tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81913061832096043452024-02-24T03:59:07.831-06:00Rhythms from The Offbeat DrummerMusings, diatribes and dialogues from one of Chicago's quirkiest semi-professional drummers/arrangers/models. This and that and rat-a-tat-tat.The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.comBlogger635125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-49153396055635417432022-03-30T21:08:00.003-05:002022-03-30T21:08:48.539-05:00World Bipolar Day, 2022<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 18.75px; white-space: pre-wrap;">World Bipolar Day 2022: “The deeper your scars, the more room there is to fill them up with love. Don't hate your scars, appreciate their depth." </span></p><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18.75px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It's been 13 years now since I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder after decades of psychiatrists, psychologists, PCP's, bartenders, spouses, families, psych wards, and dozens of other people who just "said I was depressed." </div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18.75px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Mental illness packs a harsh reaction among anybody. As an expert cog in the public health system myself, bipolar on your rap sheet stops people in their tracks. “She has a history of chronic anemia…oh and SHE IS BIPOLAR.” “Ooooh…” </div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18.75px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">OK..yes, but then why the high high highs and low low lows? I KNEW something was gravely wrong--it was just getting someone to actually hear me out. I might not have taken so many narcotics or too much to drink if my illness wasn't met with such vitriol and shaming. I hated my first outpatient shrink, but he hit the nail on the head after a few months. </div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18.75px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Can I just say that being on psychotropic medications, and knowing I have to take these medications for the rest of my life sucks? </div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18.75px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It's very interesting to note that the vast majority of people with bipolar disorder (I or 2) actually wouldn't trade our lives or press a button and turn off the illness. We are different. We are fascinating & smart & brave. </div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18.75px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I love what I HATE is happening to me most. Now, coming to terms with the shock to the system and trying to suss out if there's a healthy outlet can be really difficult, considering. In lieu of carrying around an immensely heavy bag of burning hot coals, while walking on black ice, hogtied, God blessed, I have been gifted as a drummer & a writer. </div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18.75px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">My moods flow from bad to better to stable. And the reverse. And then again. And again. I am not crazy. I am not bipolar. I have bipolar disorder.</div></div>The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-82556450955595570282019-04-23T16:58:00.000-05:002019-04-23T16:58:56.916-05:00Finders Keepers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Are Facebook memories sometimes better left in the mind's own memory bank, or do we need a nudge once in a while? Is the nudge a healthy idea? Remains to be seen. This was just a note I wrote after a therapy session (and I had to stretch to figure out WHICH therapist this might have been, but I nailed her down to the idiot at (now closed) Maine Center, between 2012-2014: </div>
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"Friday, I'm arguing with my counselor, telling her I didn't think cognitive behavioral therapy would be effective in tackling and resolving my issues at present, and she wants to try dialectical behavioral therapy, which I naturally poo poo, because it's not like I'm repudiating cooperation in session, I mean, what the fuck? Plus, there's the whole "I'm-going-to-get-in-trouble-<wbr></wbr>again-because-we-touch-on-<wbr></wbr>Buddhism" factor, which makes me feel guilty at church. (Guilty Protestants aren't as guilty as guilty Catholics, inasmuch as at least we still sleep around.)</div>
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She had arrived at the session 15 minutes late, at 9:15. I'd been waiting since 9:00. Common courtesy, at least as I'm being trained, is to grant the client the duration of the 50-60 min session regardless if it fucks up the rest of the therapist's schedule because arriving late was her own damn fault. What's worse? SHE had clinical paperwork to do about me. As I'm also being trained, the counselor does the paperwork either before or after the session, not WHILE the client is sitting there, thumb-twiddling, sipping water and reminding her to put her letterhead in the printer side-up this time, because she's a little computer-challenged. </div>
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After the DBT smashup, I decided I want to engage the next several sessions in more existential discourse. That's when SHE poo pooed & crabbed that it was too intellectual and off-path for the decision makers within Medicaid to approve as a treatment plan, and asked me what life & death and the here & now had to do with anything related to my stressors. (It seemed too snippy to say, "I'm trying, right now, sitting here, to not die.") I was promptly shooed out at 10:00 am, her clinical paperwork still incomplete, after she twiddled through her calendar in order to make my next appointment, which isn't until the day after I turn 41 years old, which brings the whole thing back to existentialism, which probably confused her further.</div>
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Had I known TOC was planning on coming to me via text to pout about how everyone at work hates him, and achieve reassurance that I didn't hate him on Friday, I would've made a bigger deal in the therapeutic plan under "work on personal relationships," which ended up taking a back seat to "keep criminal record clean." He's preening his peacock feathers over a gushy missive I wrote, claiming to be undeserving. Sneaked into some overt video clips he watched at my suggestion (which he "enjoyed," when their purpose was to "tear his heart out and shove it down his throat," were some subliminally included clips from "Annie Hall." </div>
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Recalling in hindsight that we share a huge love for all things Woody Allen, he happened upon a clip in which Allen's character pouted a bit more fondly that he and Annie had broken up. Utterly unplanned by me, the universe in the here and now, as fragile as humanity can crinkle, planted Indelible Imprint #5,684 in TOC's mind that will remind me of me, which is always a good thing."</div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-4162165329787820592016-04-03T22:37:00.002-05:002016-04-03T22:37:51.382-05:00Free-Writing Thought Exercises From the Mid-90's. Yeah, Before I Was Diagnosed as Clinically Insane & Aced My Writing Major<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Free-Writing Exercise</div>
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Based on "Intelligence Test" by Alberta Turner</div>
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By: Andrea Miklasz, 1993</div>
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Preface, 2016</div>
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In my undergraduate program at Knox College in English-Writing, we'd do mind-sparking exercises upon which to build lines/phrases just from our minds (no books allowed, e.g. thesaurus). I came upon this scrappy paper leftover of thought whilst cleaning my room, looking for a tax return statement. Poems were supposed to come out of these random-mind-statements or visualizations.There is other free-writing in the folder I found, and some of it did generate very good poetry. But this batch--come to your own conclusions. </div>
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Which begs the question...Obviously, I was clinically insane in college--why'd it take until my 30's for someone to freakin' diagnose me in a mental hospital? To preempt your question, no...I was not on any drugs when I wrote this stuff, street or Rx'd. Read these, enjoy, but if you steal any of them, I'll have you hunted down by a very hungry grizzly bear (read: my brutish son).</div>
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Ideas from 1993:</div>
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1. Catching butterflies on my tongue</div>
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2. Rub my hair with wet oatmeal</div>
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3. Advise a balloon</div>
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4. Sell a hen a lottery ticket</div>
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5. If I could lay an egg!</div>
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6. Eat pasta with an ax</div>
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7. Small silver bells in a giant berry basket</div>
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8. Eating bullets</div>
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9. Breathe milk</div>
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10. Molesting screwdriver</div>
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11. If I shrank to the size of a pea, I'd eat myself.</div>
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12. If I had a tail I'd use it as a (paper ripped, line unfinished, God only knows)</div>
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13. I offer him his money back if he can tell me what my first name is</div>
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14. His hands are bulky, wrinkled as his memory</div>
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15. Crank bugs</div>
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16. And Harry slid under the table</div>
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17. And a table of woe</div>
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18. Playing Vatican Roulette </div>
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19. With me as the booby prize</div>
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20. Stop scratching them</div>
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Untitled</div>
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Wooden monkey doll</div>
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Reflection in the lamp</div>
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Fishless fishbowl hammer sticking out of it</div>
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Skeleton is someone's wife waiting for him</div>
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A card game</div>
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The window sill needs paint</div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-22982422885268749742015-11-09T22:12:00.001-06:002015-11-09T22:12:09.639-06:00Lou Reed - "PERFECT DAY" - Music Video Directed by Luke Bechtel<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ZAQXQNOBPUo" width="480"></iframe>The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-46895702540015999062015-05-04T21:44:00.002-05:002015-05-04T21:44:41.525-05:00Very Quickly: My Existential Crisis over The Colbeard Is Over!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Montclair, NJ Film Festival, May 1-10, 2015, with Richard (hubba hubba) Gere!<br />
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I know, I know. I haven't written a proper blog in 2 months. Like Stephen, I was in hibernation. While I did not grow the gray bush of mush on my face as my beloved favorite comedian did, I just didn't feel the love to write much recently. Interesting, given I've had nothing but down time for the last 2 months myself. I'm still on the fence about his longer hair...it's kind of sexy. Unlike Colbert, I'm getting a haircut tomorrow. After all, both of our birthdays are coming up in the next few days.<br />
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But this had to go:<br />
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Mr. Colbert, with all due respect, thank you on behalf of all of us who love you unconditionally, as long as you do not don this look ever again. How freeing it must have felt! Next time, see Steve Carrell. His beard is BOSS.<br />
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Love!</div>
The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-87040129399709545772015-03-01T13:00:00.002-06:002019-08-05T19:36:54.481-05:00Off the Rails for No Reason Whatsoever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I, at least, have a totally clear conscience. One of my friends had a psychotic snap and decided to take it all out on me. She pointed out a few instances where I offended her, so I apologized and corrected those mistakes. She didn't accept my apology and persisted in antagonizing me even more, hitting my most sensitive and vulnerable spots with fury and nastiness. I must have apologized like 13 times, kept my cool, asked her if there was something wrong which I could help her with, and she just kept kicking me in the crotch.<br />
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She childishly unfriended and blocked my entire family and Meg from her Facebook. My son's (at least I have him, and he and Meg are my voices of reason...) response to all of this is essentially everyone else's: "So what? She'll come around when she's sane again." None of us are particularly worried about it. (Editor's Note: She did come back. And she did the same exact thing 2 years later. She verbatim sent the vitriol text messages one after another, cut and pasted or whatever, the same crap. Everyone was cut off. The same childish nonsense from a woman in her 50's.)<br />
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People insult me all the time, question my abilities and activities and yes, it hurts my feelings, which I told this friend of mine. She thinks I'm "pathetic." She thinks I'm not an intellectual or an artist, same as my son. She implied that she only asks me questions about things which interest me out of politeness, not because she's actually interested in learning something new. I always enjoyed learning from her and valued her opinions and ideas. Last week, we had a long, very enjoyable phone conversation, which gave no indication that something was wrong with her emotionally.<br />
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When she loses an argument, she retreats by running away. She's unfriended friends of mine who've disagreed with her on points, claiming they're stupid and she's not. She is incapable of entering into an intelligent argument or discourse without pulling out her "I know more than you do" card. (PS, that's seldom true.)<br />
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My energy is better spent doing things with people who don't lie to me when they say they love me unconditionally, completing my school work and enriching relationships with promise.<br />
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It was a difficult week. She should've known that looking at my Facebook. I lost a first cousin and it was a very emotional time for my family. (Editor's Note: My cousin died from thrombocytosis, a complicated autoimmune hematological blood disorder, which caused her body to produce too many platelets. My Gram had thrombocytopenia, the opposite blood disorder, where the body produces too few platelets. Another cousin was diagnosed with lupus. All of us have hypothyroid problems. Another cousin in the last year or so with lymphoma. I looked in the mirror one afternoon and saw giant welts which are urticarial vasculitis. That was after multiple sclerosis came into the picture. Point being, I think, is that a frightening number of people down the lines on my mom's side have autoimmune disorders.)<br />
