house is impossible when under this tsunami of remorse.

It is interesting to think that as I’ve been told insomnia is a symptom of Depression.  But when I am fully under its spell I sleep upwards of twelve to fourteen hours.  Yes, sleep is one way of hiding from everything which works very well for me.

There are levers I use to work my way out of the deep hole in which Depression puts me.  But, it takes a whole lot of being at an emotional bottom before I get the psychic energy to take steps to work a lever.  The best lever is exercise.  In fact, a little exercise followed almost immediately by a shave and a shower works to temporarily bring me up, sufficiently that I can build on it.  However, now circumstances are conspiring to “feed the beast”. 

My 94 year old mother has turned into a nearly helpless creature.  In her senility she wants to be dependent on me, and my wife, for everything, just about every single life activity including wiping her bottom after going to the bathroom.  She still can feed herself, and does, but we prepare meals and clean up after her.  She only minimally takes care of her personal hygiene: My wife has to bath her.  She needs help getting in and out of bed and into and out of chairs:  It has gotten to the point where increasingly I’ve had to lift her from bed to wheel chair and from wheel chair onto living room chair, from bed to wheel chair and from wheel chair to bed!  She moves about the house in a wheel chair which she refuses to self-propel, although we have rearranged enough household stuff for her to unobstructively move herself about, with the exception of going into the bathroom whose doorway the wheel chair does not fit.  Yes, there is pain in movement and that has driven her to engage in less and less activity:  And you know the saying, the less one does the less one can do.  And she has moved less and less over the years until she can hardly move any muscle group without some assistance and without pain.  Her lower body has completely atrophied and her upper is not that far behind.  I understand the desire to avoid pain which almost all movement presents, but her lower body debilitation, which precipitated all the rest, could have been greatly lessened thirty years ago with knee replacements.  But, she refused to do anything to remedy her increasingly arthritic knees and now she and we are paying the price.  Mentally she has regressed into a child-like state where she either balks or squawks about helping herself in areas where she remains physically capable.

Depression runs in the family.  My father was authentically Depressed and coped with it with prescription drugs and alcohol abuse.  My father died at age 57 refusing to acknowledge his need for mental or physical health services. 

My mother like so many dutiful wives and mothers kept her Depression to herself and with all the contradictions in her relationship with my father seems to me to have kept an even-keel.  Still, with the onset of the infirmity of arthritis her coping broke and the Depression asserted itself big time.  She really knew the destructive force of Depression as her mother, another authentic Depressive, essentially committed suicide by starving herself to death when recovering from a broken hip.  Nonetheless, it seems to me the illness finally took over and my mother, in her own way, has been dieing since.  Yet, her instinct for life and her fear of being like her mother has been keeping her from taking her mother’s route.  

The price to me of my mother’s infirmity causing Depression is substantial.  My world has shrunk to the walls of my house as I cannot go beyond them since I am her main care-giver and need to attend her at whatever time she is in need of it!  This is a 24/7 job with which my wife is helping when she is at home in the weekday evenings and on the weekends.  Still, all those hopes and dreams I’ve been having, all the work on the school and my political/legislative advocacy over the years (of which I will tell in subsequent blogs) are being put in jeopardy, on hold or potentially being forsaken, as I slide deeper and deeper into my own Depression.

I know I practice a range of psychological avoidances with my “projects”, but they, especially the school and the politics, have been the way by which I confirm my self-worth to myself.  (I intellectually understand a reframing can transpose my intimate care-giving into a self-worth confirmation but I am finding that just as impossible as I’ve found it over the years when a house-husband between employment:  I cannot see any of this as demonstrating my intellect and, it seems, there is a huge need for me to confirm myself as being learnedly intelligent.)

Indeed, I’m having trouble continuing to work on the school and thus my self-worth is being challenged. There are ways by which to continue working.  The key is in setting up my sleep routine which would create evenings and weekends relatively free for whatever activities required.  This is becoming difficult in that my mother wakes up once, sometimes two or three times during the night to go to the bathroom.  And that means I must awake and get her out of bed to the bathroom and back from the bathroom and into bed.  She is spending more and more time in the bathroom, so I can be up for an hour and a half each time!  This does not lend itself to a comfortable, or consistent, sleep period, nor to a suitable routine. 

Working when I can, postponing or forsaking my the school project for the duration of my mother’s remaining days requires both a reframing of what constitutes a self-validation of worth and a reforming of schedule to get me out of the house and back into the larger community “doing the politics” and the library research in the evenings and on weekends.  But I have to have both the physical and psychic energy to reframe and to create the routine and then to work what I’ve created.  Depression and much interrupted sleep have sapped those energies for now. 

My Democratic Education School: A Journal's Beginning

When you’re a hammer, the popular quip goes, everything looks like a nail.  Well, I am an academic, although subscribing to some radical learning philosophies, Democratic Education among them.  So, I do tend to see the world through an alternative education pair of funky sunglasses.  In fact, this Democratic Education, the likes practiced in Summerhill, in England, Sudbury Valley and the far more recent Brooklyn and Manhattan Free Schools here in the U.S., are worth replicating throughout many neighborhoods.  Over the coming year, or years-gee I hope not too many years-I will be commenting on and recording my attempts to broaden Democratic Education here in New York City with a “DemEd” concept which has the working title of “Rockaway College”. 

When going for my Ph.D. in Media Ecology at New York University, as well as going for my Wood Badge in Boy Scouts, I had to keep a daily journal.  The contents of which, we were told, should include observations on the processes fulfilling our obligation for the dissertation and for the completion of our Ticket project as well as the details of the process itself, along with comments on the progress of our own personal growth in the knowledge of the subject undertaken.  So, I remember writing, unfortunately rather frequently, in my Doctoral journal, items such as:  “10 am…in Bobst…looking for material on human memory…finding suitable references in catalogue but when going to the shelves the titles were missing…How can I do my literature review if the majority of the time the library just does not have the literature for me to review!”  Well, there just might be some complaints like that in the blog posts to come.  But I will try to keep them to a minimum and let my experiences spark comment on deeper aspects of the enterprise, letting the inquiry at hand be a stepping stone to another level of questioning.

To wit, the following:

Can we say that in the era of facebook, email and blogs, that ownership of our thoughts and expressions are over?  If we broadcast what we think, feel and do through social media or through other forms of web-based media do we not forsake ownership of the content?  I mean, can the author now collect the product of reflection into a book for publishing, for commercial circulation?  Or is that no longer open to those who are money poor but word, and insight, rich?  Are we not fooled into a bargain which enriches the e-platform constructors but gives us no compensation?  Do we not fall for the narcisstic illusion of seeing our presence within the trend of our time?  Do we too easily surrender ourselves...

The impacts of the answers to these questions for such as myself, a poor, itinerant academic with a big dream, a larger ambition and an even larger hole in his personal finances, are not inconsequential as in other epochs a journal of the considerations for establishing an alternative school and the experiences in trying to do so would form the foundation of a publishable work.  The blog posts still might be able to be collected into some form of book which someone would find suitable to place into a consumable commercial object.  But, if the ideas, thoughts and experiences are already “published” it is unclear to me that it can be.  However, in this age of “letting it all hang out”, I guess even that will be reported to the blogosphere when it becomes appropriate.

One last thing, reader, not each and every post will be so absorbed by this adventure.  No, there will be room enough for me to comment on other things which are worthy of your time.