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Not only did she not offer condolences, but she ignored it altogether. She was offended at my last blog about helping depressive bipolar as if I was saying I had the "the most horrible disease on the planet." I never said that. This person has Crohn's Disease. I understand that she's very ill. It wasn't a competition of who has the worst illness. The blog wasn't directed at her, and, in fact, there's a point in that blog about other people not making it about themselves, which she obviously overlooked.<br />
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She may come to her senses eventually, but I'll follow Luke's advice. He knows she's done crap like this before. Possibly one of the cruelest things you can do to a person is kicking them when they're down. And she did. And I, at least, forgive HER for that, because she's obviously very sick.<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-3346560391093333272015-02-21T12:52:00.003-06:002015-02-21T12:52:22.760-06:00How To Help Someone With Bipolar Disorder Who's In a Depressive Episode<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Understandably, friends and family feverishly worry about a loved one who is manic/depressive and in a depressive episode. There are several tips and suggestions to help you adapt to that person's depression, which is just as hard on loved ones as it is on the bipolar patient.<br />
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From my experience, here are a few:<br />
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1. Please, whatever you do, do not ask us why we're depressed. While there may be triggers which precipitate a depressive episode, most of the time, we don't know why this feeling is looming over us. Ignorant questions irritate us further.<br />
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2. Try not to veil understanding of how we are feeling unless you're educated on bipolar disorder, because there's no possible way you could comprehend how we feel unless you've experienced it. It's a very dark place, and one we wish no one else would have to visit. Don't say, "Everyone gets depressed," because you have no idea how this type of depression presents itself.<br />
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3. Trust that the mood will pass in time. Please don't ask us when. We're just as anxious to feel normal as you are for us to feel normal, though we don't know what "normal' is. We only know "stable," and for those of us who "rapid cycle," stability doesn't last very long before we find ourselves either manic or depressed again.<br />
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4. Suggestions such as "Go out and get some fresh air and you'll feel better" don't work. Don't say, "Go exercise, go for a walk," because literally, we can barely move. We don't really feel like doing anything. Friends asking us to go out or do something helps a lot, so if you have free time, see if you can get us out of the house for a while, even if it's just to talk. Don't think your problems or feelings are any less important to us than our own, but we may have trouble iterating it. Just because we are wrapped up in negative thoughts doesn't mean we don't or can't offer constructive, happy thoughts to others. We try our best not to be selfish, but we have to be in order to take care of ourselves. Understand that most days, we need to sleep. A lot. If we're in bed until 2pm, or take a nap, don't chastise us as being "lazy." It is a struggle to get up and function.<br />
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5. Most of us mask our symptoms in order TO function and fit into regular lives. We're all good actors. Inevitably, we crash, though. Sometimes, we cry. Sometimes we get angry. Sometimes, we just want to go back to bed. If we cry, we often do it in solitude so as not to draw attention to ourselves or be pestered with questions.<br />
<br />
6. Hug us if we ask you to. There's a power of the human touch which alleviates negative emotions and uncomfortable physical sensations, and it releases seratonin into our brains, which we need. If we're at our lowest and you still love us, let us know that. We already feel unlovable. (A lot of that has to do with the amount of criticism we receive BECAUSE we're depressed.) We want to be loved and cared about. We are still good friends and loved ones.<br />
<br />
7. We take a lot of medication in order to survive. Please don't criticize our medications, how often we take them, what we take, or why. Don't assume "less is more," because that's not your call. It's between the patient and the psychiatrist. Don't wish we could be free of medications, because that's the quickest way for us to kill ourselves.<br />
<br />
8. Most of us don't want to die, but in the depressed moments, sometimes we wish we could. It is not a character flaw or a reflection of how we feel about other people. If we're in serious suicidal danger, take us to the hospital. If we just feel hopeless and pointless as individuals, kind of leave us alone, unless you have positive reinforcement to offer.<br />
<br />
9. Help us get the right emotional support and therapy we need. It's just as important as the medications.<br />
<br />
10. Make us laugh. A good belly laugh about something does wonders.<br />
<br />
11. Empathy? Yes. Sympathy? No.<br />
<br />
12. We'll talk when we're ready to talk. Kind of like wearing a hotel's "Do not disturb" sign around one's neck, it's not an insulting slight against you if we just don't feel like socializing.<br />
<br />
13. Please don't tell all your friends and other family members that your loved one is depressed. This isn't a gossip column.<br />
<br />
13, Give us consideration that it takes an incredible amount of energy to stay on-task. As is same with mania, our brains are all over the place and it's close to impossible to start a task in depression or finish 18 tasks in mania. It's frustrating to not have the energy or interest to get things done that need to be done. We may only leave the house if we absolutely need to, and that has to be okay.<br />
<br />
14. It doesn't really help when you tell us, "Quit crabbing and feeling sorry for yourself. Other people have things harder than you do. Count your blessings." We already know this. We don't feel sorry for ourselves. We don't want pity, nor do we pity ourselves. Yes, it sucks. Yes, it's aggravating. We're doing the best we can.<br />
<br />
15. One of the WORST things you can say to us is "How did you get bipolar disorder? What happened to make you this way?" That's a grave insult. We don't ask you how you got cancer, or diabetes, or that ugly mole on your neck. Bipolar disorder is not a transmittable disease. You won't catch it from us. It's an incurable brain disease. The latter sticks in our minds and adds to our hopelessness that things will never get better.<br />
<br />
16. Your agendas and priorities for us will not likely match our own agendas for us. Take that into consideration before placing demands on us we cannot accomplish. We're neither misbehaving nor defying others' wishes.<br />
<br />
17. We can love you and hate you at the same time.<br />
<br />
18. If we have children, we are terrified that they'll develop bipolar disorder or other mood disorders as they grow. We watch them like hawks. Sometimes, they are not only the ones who love us the most unconditionally, but also our best barometers of our own moods, especially if we are very close to them. They understand us, why can't you? Taking care of our children is more important to us than taking care of ourselves. We'll deal with ourselves after tending to the needs of our children to the best of our abilities. <br />
<br />
19. Our tempers are short. Don't take it personally.<br />
<br />
20. We may not shower, eat, or get out of our pajamas for a few days. Deal with it.<br />
<br />
21. You getting depressed because we're depressed compounds our depression and makes us feel like everything's our fault. You can't change our brain chemistry, so please just accept us for who we are in the moments we're in.<br />
<br />
22. It's not you, it's us. Don't make it all about you.<br />
<br />
23. Encourage us when we DO get something accomplished. It took a lot of energy and determination.<br />
<br />
24. As has been said before, bipolar disorder is not an excuse. It is an explanation.<br />
<br />
25. Perhaps most of all, just love us, even though we're biochemically flawed. We miss "us" as much as you do. We'll get better. Right now, we're sad. It just takes time.<br />
<br />
That's the tip of the iceberg and are all truisms for people with clinical depression as well. While I'm speaking from a bipolar point of view, Be kind, be patient, be available. Don't be a jerk over something we can't control. There are a dozen other things I should be working on at the moment, but this seemed more important to put out in the open, because my depression is interfering with my functioning, and this took me two days to compose, when normally, I can rattle stuff like this off in half an hour. Ideally, someone will find this list helpful and honest.<br />
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<br /></div>
The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-29059047445307021832015-02-16T22:57:00.000-06:002019-08-04T15:23:26.565-05:00I jumped.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was incredibly busy doing....I don't remember what....that I didn't fall apart and grieve on the anniversary of my father's death, 31 years ago on February 2nd. I didn't cry, as I normally do. That's not to say the wound isn't still as fresh as it was in 1984.<br />
<br />
Lately, I've been going through a period of deep depression, which is impacting my school work, my social and personal functioning. I'm disinterested in anything except waking up in the morning and surviving each day. And that cycle repeats itself. I'm tired. I'm tired of having to dole out dozens of pills in cups every day to take 3 times a day, just to stay out of a mental hospital. I'm tired of being behind in my work and being unable to concentrate. I'm tired of being in my bedroom, feeling lonely and having too much time alone with my brain.<br />
<br />
Somehow, I manage to plug along, help other people, exhaust myself with school, and raise a child, when inside, I'm an absolute wreck who doesn't allow herself the breathing room to glue herself back together.<br />
<br />
Something really triggered me today. My mother asked me, as I was talking about school, how much longer I'll be in graduate school. Truth is, I don't know. There are a number of variables which haven't been figured out yet. She asked me what my point was, what my goal was in all of this. Instead of unconditional positive regard for the hard work I'm doing, I'm perpetually questioned about my courses, my school and what the hell I'm doing with my life, when those are questions I can't even answer right now.<br />
<br />
My depression tells me I have no goal, other than to stay alive. I got a really reassuring email from Meg tonight about how others view me versus how I view myself, which I really appreciated. Part of my personality is to hide or disregard my own personal crumbling apart when it comes to being there for the people I do love, and I told Meg that my facade of strength is difficult to keep up. I'd rather help other people heal and be well and feel loved, and worry about putting my shattered life back together later, on my own. The hard fact is that statistics aren't really good for the mentally ill. Or the chronically ill. We just want out. If left untreated, my chances of suicide are huge, which is why I stick to that giant cocktail of pills every day like clockwork, and even then, some days it's a struggle not to cross into the oncoming lanes of traffic.<br />
<br />
I don't know if I want to counsel, or teach, or write. It's difficult to plan a future, in which I want to be successful, when I'm viewed by so many as a permanent liability on this planet. My greatest enjoyment comes from writing--not research papers, not APA-styled reflections or client paperwork, but utilizing the creative, vibrant side of my brain still capable of penning these words.<br />
<br />
Luke probably understands my mood fluctuations better than anyone else, because he's partied to them the closest, even closer than that of my mother, and he's certainly more empathetic and understanding. I have few years left with him with me before he goes off to explore and learn about the world on his own and will need me less and less. As a result of paying close attention to me, he doesn't have to ask if I'm depressed, stable or manic. Moreover, he doesn't ask WHY. He knows why and doesn't judge me because of any of it. None of my close friends do, either. Society might, school might, my mother might, but never those who can gauge my emotions and allow me the breathing space to talk about them if I want or need to, or if I just need to go to sleep for the entire day.<br />
<br />
Getting back to my father, I told Meg I needed my dad and regaled the following anecdote;<br />
<br />
When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I was at the local public pool, and my dad was watching my brother and I from the other side of the fence because he was smoking and they didn't allow that in the pool area. We were by the diving boards and the 12' deep pool. I wanted so badly to climb to the top and just jump into the deep pool (I couldn't dive) but every time I climbed up, I chickened out and climbed back down. I ran to my dad by the fence and said, "I can't do it. I'm too scared." "Yes, you can!" he said, and must have said it a dozen times. He promised he would watch me. It did help me was an advanced paramedic/firefighter then!<br />
<br />
I nervously climbed up one more time, amid the annoyed other kids who thought I'd chicken out again, didn't run, and just stood at the edge of the diving platform and jumped down into the 12' of water. I knew how to swim and while it was a deep plunge, I floated back up. As soon as I got out of the pool, I ran over to my dad, who was ecstatic. "Daddy, did you see me? I did it!" I said. He was so proud of me and I was so proud of myself that I wanted to do it again, though I can't remember if I did or not.<br />
<br />
Point being, it doesn't matter if you're 9 or 42. We all need those shots in the arm of courage and support which allow us to jump into the water, casting our trembling fears aside. I try to give those shots to the people I love, even if I don't receive them back in kind. I have no doubt that if my dad was still alive, he'd be cheering me on to this day, not constantly questioning my day-to-day activities.<br />
<br />
If I can't predict my moods over the course of a week, how am I supposed to figure out my graduation plan or career path with any clarity? Meg told me if my goal is to live, then live. What's difficult is that the quality of life I might lead is annoyingly unpredictable. I told Meg I would like to have hopes and dreams again, and things to look forward to, but I don't see them right now. Logically, I know this depression will pass, like it always does, though it remains latent in my brain and can re-emerge at any time (usually the most inopportune).<br />
<br />
Until I can look in my own mirror and see myself as awesomely as Meg or my other friends or Luke see me, I will have to rely on their words and feelings to remind me. For that love, I am deeply grateful.<br />
<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-38734472898032224042015-02-06T21:10:00.001-06:002019-08-05T22:50:28.001-05:00I Was Raped and I'm Not Ashamed.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b>PTSD, 2015: </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Delegate Brian Kurcaba (R-WV) was
quoted by multiple news sources today as having said, "Obviously, rape is
awful. [But] What is beautiful is the child who could come from this."
This is on the heels of West Virginia GOP leaders attempting to revive and repeal
a woman's right to choose an abortion in cases of rape or incest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
As the result of these articles,
which I posted to Twitter, I angrily replied that perhaps Kurcaba's parents
should've aborted him, (Because what a stupid, insensitive asshole this guy
is!) I have been besieged with violently angry Tweets from conservative
religious extremists who are intent on lambasting my character, my beliefs, and
my choices. These individuals maintain that I only read the headline and not
the article, which is untrue. I read the article from several different news
sources. In brief, I was called a "knee-jerk liberal" who "hates
kids and wants to kill them," and a "baby killer," among other
sickening insults, such as "It's not raping if you're willing."<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I responded to each of the hateful
Tweets by attempting to redirect their anger into compassion by telling them
that I was a repeated survivor of a violent rape. It's impossible, in 140
characters, to tell my story as to why I would have an impassioned retort towards
Kurcaba's statement. I said what I could in a Twitter-span and promptly blocked
those users who came after me. They're still coming after me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>I parted company with the man
who raped me this day, August 5, 2010, </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b>This updated entry, August 5,
2019:</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>"You're lucky I love you,
because who else would, given everything that's wrong with you?" I was
told.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Already having been assaulted by my
boyfriend, and him doing a massive amount of bullshit no woman should allow
into any kind of romantic relationship, I told him I "wouldn't know a
healthy relationship if it bit me in the ass," he told me, "This is.
This is normal. This is healthy. This is a healthy relationship." Well,
ok. Then thank heavens I told more than one of my physicians on record to add
that health to my chart, even though I didn't want to pursue his arrest at the
time. It was too much to bear. I know my doctors would realistically secure me
safely, and he would get carted to prison, at least for some time. Turns out,
there is still time in 2019, just getting in, to have him questioned and then
some...but I told them, "He has money and he has power. I have
nothing." But I would have. I just didn't ask. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
We were together for a total of
about 3 years. (He has since remarried the woman he began seeing when I was
making my final exit. He hates children. He didn't want to have the first
daughter he had with his first wife. He told me that Leslie "tricked
him" into having a baby when they'd "agreed" not to have
children. Now he's adopted the young daughter of his current wife? Ok. If that
puts food on the table and satisfies her with enough money to not have to get
on hand and knee to clean his home for $200 a month like I did. I was never
asked kindly or lovingly if I wouldn't mind if I had the day off, to clean the
house and he would help me out with a few monthly bills. Poking at my
nationality and the stereotype of what clean-freaks we are...and how many women
clean houses...he would say "Can the Polish cleaning lady come
on...day...?" He has lost so many jobs in the last decade alone in
Chicago, no wonder he set up camp with the girlfriend, who owned her own house
in the northwest suburbs.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Still, it's difficult for a 120 lb
woman to fight against a 300 lb man holding her down, forcing sexual intercourse
(oral, vaginal and anal) upon her, penetrating her with kitchen cleaning
brushes, and urinating on her. All of this happened to me during our
relationship. The chokehold had to be the most frightening of the specific
times my life was actually flashing before my eyes and ready to meet my maker.
One hand held the back of my head; the other, monstrously larger than my tiny
neck, I was honestly seeing stars when I heard him say, <b>"I could
kill you right now and no one would ever know..." </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I'm not exaggerating.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I was emotionally and verbally
abused as well, obviously. I tolerated infidelity he was pulling with a
19-year-old French college student (so he said she was). He was so stupid even
changing his iPhone lock code almost every day. Like I wasn't looking over
side-eyed at it. The texts between them sickened me. He thought that the child
was his soulmate. He asked "Taylor Bounds" (the French? girl) to
dress up like a little girl and send him pictures. I found pictures on his
desktop computer of this young blond teenager with her hair in pigtails and
very red rouge. She was holding a stuffed animal with another girl in the photo
doing the same. That was just over a few months from being child pornography.
The texts made me sick. One, in particular, he and I were out to dinner at a
nice trattoria near me in Chicago...and he said he was going to go outside for
a few minutes and have his nightly condescending phone call to his unwanted
bio-daughter. ("Quarantine is a fancy word for staying alone so you don't
get anyone else sick.") Our children were both 2000 babies. Except my son
is really intelligent and already knew what the f'ing word meant when he was 9
or so. And I wanted my son. I was blessed beyond measure. My son never liked my
boyfriend. He didn't think he was a good man. My son has always had a very good
barometer when it comes to my dating. Say what you will. Anyway, regarding the
child porn girl-she texted him laughing "You're out to dinner with HER but
you're texting ME." <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
That was as much as I could piece
together spying around, while I was continually criminally sexually assaulted.
The healthy part of the relationship ended long before that.
"Healthy" when it came to my boyfriend was quizzical after I found a
lengthy lawsuit in which he was named a defendant and listed 17 counts against
him personally of sexual harassment while he was at the job he briefly held at
a casino in Kansas City, towards a subordinate female co-worker. It was a civil
matter by the time of the lawsuit, but as I read each count against him, I
could imagine each one and verify in my mind that he was guilty. (The lawsuit
was settled for an undisclosed amount of money.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The question on everyone's mind is
always, "Why didn't you just leave him?" That answer is impossible if
one hasn't been in such a situation. "Why didn't you report him to the
police?" Because knowing his neck choke-hold, he would've killed me. And
if anyone could call into question was I being "raped" or not...Also,
he was a very high-profile business executive in Chicago who had a good chunk
of dough. I was a perfect target for this relationship. I am a struggling
single mother who would get crushed in court. I didn't even have enough money
to GET divorced. I finally did leave him, but it took a long time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Before I left my ex-boyfriend, I
did tell my ex-husband that this man had slapped me across the face more than
once. My husband was a very even-tempered man, but even this, he knew was
messed up. My psychotherapist diagnosed me with PTSD and severe anxiety
disorder. I was literally petrified of men being near me or touching me (even a
hug), except for a very select few with whom I was still vaguely comfortable.
Certainly, I was in no realm of shape to be intimate with a man, and haven't
been in a sexual relationship since I went through that experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Fortunately, after I had my only
son, I experienced secondary infertility, so it was literally impossible for me
to get pregnant. Still, I am vehemently pro-choice and believe it is solely my
decision, not the government's, not my church's, not my family's, not my
doctor's as to whether or not HAD I gotten pregnant as a result of these rapes
if I were to choose to have an abortion. There's a difference in being
pro-choice and pro-abortion. I'm not pro-abortion. God doesn't get to decide
this one. I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
My personal opinion is that there
is nothing "beautiful" about being governmentally forced to carry a
pregnancy and have a child as the result of rape or in the cases of incest.
It's unthinkably horrible. To have a baby you resent with a man you detest, who
should be in jail, does not make for a happy family situation. I wouldn't put
myself or an innocent child through life like that. "Andrea hates
kids." What bollocks. I love my son with every shred of my being.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I'm not a "baby killer"
or a "fetus murderer." I didn't have a freakin' abortion! All I said
was that if I was placed in that awful situation, I probably would have had
one. Most of the people I know, never mind a few dozen complete Twitter
strangers, do not know the extent of my medical and mental health issues with
medications and disorders which need to be managed, which would endanger and
possibly terminate the gestation of a zygote or fetus without me even having to
go through an abortion. Call me selfish, but I would put my own life and well-being
ahead of an unwanted zygote's. I already have a child to raise, who was planned
and wanted and was a blessing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Am I a liberal? Oh, most
definitely. A bleeding-heart liberal. I'm also a practicing leftist Christian.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Here's an idea! Let's HAVE all the
rape/incest babies, gather them together, and have the GOP raise them during
sessions of Congress. You know, diaper bags with their respective state seals
embroidered on them. More crying and crabbing than Congress s on their own.
Having all of this "beauty" around the GOP in the form of rape and
incest babies would cause the Capitol to glow in rainbows of miracles sent by
the Good Lord, who, of course, founded our great country.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Oh! Update! I've just been called
bigoted, gullible and someone wished my parents had aborted me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Thanks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Wait! I have an even better idea
than Congressional babysitting. Why don't you all spread your legs while you're
held down, have a kitchen scrub brush with a long handle penetrate you (as you
scream for your attacker to stop and say no, and he doesn't stop) and then
wonder if that's better or worse than having a cluster of cells removed from
your uterus. (Moot point for me. I don't even HAVE a uterus anymore.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I am a survivor of rape. I didn't
die. I am deeply scarred, deeply angry and unforgiving towards the man who
assaulted me, He took years off of my life, which I'm fighting to get back in
my own way and on my own terms. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
My story is not told out of
courage. It is not told out of personal defense. It is the story of how a woman
who is repeatedly assaulted responds to incredibly insensitive and erroneous
comments made by men in positions of political power who mistakenly think they
have a stake in what they deem a beautiful miracle, which is actually an
unthinkable horror. Guess what? Neither politicians nor conservative extremist
right-wing evangelical whackjobs get a vote in what happens to the body of a
woman who is raped or assaulted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
That said, those of you
assassinating me on social media? I'm laughing at your ignorance and I feel
deeply sorry that you are so misguided in your patterns of thinking. It is my
wish that should bills once vetoed re-emerge and are passed into law, and that
women lose their right to choose, Mr. Kurcaba is chased down with a tire iron
shoved up his anus, because it'd be a nice taste of the medicine doled out to
me over the course of the relationship with my rapist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Now, Ye Olde Conservatives, tend to
your own youngins, don't forget to leave your loaded guns where the kids can
get a hold of them (because YOU get to exercise your Second Amendment rights),
read your Bibles (especially Leviticus!) and, if you have any compassion or
brains, maybe visit a domestic violence shelter and have a talk with the folks
here. Talk to women who have had to make difficult choices in their lives
concerning unwanted pregnancies and find out how they're feeling instead of
grandstanding either from Washington DC or the sanctity of your Twitterverse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There's very little you can say
which would insult or hurt me any more than I have already been hurt in my life
and I do not take your comments seriously, certainly not in 140 character
nibbles (though that's probably the extent of your intellectual capabilities in
the first place).<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know I'm not the only survivor of
rape and assault who feels this way. My wish is that my written testimony helps
those who feel they have no voice HAVE a voice vis-a-vis. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The man who raped me will be
visited by the authorities. Finally.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-56643006489709040472015-02-05T15:46:00.001-06:002015-02-09T00:04:23.657-06:00Spectorulizing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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2013 mugshot, California State of Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation</div>
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Legendary record producer and arranger Phil Spector is 75 years old and a far cry from the flamboyant, larger-than-life persona with which he carried himself since he produced his first hit at the age of 17.<br />
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He is currently doing 19 years-life in a California state prison for the murder of D-list House of Blues hostess and aspiring superstar, the leggy blond Lana Clarkson, "star" of several B-list movies and small roles, who died of an inflicted gunshot wound to the face in Spector's Alhambra, CA castle in 2003. The gist of the case was whether or not Clarkson committed suicide, shot herself accidentally while intoxicated, or if Spector had shot her dead.<br />
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Phil Spector has both the past of a musical genius and that of a cold-blooded killer. He has the reputation of being the creator of what's called "The Wall of Sound," a largely orchestral undertone with echoed vocals to the pop songs he wrote and produced. His studio techniques turned ordinary tracks into the extraordinary. Most recently, a song he produced, The Righteous Brothers' "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling," was named the single with the most airplay in the 20th Century. Not only did he amplify the careers of the girl groups in the early to mid-60's; he also produced The Beatles' "Let It Be," John Lennon's "Imagine" album, "The Concert for Bangladesh," and George Harrison's "All Things Must Pass" LP. He also produced a record for The Ramones. After winning several professional "legend" accolades in the 1990's, he seemingly disappeared into his Alhambra, CA castle and made few public appearances formally, other than to see and be seen at Hollywood hot spots. Clearly, he did not want to be forgotten.<br />
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While several women came forth to the grand jury claiming Spector had brandished a weapon in front of them and had a history of violence and abuse, none of them had filed a police report against Spector, including his ex-wife, Ronnie Spector, or his children (adopted or biological). Spector went so far as to film himself in a short video clip offering a check for $100,000 to anyone who was willing to take a polygraph test regarding his history of violence. Nobody took Spector up on his offer.<br />
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Now, if I were an aspiring singer, or an aspiring anything (Oh, Hi, Stephen Colbert!) and lived in L.A., I would make sure I put myself smack dab in the middle of Phil Spector's wigged face. That was Clarkson's idea, as was the motive, in my opinion, of Rachelle Short. Short had moved from Pennsylvania to Los Angeles to further her singing career. Short is an attractive, youthful, blond Barbie-doll type. Well, just like every other woman in Los Angeles.<br />
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The first trial of Spector for murdering Clarkson resulted in a hung jury. Due to a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo I don't fully understand, essentially the judge in the original trial, while attempting to "clarify" some blood splatters on Spector's clothing the night of the murder/accident to a witness, effectively made himself a witness in the second murder trial. This was the first time such a circumstance had occurred in California, and there was no prior precedence with which to refute the judge's little boo boo. Naturally, the prosecution used the judge's influence to corroborate their case against Spector the second time around. Physical evidence was muddied and unclear. Testimony on either side was confounding. After deliberation, however, Spector was found guilty of second-degree murder.<br />
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Honestly, I don't know how I feel about the whole trial and conviction. Phil Spector is and always has been ONE. STRANGE. DUDE. Then again, a lot of geniuses are. I'd never make it on the jury because I'm too biased towards his musical talent versus his accused violent predatory reputation. I sympathize with the loss within the Clarkson family, though I don't know what the real story is, chiefly because I'm not sure Phil Spector even knows what really went down.<br />
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In an interview conducted in 2013 on Katie Couric's show, Rachelle, who met Spector while she was in her 20's, claims to have had no idea who Spector was when they met. I'm sorry, but I'm calling bullshit on that. I knew what the "Wall of Sound" was and who the Ronettes were, and his production value on Harrison's and Lennon's work when I was around 14 years old, because it was fascinating to anyone interested in musicology. My theory is that if one wants to make it in the music business as a legitimate singer/artist in Hollywood, YOU BLOODY WELL KNOW WHO IS PHIL SPECTOR. Her claim is as difficult to believe as that of Heather Mills, Paul McCartney's one-legged, landmine- dodging second wife, who insisted she had never heard of The Beatles.<br />
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Let's suspend our disbelief for just a second and assume Rachelle Short was as dingy as she has made herself out to be:<br />
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Rachelle: "Who's that guy that everyone is gathering around and buying drinks for?"<br />
Random Person: "That's Phil Spector!"<br />
Rachelle: "Who is Phil Spector?"<br />
Random Person: "Only the most successful, influential, legendary pop producer who ever came out of the the record business."<br />
Rachelle: "Oh, okay! I'm clueless and have never heard of him before!"<br />
Random Person: "You should go introduce yourself to him."<br />
Rachelle: "Oh, okay!"<br />
Random Person: "He might be able to help you get a deal..."<br />
[Rachelle hikes up her skirt, tousles her hair sexily and toodles over with a drink and a huge smile.]<br />
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Short became the assistant to Spector's assistant (that's a lot of assistants...I'll apply to be the assistant to the assistant who tailors Stephen Colbert's suit jackets, even though I can't thread a needle...essentially the same principle with Rachelle) after meeting him in a restaurant where she was a waitress (shock!), "fell in love" with him, and the two were married, after "dating" for 3 years, in the same Alhambra castle where the murder/accident took place, in 2006. That, in and of itself, is creepy. Her claim was that they chose to marry in the same property where they were trying to "build a life together," regardless if a heinous act/accident occurred in the castle. (Yes, he constantly refers to it as a castle, probably rightfully so, because the guy has like a zillion dollars. But seriously, people, DO something about that maroon carpeting. It's hideous.) Soon thereafter, Rachelle (while Spector was on trial, which Rachelle claimed she only found out after a Google search on Phil) was granted full control over Spector's business affairs. Zing!<br />
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I would've taken the $100k and I don't even know the guy! After all, he never came after ME with a gun!</div>
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Rachelle, in the Couric interview, says that she got a pilot's license in order to quicken the 3.5 hour drive from the castle to the correctional facility, where she says she would go every Sunday to spend 5-6 hours with Spector and said he's the warmest, kindest, most gentle, funniest, wittiest man on earth. As of 2014, Spector was no longer in the general population of the prison and certainly, if I were him, I would have spent gobs of dinero on finding fellow inmates to protect me. As of the last news reports, he was being indefinitely held in the prison's hospital ward due to the fact that it's suspected he has Parkinson's Disease, and at present, cannot speak due to polyps on his vocal chords. His health seems to be rapidly deteriorating in prison and he won't be eligible for parole until he is 88 years old. I'd bet $100,000 he won't make it that long.</div>
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Rachelle, meanwhile, isn't exactly succeeding at her musical career without the external production assistance of her husband. She told Couric she firmly stands by him, and had for the last 10 years. While Couric purported that Mrs. Spector had been labeled a "gold digger" (shock!), the missus insists she could have bailed years ago (at the time of the interview, she was approximately 33 years old) but, instead, chose to stand by Spector throughout the trial and the aftermath. That said, it is difficult for me to *not* speculate that there is something in what HAD to be a pre-nuptial agreement which pledges that Rachelle would need to remain married to Spector for a certain number of years in order to maintain her status as his business manager or to be entitled to a portion of his estate should he pass away in prison or otherwise. Come on. In order for me to collect a portion of my ex-husband's Social Security when we're old, I had to have been married to him for at least 10 years. (We scraped by. We were married for 11 years.) </div>
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Out of morbid curiosity and my bullshit radar, I chose to follow Rachelle on social media. Oh, she has a pilot's license. And a nice, big plane. (Which I'm sure she paid for out of her own pocket, mmm hmmm.) I cannot re-post any of her photographs with said plane or the exotic places where she has traveled, because she copyrighted all of them. (Or rather, her attorney told her to.) Here's my beef: after scrolling through her Instagram, I find it incredibly hard to believe that she makes it back to the Cali correctional facility every Sunday to visit her OLD man after shooting pictures of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, or meeting Barry Gordy in London, who we can only assume she's never heard of either.<br />
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From her comments, she's having a REALLY great time enjoying her life and freedom, while Spector rots in prison. She prides herself on expensive hobbies and baubles, but none of the Instagram comments ask "How's Phil?" or "Have you seen him recently?" I'm sure if I inquired about the status of their relationship, I'd get reported on the site for abusive comments and blocked from her account. Point being, Mrs. Spector (the 4th or 5th) would be back to waitressing if it not for "sticking by her innocent husband and fighting tirelessly on an appeal for his murder conviction." </div>
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I will say, however, that I do not trust Rachelle Spector as far as I can throw her. While Phil might definitely harbor the gentle, loving nature she says he has, my guess is that there are 100 musicians with whom he worked over the years who would have a different characterization of the man. "No one knows him like I do," Rachelle says. Sweetheart, no.<br />
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(And for the record, no, I did not see the Al Pacino cable film loosely based on the case.)<br />
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As counselors, it is not our job to judge an offender's guilt or innocence. If Spector committed this crime, the most I would be able to do is empathize with him (especially if his health is rapidly failing) and try to understand the motive behind it and perhaps what led up to his penchant for violence and weaponry far back into his youth. To find out if he, himself, was abused before he even realized it. He may have harbored fright and anger for years of an unknown origin without extensive psychotherapy. Or maybe he's just a psychopath with a lot of musical talent. I don't know. Above all else, he is a human being, and I believe there is good in all of us somewhere deep down.<br />
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Rachelle Spector, ok, she is a gold digger.<br />
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Yet, as he pays for this crime in a prison, my personal choice is to respect and remember the good work that he DID do. The ingenious methodology and follow-through he perfected to make golden pop and rock music. Definitely one-of-a-kind.<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-2352589509227855062015-02-01T20:24:00.002-06:002015-02-03T08:33:03.088-06:00It Snowed A Little.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm foregoing the Stupid Bowl because sports, and because I've been out all day shoveling a never-ending amount of Chicago snow on this, the first day of February. It's all blizzardy and blowy outside. I've heard nothing about the Super Bowl, other than a text from my best friend saying she wished Missy Elliot had punched Katy Perry in the throat during halftime. As a general rule, I'd have to agree with her, regardless of the performance circumstances.<br />
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In any case, once 8pm rolled around, my mother took over the television in the living room with the booming English dialog of "Downton Abbey," the volume on 74 and the closed-captioning on, because British people are apparently very hard for her to understand.<br />
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An elderlyish neighbor paid me $100 to keep her front and back porch, and sidewalk free of snow for the winter while she's basking in Florida. I'm sorry, honey, but today was about a $650 job, and I didn't quite finish. It would've been easier had 4' drifts not blockaded me from getting anywhere near her domicile. The snow started at about 9pm last night and hasn't let up yet. Now, I know. Chicagoans are tough. We can handle our winters. We sympathize with Boston and the many feet you had befallen. But up until today, Chicago had received a paltry 3" of snow for the ENTIRE season thus far. A little shell shock today. Our shoveling muscles have atrophied. Come to think of it, all of my muscles have atrophied.<br />
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Lake Michigan is being nasty and they've closed off parts of Lake Shore Drive in dribs/drabs as the waves crashed inland and the winds picked up to gusts around 50 mph. People with any sense stayed home. Those who were en route to Stupid Bowl parties braved the elements and, I don't know, risked drowning in the lake.<br />
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Here in our suburb across the street from the City limits, we live in connected townhomes, and my next-door neighbor has a snowblower, but he gave up after 4 rounds around the courtyard and sidewalks. I don't know where all of the other strong men/people are in the 'hood, but it was I and an older female neighbor (recovering from a hip replacement) who were the main diggers today.<br />
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What of my brawny teenage son, you ask? Why wasn't he out shoveling with me? Or FOR me? A) He slept until noon. B) He was working on downloading mixes for a soundscape he's been working on for a long time. C) I'm an EXTREMELY lenient mother who actually enjoys shoveling snow...UP TO A CERTAIN POINT, when it becomes utterly ridiculous and a colossal waste of time.<br />
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At first, his high school put out an email that they weren't going to make a decision on whether or not to close school until 5:30 am tomorrow morning. I called bullcrap on that one, and sent them a nasty Tweet about how many absences to expect tomorrow should they decide to leave the school open. About a half an hour ago, I received the email, the email from the emergency closing center, the email from the school with a voicemail attached to it, and a voicemail on my cell phone all indicating that yes, the school was closing tomorrow. Woot! I am DRAGGING that young man of mine out to dig if it takes us all day tomorrow. We live in one of those municipalities where you can be fined if your walkways and sidewalks aren't clear, and, really, we should be nice to the postal carriers.<br />
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Just as a visual aid, this is the present state of my SUV parked on the main thoroughfare off of which we live, which plows me in from the driver's side and I'm drifted in on the passenger side:<br />
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I told Luke that even if there was school tomorrow, there was no fucking way I was going to attempt digging that out at 5 am in the dark. Did I mention that I think I heard tomorrow's high temperature is supposed to be 12 degrees? Oof.</div>
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Winter in Chicago. We bitch, and bitch, and bitch. Few of us ever leave (save for the elderly snowbirds). Time to find the ibuprofen and a hot cuppa. </div>
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UPDATE!!!!</div>
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I called in the Armed Forces. Actually, there's a giant young Marine who lives across the way who I saw cleaning out his car behind mine a little while ago. Being desperate and aching all over from yesterday, I offered him $50 to dig me out, which I thought was a fair price. Luke just woke up (at 1pm) and is suddenly complaining of "neck pain" which he says precludes him from doing any shoveling.</div>
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My dearest Luke,</div>
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Fuck you.</div>
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Love, Mom</div>
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UPDATE #2!!!!!</div>
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Luke got his butt outside after some heavy prying from myself and my mom, and actually cleaned up most of the snow himself. He did a great job, all things being equal. The Marine refused the money for help. Glory! You can tell my car is red again! Thanks, Luke, and sorry for flying off the handle.</div>
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Love, Mom</div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-23756440438743928182015-01-15T17:32:00.001-06:002016-06-17T15:24:27.388-05:00Stephen Colbert? Let's Negotiate!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Stephen Colbert: Let's Negotiate!" </div>
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By Andrea Miklasz</div>
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Rhythms from the Offbeat Drummer</div>
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Originally published 1/15/15</div>
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I don't care if you you republish it, just don't claim my words are yours.</div>
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HERE IS, LITERALLY, MY "SHIT IN THE DARK"</div>
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There are fewer "degrees of separation" between myself and Stephen Colbert than he has honorary doctorates from various colleges and universities in the United States. Why yes, I did enroll my 4-year old in an improv workshop at Second City. Talk about progressive parenting! (Ok, it was a disaster and he only went 2 weeks.)<br />
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Psychology. All that whining to listen to again. Pull yourselves together, people. I'm a graduate student here in Chicago (born and raised, yes) in Clinical/Community Counseling. I''m 44 and I don't know what I want to do when I grow up. Perhaps too late in the game for some, but all I've ever wanted to was write funny stuff.<br />
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If I may take a moment to pause my horn-tooting since you've moved to CBS, I listen to the content of the show very carefully. It as been more than three occasions where the writing staff has prompted you to belittle the mentally ill. Why tell you I have bipolar disorder? Because I am not shamed. But come on. I think the first one was a slight against Pink Floyd founder Syd Barrett's schizophrenia.<br />
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Writing is my real passion. I tried to be a "serious" writer just as Colbert tried to be a "serious" actor. Poetry was my concentration in college, which, while not a financially pragmatic path, gave me satisfaction and made me feel like an Artist. (Note the capital "A.") Most of the time, I was just playing with words. I'd take the thesaurus (in paper!) and randomly pick out words, and craft them into logopoeia, or language poetry. I'd draft and draft them until they made a semblance of sense to read. Trial and error. For every goofy, deep-fried word combo platter which worked, there were 100 that didn't, much the same as jokes.What was particularly interesting was that 15 people read the same poem, but each individual envisioned something different. That was the plan all along!<br />
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I've written exactly one poem since I graduated 21 years ago. It was all in the name of love, and the noodlehead muse didn't understand it, when it wasn't just word play. Sure, it had metaphors and inner meanings if one were to read it logically and was really quite beautiful, but it failed to woo. Having typed out my writing for so long, it was created by handwriting, sitting outside in the sun one atypically warm March Chicago afternoon. Reminiscent of my early work, it was penciled out in scribbles and verses, with arrows reversing everything, scratching out fluffy words for fluffier words, or fluffier words exchanged for words the noodlehead might actually understand. (I had to explain to him what a "muse" was in the first place, so, since my feelings were hurt, I told him he was basically just a bowl of fruit I was trying to paint.)<br />
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Willing to relocate? Holy Lord, yes. Luke, my 16-year old, in addition to Northwestern, is checking out NYU film school. And New York really is just a much bigger Chicago with more rats.<br />
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Suggested salary requirement? Such an awkward question. I need to thrive and survive, but what happens if I need an Emmy gown?<br />
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While I've been writing this blog since 2008, there have been horrible entries, bitchy entries, moderately humorous entries, hysterically funny entries, and ones only I find funny and spend an hour just screeling to myself.<br />
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Having said that, I present a list of reasons to you, Stephen Colbert, as to why you should meet me and give 5 minutes of consideration as to letting me collaborate with you (after you give me a big hug):<br />
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I'm a graduate of <b>Knox College</b>. My major was English-Writing. I only graduated rite, by a hair, but got A's in all of my writing classes, except fiction. That's doubly embarrassing, given my professor is now emeritus and has become a nationally successful novelist. But give it up, Stephen. You, yourself, (er, your character) said Knox students were "geniuses" because we (I mean that collectively as a student body) gave you an indestructible honorary diploma and I take personal offense at you mocking my alma mater, but I forgive you because if I could find my diploma, certainly there have been times I've wanted to burn it.<br />
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We both know Steven Drozd and Wayne Coyne from The Flaming Lips. What a pair! They really like you, and Steven's an excellent judge of character. You autographed the back of his guitar. He was starstruck.<br />
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My birthday is on May 9th with yours on the 13th/ <br />
We're both Tauruses with birthdays four days apart. We can be bullish and get into a huge intellectual argument, if only for the sake of the fact that my best friend is convinced I can match wits with you, which is no small undertaking. I've picked a topic.<br />
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GO! And you can't steal the joke I probably stole, which is, "Rectum? I damn near killed him!"<br />
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I did a senior high school Literature of Chicago project on Second City which I copied from my brother 4 years before, pictures and all!(OMG, thy wren't even pctures--they were slides!) Academic integrity is my #1 priority. And lest we forget, good artists copy. Great artists steal. I won an award for God's sake!<br />
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Sometimes, when I'm particularly full of ideas, people will say, "You're on fire!" Half of the time, I take them literally, stop, drop and roll.<br />
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Speaking of Chicago, you graduated from Northwestern. That's in Evanston. I'd be extremely surprised if you have never heard of or have been to the nearby suburb where I live. I'm sure you know your way around downtown, probably better than I do. (Wouldn't you agree that taking the L is really scuzzy?)<br />
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We both have more than one pair of eyeglasses. I wrecked my bifocals (excuse me, "progressive lenses") falling over things and injuring myself too many times and they're too scratched up out of which to see. Going to school Sunday in the early morn, I walked into what I thought was the entrance to Starbucks but waa actually just a giant pane of glass.<br />
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Those Emmy Awards you won? I used to work for R.S. Owens & Co, their manufacturer. They also make the Oscars. Had I still been employed there the years you were victorious, I might have stupidly made the mistake of curiously seeing just how hot the award statuettes were when the base metal came out of the oven, as I did with one Oscar in particular in 1998. (Turns out, they're somewhere between 500-700 degrees.) While the awards are dipped after baking with layers of shiny, precious metal, some fortunate Oscar award winner owns a trophy bearing my severely singed thumbprint underneath all that golden glory.<br />
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A local radio station is having a contest. My guess is that neither of us would mind sitting on a sandy beach on a free trip to Mexico, but would cringe at the grand prize being a private concert performed by Starship.<br />
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Barring contributions to your show via my primary craft, I can reasonably play the drums in your house band.*Sorry Joe Saylor for tagging you in all of my drumming videos.<br />
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I'm almost deaf in my right ear. You're deaf in your right ear. That would make it really awkward to try and stand side-by-side to talk, but maybe we could invent a yoga pose to make it simpler. Or just yell.<br />
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We've both met Al Franken. While you know him more personally, he told my son, who was very young at the time, and arrived at Franken's book signing wearing Spider-Man pajamas, to "grow up" in the wry way only Al Franken can away with.<br />
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I am also taller than Jon Stewart.<br />
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I declared myself a Democrat in 1992 with no prior knowledge of or interest in politics or world events. I was at Knox at the time, and my chief reason for siding with the Clinton/Gore ticket was that I thought Bill Clinton was hot. (Which hurts, given you ripped his foam likeness apart with your degree, you ingrate!) It took me a while to embrace the "liberal" of the liberal arts college. As I've matured, I've become well-educated and interested in the world around me and the future of America. That has drastically changed teh older I get. I am heavy into politics.<br />
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I idolize your pal, Neil deGrasse Tyson. I think you being a Sunday school teacher is very sweet, but if you're passing off the Earth as being 6,000 years old, um....wait! I can rattle off the books of the Bible in about 20 seconds. Your Bible has more books than mine. Please don't hold it against me that I'm Lutheran and not Catholic, though my late father was. My denomination is way more conservative than I am, hair-ripping-outly so, but my contribution to church is to play my drums in their contemporary praise band, even though the songs all sound the same and grate on my nerves. Because Jesus.<br />
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While never having read any "Lord of the Rings" books, so eloquently penned by Pope Pius XI, I did get through Keith Richards' "Life," however. I'm thinking of writing a literary critical article comparing the histories and similarities between "Life" and Betty White's last book. Their lives...astoundingly paralleled.<br />
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<b>NOW HERE IS THE NIT/GRIT: If you fronted a Rolling Stones cover band when you were younger, ESPECIALLY A SHITTY ONE, and you were the lead...while I cannot boast a similar singing voice as Mick Jagger, the moves in the "Start Me Up," for whatever reason, I taught myself when I was a kid ("Tattoo You came out in what...1981? I was 9.) I personally challenge you to a Mick Jagger-off impression of the "Start Me Up" video, which I still sometimes perform during the 45 seconds I'm going through a car wash. WHY DON'T WE LET YOUR AUDIENCE DECIDE IF I AM FUNNY AND COMPETENT ENOUGH TO ADD TO YOUR WRITING TEAM? APPLAUSE METER? SHOW OF HANDS? THIS MAY BE MY TOTAL SHOT IN THE DARK....BUT SORRY, COLBERT...BROWN SUGAR IS HARD TO SING, I WILL GIVE YOU THAT....THE EXACT JAGGER DANCE MOVES IN "START ME UP" ARE TERRIBLY UNIQUE. SHIT...WE NEED 2 PAIRS OF WHITE SWEATPANTS. CAN YOU GUYS ARRANGE THAT? SHAZAM! </b><br />
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One of my hobbies is making up neologisms. My personal favorite is "shenaniganathon." (Definition: A series of shenanigans which go on for a lengthy period of time.) I missed making up "truthiness" by an inch.<br />
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The pronunciation of my first AND last name were both a) Chicagoized and b) Americanized.<br />
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I have questionable taste, morals, tact, standards and methods, delusions of grandeur, and I have a habit of not giving up on things until I get what I want.<br />
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Have you ever watched the YouTube video of the theme to the "Price is Right" sped up 800 times? Jesus. You have to.<br />
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Let's confab. That sounds like being con-fabbing, so let's just Facetime or something and yes, most definitely, send me the "comedy writing packet" which evidently is Step 2 to get a foot in the door.<br />
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Thank you for your time and consideration, though you probably stopped 3 sentences in it...er, your assistant did.<br />
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Love,<br />
Andrea<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-42369172845429271912015-01-11T14:31:00.000-06:002015-01-11T14:31:03.250-06:00And Then They Uncovered Them, And This Happened, etc.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Off the antipsychotic, I've found that I'm happier. I'm less out-of-it. My son says I'm more sharply witty. But piss me off? I'm a violent yeller with Tourette's Syndrome. It's kind of like this:<br />
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Such was the case when I got to band practice last night, uncovered my extremely expensive drum kit and found it had been TAKEN APART somehow, fiddled about, cymbals turned backwards, snare picked up and put back on the stand backwards (and that's a HUGE no-no) and my hi-hat coming apart. A tom-tom was unscrewed and falling off its base and the entire tom set up could be lifted off of the bass drum. I was FUMING. That is NOT the church's equipment to fuck around with. I found out later that the church custodian polished the floors before Christmas, me having missed the last service and leaving my drums covered. Dude. Go around them or for Christ's sake, take a fucking picture with your phone as to how they're supposed to go when you're done polishing the floor and screw them back together properly and put them where they belong, you dickwad! The vintage, original hardware is difficult to tighten and line up. The hi-hat is tricky, but not as tricky as the Dynasonic snare which has to be at a certain angle in its stand so I'm not hitting the rim constantly and can hit the skins. I didn't care one shit that I was in the house of God. I was almost screaming obscenities as I kept finding more things wrong. </div>
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I'm kind of like this, like Ringo, only less polite: </div>
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On the plus side, however, it was perhaps the first gig where I actually felt honestly talented. Our douchebag band leader included 2 brand new songs into the set list (we've bargained with him to limit it to one, but he's gone back to 2), Neither I nor 2 of the singers had ever heard these songs, so it was a huge act of improvisation on our parts with only 2 run-throughs on each song. But I nailed it. Right away. I came in once I heard the initial beat at practice and just pounded away. That almost never happens unless I'm on the djembe. I had asked the band leader 4 days ago for chord sheets to follow along with and a YouTube link in order to hear how the songs went, but he claimed he never received the email (when I copied the WHOLE band, and they all got it). YouTube searching would be fruitless, because with CCM (Crappy Christian Music), there are dozens of covers with different arrangements and God, literally, only knows what is in the leader's mind. </div>
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On the double-plus-side, I had another EKG this week, which showed that this pesky Long QT Syndrome has since resolved itself coming off of the antipsychotic. The psychiatrist agreed with the Uber-Specialist Heart Lady. But it still came out abnormal, which Uber said is up to my cardiologist to figure out. I had the echocardiogram, which he still has to call me about with the results, and set up a stress test. There's a bet whether or not he'll see me or pass me off to another doctor. I saw him through a door at the hospital in Cardiology, and he knew I was there from the chitter-chatter while I was checking in, but he didn't appear in person in front of me. I fear he ran darting in the other direction, clutching his wedding ring and shouting Hail Marys.<br />
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If the psychiatrist wants to wait and see if I have a psychotic break before putting me on a different drug, I'm not sure I want to tell her about last night's violent outburst. We're giving it a month. If I Hulk out more than, let's say 5 times, I'll call for a new medication. Or maybe I just need to learn to control my temper. Nah. How bland would that be?</div>
The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-57637605457518072732015-01-08T15:54:00.003-06:002015-01-08T15:54:48.585-06:00This. Honestly. Yes.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Expanded post to come.<br />
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For now, this is SO SO SO true.<br />
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And it made me feel less crummy about myself.<br />
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So that's a good thing. Because this is true.<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-71416024062067208322015-01-06T22:58:00.001-06:002015-01-06T22:58:57.896-06:00Arrhythmias From the Offbeat Drummer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Things I shouldn't have to answer, explain or justify to a medical assistant:<br />
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1) What are your hobbies? (I'm a dominatrix. What? Don't look at me like that.)<br />
2) What CHRISTIAN denomination are you? (Whichever is the least Christianesque at the moment. What if I wasn't a Christian to begin with?)<br />
3) How many cigarettes are in a pack? (Oh boy! Are we going to guess how many jelly beans are in the jar? I get a keychain?)<br />
4) You're STILL divorced? (Ok, this conversation is over.)<br />
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The appointment with the Uber-Specialist electrophysiologist, whose job it is to decipher and treat conditions like arrhythmias and like my other heart thingy, POTS, was EXTREMELY confusing. Right call on, uh, my cardiologist's part to refer me to her for the Long QT Syndrome, but as happens so frequently in the medical Wimbledon, I (the bouncy yellow ball which frequently goes out-of-bounds) have been volleyed over the net (score: Advantage Uber Specialist) for an ace against the cardiologist. Long story shortened, she'd already started a note to him, and whacked me (the helpless ball) back to the cardiologist to read tomorrow's echocardiogram (an ultrasound of the heart), take a look at my swelling, and figure out why, on the third line of the EKG, there's so little activity, it looks like I've flatlined. That said, we all die a little bit more every day, don't we? She also wants him to order a stress test, since I haven't had one in 5 years. He'll be THRILLED, unless (and if you've read this blog, you know who he is) he denies me the mercy of treatment and sends me on a long, drawn-out hunt over the course of the next few months trying to find another cardiologist in our hospital who'll accept my insurance. Be a nice Guy.<br />
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Let's pretend, for a moment, that I know anything about cardiology. Let's also factor in that I DO know a lot about psychiatry and the side effects of those medications. Comparing the EKG from December, which the Uber-Specialist looked at with me, yes, the QT intervals have improved from 469 down to 409. I was a little tachy today, pulse over 100. This doctor thinks those QT numbers are "normal." My psychiatrist is still going to flip out against that when she takes into account that result and what it means in the grand scheme of what Geodon, the antipsychotic, has done to damage my heart.<br />
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Once again, as is my modus operandi, I have managed to baffle beyond comprehension the very well-trained specialists I've seen. I wonder to whom I'll be bounced next. Probably back to the psychiatrist, because obviously, I've lost my mind (again).<br />
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But I'm not hearing things when Uber says, "I can't tell if you've had a heart attack or not!" or "I honestly have no idea why that line is so flat." When she asked me if I had any questions, I bit my tongue and said no, when in actuality, I wanted to ask her if she had a better way of explaining the EKG other than, "See these little mountains and valleys? There aren't any here."<br />
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School tomorrow for Luke was canceled because we'll have like -30 wind chills. I still have to go out to the hospital for the ECG and (for more reasons not understood), an ultrasound of my upper right abdominal quadrant.<br />
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I suppose if the cardiologist can't look into my heart, at least he look at my heart.<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-6343562747816630942015-01-04T01:08:00.000-06:002015-01-21T07:41:02.503-06:00It Was What It Was: 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Can we just pretend 2014 didn't happen?<br />
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Help me, 2015! You're my only hope!<br />
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Long story short: 2014 sucked. Apart from my son's Confirmation (which, since, he's become an agnostic) and his elementary school graduation and turning into the most popular schmuck in his artsy crowd in high school with his own radio show and Peter Framptonesque long tendrils, and being Student of the Month in his photography class, the year was wrought with disaster after disaster, which sucked, Luke being the gleaming north star at the end of a very dark tunnel.<br />
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Luke saved my life from a paralyzing panic attack late this summer, that I'll credit him. I got stuck in the mud, literally, needed a Valium (which I had on hand), he bummed a fresh bottle of water off another fella, and pulled me out. Later that evening, we got to visit with a dear friend I haven't seen in a couple of years for a good, long while. (Yes, THAT friend.) He adores Luke, who wouldn't? He loves me, who wouldn't? The mud trap sucked but, uh, that friend most certainly brightened my life in spades. After many suicidal considerations and plans and means to carry it out, I kept peeking in at my boy, we'd talk or get laughing and the impulse would pass. It's nice that I have a teenager who doesn't hate me, who doesn't think I'm a bitch and still hugs me goodnight every night.<br />
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I had to switch grad schools, which turned out to be a big old mess because I have to repeat 2 courses due to absences for health-related problems. My current school has these ridiculous in-residence intensive weekends, for 3 days, and if you miss ANY of that class time, you automatically fail the course. That's when I got a serious infection in one of my right fingers after a doctor and 4 nurses had to cut one of my rings--my thickest ring--off of my hand because it was getting infected underneath and wouldn't come off, because I was so water-weighted down with edema. The infection caused me to miss 2 days of this particular residency weekend, so booted was I. It just sucked.<br />
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In the other class, I simply couldn't keep up with the workload because I was in and out of doctors' offices on an almost daily basis while my medical team tried to figure out the swelling. The diuretics finally worked and in a matter of a little over a month in November and December, I lost 35 pounds, which helped my back pain and knee pain. (I still have to go to physical therapy for the pain in my knees.) So I now have skinny legs again but I'm top and neck heavy. Most disproportionate, which is embarrassing and aggravating. I'm a little woman trapped in a heavy body, which has done a number on my self-esteem. My asthma is also slowly improving the more weight I lose. Most of that still sucks.<br />
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Never mind with the school, I can produce dozens of medical visit reports, doctors' notes, etc. to corroborate my absence and lack of completion of work. It just sucked.<br />
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I had a battery of tests and long visits with an ear doctor because I was getting piercing earaches in my right ear when I was lying on it, which would wake me up from sound sleep. Several doctors looked at my ear, and it wasn't infected. It, as with most of my medical problems, was a mystery. Had an ear MRI (leaving all my piercings in, thank God) and the ear doctor was baffled. I went for a hearing test, and apart from markedly poor hearing in my right ear (huh?), I'm just using numbing drops when I get an earache. That sucks and doesn't suck. Ok, well, yeah, it sucks.<br />
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This Long QT Syndrome issue is still of prevalence. Getting in to see the electrocardiologist won't be happening until the middle of this month. I've tapered off the antipsychotic which was to blame, and my liver function issue should also be improving. (Geodon malfunctions the liver, the heart, I swear--every rare but life-threatening side effect has befallen me after having taken the drug since 2009.) Next week, I'm having an EKG, an echocardiogram and an abdominal ultrasound, then seeing my psychiatrist on Thursday. She wants to see an EKG to see if the Long QT has improved or escalated. Did I tell you that my psychiatrist was really intrigued with a long-term study that came out which blamed Geodon for multiple cases of pancreatitis? Well, if that don't beat all. Let's rewind to 2010-2011, when I had it 4 or 5 times and was in the hospital or operating room.<br />
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'Twill be a busy week with tests. I don't start school again until the 15th, and I'm lucky I don't have to be on campus that day. Uber has become my best friend. Parking downtown for school costs twice as much. That just sucks.<br />
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Sad to have said goodbye to "The Colbert Report" right before the holidays, as it was one of my favorite shows. I have not only deep respect and find Stephen Colbert a comedic genius, but he just seems like a really sweet guy out of character as well. That, and he did receive an honorary doctorate from my alma mater, Knox College, in 2006, which he tried to burn on his show at some point, but it wouldn't start on fire. Between "The Office" reruns, "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report," I don't watch much on the boob tube. Colbert's finale was a star-studded spectacular, and I'll have to start DVR'ing the "Late Night" show when he replaces Letterman. But then I found this picture on Pinterest, and it's just too much oof for me to handle. What can I say?<br />
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Christmas wasn't necessarily stress-free but it was enjoyable after all. My nephew and his boyfriend (who was also part of the festivities) got me "Cards Against Humanity" as a gift, which, if you haven't heard of it, has the tagline: "A card game for horrible people." It's filthy and insulting. And who played it with us until 1am on Christmas Eve? My mother! Oh, Mylanta! Christmas Day was just my mother and I, so we ate a fancy dinner she whipped up and watched "Silver Linings Playbook," which was most excellent. (I wonder if Guy ever got the "Lego Movie" I tried to anonymously send to him after he kicked my ass to the curb.) That all didn't suck too badly. Nobody killed anyone. Always a good thing.<br />
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New Year's Eve could've been more boring, but the TCM channel was showing "Elvis on Tour," "A Hard Day's Night," "Gimme Shelter," and "Tommy." I was pretty much set, with my laptop in the dining room, spending time with my mom. Luke was out at a house party until 1:45 in the morning (yes, the parents were home). Toasts with sparkling grape juice that I wish was champagne, some good snacks, so that didn't suck as badly as it could have.<br />
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I missed a lot of band this year because of illness, injury and school, which bummed me out. I even missed the contemporary Christmas carols service because my knee was too swollen to play my drums and I was in too much pain. All of that alternating heat and ice. Heat and ice. Heat and ice. THAT sucked.<br />
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I'm not writing as much as I could be, given all the free time I'm seemingly allotted. I just haven't felt creative spunk lately. It's bad enough I'm blogging now, relaying all of my woes of the year and believe me, my friends, family and acquaintances all concur that 2014 was just a plain shitty year. It was all over Facebook--friends bidding adieu to the year which has thankfully passed. In all seriousness, I haven't seen THAT many people proclaim unhappiness in synopses over a few days as I have since around the 30th of December. Those poor people! The year sucked across the board! It wasn't just me!<br />
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Other friends have had serious problems too, both physical and emotional. I've tried to be the rock that holds everyone together, but like a globally warming glacier, I'm disappearing. I can't remember the last time I was truly manic, though right now I feel a little hypomanic (probably because I was looking at pictures of Stephen Colbert on Pinterest) and not yet sleepy. (He really should hire me as a writer. I am hella witty and sharp when I want to be, when I'm not constantly bitching.) Mostly it's been bipolar depression. I would love to exercise, but I'm not cleared to yet, and even if I tried something relaxing and healthy like swimming, I could go into cardiac arrest. That would suck.<br />
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The burgeoning year, 2015, you know, things can only get better. They have to, because too many of us have seen and been to the depths of hell and back in the last 365-ish days.<br />
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Heading off to make my Sleepytime tea (which I'll no doubt spill on myself in bed trying to use the laptop and drink at the same time, and one more smoke (down to half a pack a day with the e-cigarette!) outside in the rainy sleety mixture that's supposed to turn into 4-7" of snow by the end of tomorrow. Super. I can't shovel, which I actually enjoy. It's an OCD thing with me.<br />
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My wish is that you all fare well, have happiness and not suckiness in your new year. Don't make resolutions you can't keep, or promises which are empty to the people about whom you care. Don't break anyone's heart if you can help it. Smile a lot and make up jokes. Be free. Don't cast the first stone. Eat, drink and be merry. Do your best to tell the people you love that you love them, but if you don't really love them, don't say it at all. Support gay marriage and marijuana legalization, and the women's right to choose what happens to her body. Don't watch Fox News unless it's for amusement purposes only. Eat less cheese and drink more water. Those are the best pieces of advice I can muster at this late hour.<br />
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Most of all, don't suck and don't let the year suck you down.<br />
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Happy New Year, 4 days late, from The Offbeat Drummer! Wish me luck!<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-75206872176947298682014-12-12T21:23:00.002-06:002014-12-15T18:46:06.726-06:00Step Out of Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This was the attitude I had towards Christmas when I was young:<br />
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Weeee! Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa! Presents! A Charlie Brown Christmas! Rudolph! Frosty! My whole family together! Star Wars toys! Trying to stay awake at the midnight church service! My brother waking me up at 6am to play with all of our new toys! Sunday school Christmas Programs! Snow in which to play! Daddy's firehouse Christmas party, where we'd all sit on Santa's lap and get a gift! Baby Jesus! It was all so thrilling.</div>
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As I matured, my attitude was more like this:</div>
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I wouldn't necessarily say I was growing cynical, but more realistic. My father was gone, and as families grew and married and split off, there was less of sense of gathering together, less joy. Less magic. I suppose that happens to everybody. But I still believed in miracles. I still got choked up singing "Silent Night" under candlelight at church, though we all got too tired to go to the midnight service anymore and went at like 7:00 pm. I figured out that Santa didn't exist. (I think when I broke the news to Luke about that, he was much younger, like 6, and I just said, "You do realize that there's no Santa and it's really your dad and me, right?" And Luke said something nonplussed like, "Yeah, I figured.") As Greg Lake closes "I Believe in Father Christmas," "The Christmas we get, we deserve." </div>
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Ouch.</div>
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Once I had a child, I sort of got to relive all of that childhood wonder, except it all left me exhausted, because it was I (and my husband) who had to assemble all the toys from Santa in the middle of the night, but it was wonderful to see my son's eyes full of wonder and charm. He loved to help decorate the tree and would put all of the ornaments on the very bottom, almost toppling the tree over. He took away a lot of the disillusion I'd been feeling towards Christmas. I tried to keep that spark alive, if only for Luke's sake, even after the divorce. I'd try to fulfill his every wish and fantasy. I wanted Christmas to always be as special to him as a kid as it was to me. I did my best, even when the purse strings were really tight.</div>
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The entire time I dated Chris, I never once met his family or was invited over for a holiday. He was always welcome to come to our house for a meal, dessert or just to visit, and he'd met my family, but I was never invited over to his or his parents' house, as if I was some sort of embarrassment. The closest I got to people he knew was a stuffy New Year's Eve dinner with some of his old Northwestern cronies and their uptight, snooty spouses and one smart-mouth brat who magically disappeared into the transoms of nowhere. Nobody was nice to me and I felt like a total outcast. Meh, fuck 'em. But I always thought it was odd that in 3 1/2 years, I never met Chris' parents or his sister and only met his daughter once, as a "friend" of Chris'.<br />
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Our last New Year's Eve as a couple, he was having a dinner party at HIS apartment for all the aforementioned assholes, so I made plans with a girlfriend to go to a singles' party out in the suburbs. She met a guy and blew me off, so I stayed home alone and watched a Flaming Lips streaming concert on the internet lying on my bed. My son and mom were away. Granted, I gave my friend the go-ahead to dump me for the guy, but it was still a shitty time. My then-boyfriend, finding out I had no plans for NYE, didn't even extend a sympathy invitation to me? Are you starting to see why I hate the holidays?</div>
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My friends and I, who are NOT by ANY MEANS stuffy people, have always been very generous and inventive with one another at Christmastime, which results in smiles, imbibing and merriment. The kind of inventive merriment you don't need a PhD to understand. One friend in particular got extremely creative a couple of years ago and if you read my blog regularly, you'll find it around Christmas of 2012. </div>
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Sadly, so very sadly, we're not friends anymore and that bums me out majorly this time of year, when I'm at least usually excited about picking out that special something for a special someone. I cry a lot. I am left singing something more along these lines:</div>
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Christmas is two weeks away. My health has been dangerously poor. I'm blown up like a puffer fish with water weight that just won't go away (the doctors call it "cyclical edema"). Too many diuretics fuck up your whole body, and aren't working to rid myself of the swelling. I had a residency weekend at school last weekend, and in walking too much and lugging around my 40 lb briefcase, I wrenched my already weighed down back and it's killing me. My right knee is totally swelled up and hurts like a son of a bitch. Pain management? The utterly useless Naproxen, which is literally the same ingredients and makeup of taking 2 Aleve. Not cutting it at all. I can barely walk and when I do, I can't catch my breath, so I'm double-dutying on the inhalers. I was in the ER on Sunday night (after the marathon school weekend) thinking I had congestive heart failure, I was so blown up and unable to breathe. I got an albuterol treatment and was sent home. </div>
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Naturally, since I have a congenital heart condition already, I had 2 EKG's taken--one in the ambulance and one in the ER. My psychiatrist wanted a copy of the ER EKG to check for what are called QT intervals...something to do with the length of electrical impulses between heartbeats. I don't know. In any event, I have "Long QT Syndrome." Mine is bordering on moderate to severe. The ER wasn't looking for it. They were just checking to see if I was in normal sinus rhythm,which I was. But the psychiatrist knows to look for it because it is a huge risk factor in taking Geodon,especially for such a long time. All kinds of complications can arise from it, and you're not supposed to exert yourself physically at all or it can cause things like...well, sudden death. I wanted to exercise some of this weight away after the water weight is gone, but I can't even swim!! Isn't that cray-cray? I need to see an electrocardiologist, a specialized cardiologist. This is out of Guy's area of expertise. I tried texting him when I found out I had this disorder, but he didn't respond. I called his office and was referred back out to the electrocardiologist and that he, like her, was booked until February anyway. So nothing will be done about this life-threatening condition until mid-January. </div>
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The holidays. Lots of suicides. Just have to keep thinking Luke, Luke, Luke, LUKE.</div>
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Not looking forward to family tension, people crabbing, who's bringing who to Christmas, how much indigestion I'll get, or if I'll keel over the whole shebang. I'm very, very depressed over the whole thing, and to boot, I still have school shit to finish up on and registration for next term to complete.</div>
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This leaves me with this musical sentiment, which is where I'm totally at right now: </div>
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Keep the "ist" in Christmas and have some grog.</div>
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Hope your holidays are happier than mine will be.<br />
But I've got my Luke, the best gift ever. </div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-23004579701896773342014-11-12T23:16:00.001-06:002014-11-12T23:16:57.832-06:00Chipping Away<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's really stupid. I chipped both of my front teeth today. The right one worse than the left, and in thinking I'd need crowns, I immediately called my dentist, whom I have not seen in a decade. I'm absolutely petrified of the dentist. It triggers all sorts of PTSD fears in me..being confined in a chair with a giant light on my face, with a man standing above me with instruments of torture, and I can't move. He took X-rays and said the chips weren't bad, and that he could fix them with fillings....on Monday. Today is Wednesday. The right one is very irritating and rubbing up against my inner lip. I was hoping to score some painkillers out of him, but he sent me home with Sensodyne toothpaste. I guess I could get some of that teething gel for babies to numb the area. That might help.<br />
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In other stupid news, tomorrow is the ear doctor appointment. I only got off my ditty bag to call for an appointment when I took a nap a couple of days ago in horrific pain in my right ear. The pain is getting worse. It's radiating to when I'm upright instead of just lying down. My GP found me an ENT who takes my insurance, so yay. If all goes well, I'll be doing the Woody Allen skipping and jumping down the street that he's healthy dance. If not, I'll probably die and no one will give a damn.<br />
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Strangest thing happened this morning. I was dead ass asleep, and was awakened by my phone ringing. It was 7:20 in the morning. Groggily, I grabbed the phone from under the covers just as the caller hung up. It was the hospital number. It would seem awfully odd that my GP would call me at such an ungodly hour to tell me he did the referral to the ear doctor (which he would email me about anyway), and it wasn't the ENT people, because they have a different phone # and called late this afternoon to confirm my appointment. Either the hospital dialed the wrong number, or someone important was trying to call me, but didn't leave a message. My wildest dreams were that it was Guy.<br />
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We haven't spoken in 5 months, other than me emailing him asking him to please refill my heart medication twice. I did, however, recently have Meg either text or email him a certain lyric from Dido's "White Flag." It was "And when we meet, which I'm sure we will, all that was there will be there still. I'll let it pass, and hold my tongue. And you will think that I've moved on." She said it was a message from me.<br />
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It's really a rather beautiful and sad song. But it hits the nail on the head. I'm not out to change his life. And I do understand if he can't talk to me anymore. But putting it into a grander perspective, I think it's a) because of his wife's ultimatum and b) because he did, in fact love me too much to keep me in his life and had to let me go. I just wish I knew what the truth was. </div>
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Meg asked me if Guy would be at the hospital that early in the morning. Yes, he would've been. He does some rounds in the morning, and sees patients, and does heart procedures early in the morning. </div>
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I keep having these recurring dreams where Craig (my ex-husband), Luke and I are going on vacation together, pack up and drive to our destination, and they both leave me there and the only one there is Guy. And they leave me a car, but I don't know how to get home. To me, anyway, that means there's unfinished business. These aren't lustful dreams whatsoever. I also had a dream recently that I was texting him my random banterings throughout the day (the ones he used to love to read) and he was responding like there was nothing wrong between us. I must admit I miss that...quite a bit. Rarely, I message POE with such stories on Facebook, but he doesn't even answer, so he's a dead shark. It all enhances my sense of isolation. Thankfully, BMF has been really responsive and charging forward as my partner-in-crime, but he has multiple responsibilities (more than Guy, even) and can't always communicate back immediately, but he always does. That was one of Guy's last points in our farewell conversation..."You'll always have BMF...." And I will. </div>
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School is going ok, but not as well as I'd hoped upon entering Argosy, still with a lot of work to do to finish those fucking Adler classes in which I got incompletes. I'm falling behind at Argosy too. I'm reminded of this Warren Zevon lyric, from "The French Inhaler," which is "How are you gonna make your way in this world when you weren't cut out for workin', and you just can't concentrate? And you always show up late?"</div>
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(No, I don't plan on becoming a prostitute.) </div>
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"Loneliness and frustration...we both came down with an acute case." It must be contagious. Thank you, Doctor.</div>
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It didn't help that I passed by his apartment building on my way home from Argosy the other night. Hi, trigger!</div>
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Yes, I'm still depressed. I wish something would lift me out of it, or give me some type of thoughts other than my son to look forward to. Especially if I have in operable brain tumor! Because that would suck balls! </div>
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The holidays are coming. The most dreaded time of the year for me, I'm afraid. It starts with Thanksgiving and doesn't remit until after the new year. The most I have to look forward to is meeting my nephew's incredible boyfriend, whom I already love and we haven't even met in person. But for the last several years, I've searched high and low to get Guy something or somethings spectacular. I really tried hard to impress him and make him happy. BMF? He's easy to shop for. My girlfriends? Pretty easy. My family gives me a list, so no biggie. But Guy? Le Estrango Mysterioso. I used all my creative energy to get him things nobody else would think to get him. And I'm not used to *not* having that as part of my holidays anymore. </div>
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Still, it ended. Badly, Without closure. I want so much to be his friend again, his buddy. </div>
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Uh oh. Luke's microwaving downstairs. I best see what's going on. Hopefully, I'll dream more peacefully tonight. I can't imagine it getting any more sorrowful than it already is.</div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-38052298220796860712014-11-05T20:13:00.001-06:002014-11-05T20:30:01.885-06:00Thank you, Dr. Genius. I'll Call In the Morning.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The characters Woody Allen portrays are typically notorious hypochondriacs. He always thinks he's dying from some dreaded illness. And it's usually nothing. But he always thinks he's dying. Oh my, yes.<br />
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And then it hit me, suddenly, right after I got off the phone with my doctor just now. See, I've been having these ever-increasing, terrible earaches just in my right ear for like 3 months which wake me up from sleep, whether it's at night or when I'm taking a nap (which is, like, always). It's this sharp, shooting pain. The frequency is increasing to 4-5 times a week. It goes away once I'm upright, But sometimes when I'm waking up in the morning, my vision is like a movie reel. It's shifting up and down quickly, usually when I have these earaches, when I'm looking at my iPhone and cringing that yet again, I'd slept until 11:00 in the morning. Otherwise, it's not throwing off my equilibrium or impairing my vision any worse than it's already impaired.</div>
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Such so happened last night, and I was so a) awake and b) aggravated, I emailed my doctor. (The capacity to email doctors with questions has to be THE worst advance in medical technology ever invented for patients like me, who ALWAYS have something wrong with them.) </div>
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I am a Woody Allen character.</div>
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BECAUSE...</div>
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In my email, I said this: "I'm getting convinced I either have some type of disgusting, lurking parasite in my head or a brain tumor." </div>
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When, usually, the end result is more like this:</div>
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I don't have a cold. I haven't had a cold in a very long time. It's not my allergies. SOMETHING HAS INVADED MY HEAD. The doctor looked in my ear a couple of months ago and said I didn't have an ear infection or a build up of wax. He couldn't figure out why I had these earaches.</div>
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I'm all behind in my therapy notes and paperwork, I have a residency weekend at school for a class all weekend, and my depressive episode....today, at least....was one of those mixed-mood episodes (ultradian cycling, where you go from one mood to another in a matter of hours) where I either just want to sleep and cry all day, or I literally laugh at everything. EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING.</div>
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It's like the maniacal laughter in the background of Pink Floyd's "Brain Damage/Eclipse." I cackle.</div>
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To myself.</div>
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The lunatic is in my head. Or the brain tumor. Or maybe just a huge chunk of wax. I'll call for an appointment tomorrow. </div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-16319044053399931232014-10-29T21:06:00.002-05:002014-10-30T00:05:48.822-05:00If Tomorrow Starts Without Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Luke doesn't want me to die. Breathlessly. Desperately. My friend posted this video today, and I think he meant to post it primarily for the musical background. But as I listened to the words of the essay, it struck me. What...why...am I hanging around, when everything is black? Why did I forward it to Luke? What was my point?</div>
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That point was the tiny little hole of light pinpointed in the direction of life that is my son.</div>
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I cried most of today, for reasons understood and not understood. Remember, it was Englishman Stephen Fry who said to please resolve yourself never to ask a depressed person WHY they're depressed; just be there for them when they come out the other end. I just hope there is an end. I would like to smile beamingly and laugh heartily. I would like to take pleasure in the world. To not dread the holidays already in October. To not risk failing or incompleting another class in school. To not ache and hate myself as much as I do. To have the smokin' bod I had a year and a half ago. To be more than just somebody's friend.</div>
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I resolved myself to working all day today, to play catch-up. In reality, nothing got done. Nothing will get done. I need this space to vent and let out my feelings as they engulf me. My mom wasn't feeling well this morning, so when I got up at 10am, thinking she'd be gone, I was surprised to see her bedroom door closed and checked on her. She didn't make it to Bible class and stayed in bed for several more hours. I basically hung around the house until Meg convinced me to get out of the house for at least a little while, so I drove across the county to buy cigarettes and get gas. That took all of an hour.</div>
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I was up at 2am making Ramen. (Thank you, Ambien Walrus. I hadn't had anything to eat in 12 hours.) Luke let me know tonight that I'd left the stove on all night. I have no recollection of this. Thank God we have an electric stove. He didn't report me to Grandma, because he knows better than to get me into more trouble than I usually already am. </div>
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After school, I had awoken from a nap about an hour after Luke got home. He was lying on his bed video chatting with friends. I tearfully asked if I could lie down beside him, just for the comfort and the tenderness. He said no. Then he said something snarky like, "Get a boyfriend or something," which hurt even more. I gave it some time, and tried again. No again. I went back in my room and cried mightily. Luke came in and asked me what was wrong. I couldn't tell him. I couldn't let him into the loneliness and despair I felt, because to do so would be to sink him into the same sand which was choking me.</div>
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He told me he ran the mile today and cut 2 minutes off his time, and for that I was proud. Still crying, but proud. He quickly retreated back to his room,and I asked him to close my door. He wanted to know why. I said, "Just close the door." I reported back to Meg that I'd failed to win over my son's affections. </div>
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I sent the above video to him, and he bitingly wrote back, "You have no reason to die, so stop." I found it pressing to find any reason besides him to keep living. Apparently, he was able to talk via chat instead of in person. I think that's a fear and defense mechanism. And I totally understand. He said it was far from true that he wouldn't care if I lived or died. We exchanged a bit more back and forth about me wanting to die and Luke not wanting me to die, to the point where I asked him if my life held any value to him. </div>
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"What would I do without you?" he asked.</div>
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That made me relieved and sorrowful. What I don't put that boy through. His resilience is remarkable. I know what it's like to have a depressed parent, because I have one, but her depression seems totally irrational and kooky. Luke knows the root of my depression but is afraid to expound upon it. Not to play down my mom's depression entirely, but she refuses to get help for hers, whereas I seek medication and counseling. </div>
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What would I do without Luke? I would die. Of that I am certain.</div>
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We had our practice session last night with our student therapists with whom we'll be assigned the rest of the semester. It was tough. It was hard enough to break down how I was feeling to one girl, let alone 3 observers. But we are to be truthful. And I got choked up a few times talking about the last week or so. About falling behind on projects. About being unhappy and missing Guy, which I have lately. About feeling inadequate in all facets of my life. </div>
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But I also mentioned my son. It was funny, and harrowing and informative and probably more than the student counselor was prepared for. I told her, really as an aside, that I'd lost my father when I was 11, and she didn't interrupt (when she could and should have) and that when that happened, and I'd never told this to anyone before, that I'd constructed a whole make-believe world where I would let my mind wander, where everything was okay. Where I hadn't lost my parent. Where we wanted for nothing. And that was my escapism. Later in life, my escapism would turn to drugs and alcohol, but I still remember the fantasy life. Sometimes my psychotic mind wanders and constructs what it'd be like now in a utopia. </div>
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Perhaps an early symptom of psychosis, I don't know, but whenever the real world got to be too much for me, I'd retreat my head into this fantasy world. I'd just lie down and imagine how nicely things would work out if things were different than they were in real life. Or I'd roller skate in the basement, around and around in circles, listening to music. That was my way of not dealing with the pain. My son has a much more direct and solid approach. I think that's largely due to his personality and largely due to the bone-crunching realities which he's seen. But he can breathe easy at night, because I haven't died. I wonder if, when he rests his head at night, if he says a little prayer that I made through another day. That's probably a delusion of grandiosity and he's just tired from the rigors of the day.</div>
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I'd hate to be Luke, teetering with a mom who's as unstable as I am. I feel an immense amount of guilt about how he must feel, what thoughts must go through his head, and the overall feeling that is morose in our household. Still in all, I know he wouldn't trade me. He wouldn't want any other mom than me. And my love for him jettisons into the stratosphere. I'm mamby-pambying but I'm a very lucky woman. I have a young man who, in his own way, won't let me sink the Titanic I feel my life has become.</div>
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Which only proves that he's just as crazy as I am.<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-84224469574885505622014-10-24T22:47:00.000-05:002014-10-28T13:16:08.888-05:00I Told You Beatles Purists Would Rip It to Shreds, So I'm Ripping it to Shreds.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm almost sorry I missed the "Glee" renditions of Beatles songs on television.<br />
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Somehow, my psyche blocked the travesty that was the Bee Gees' remake of "Sgt. Pepper" in the late 1970's, with Peter Frampton, which resulted in a bomb of a record and an even worse film.<br />
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But.<br />
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They were probably (in some cosmic, out-of-body way) truer to the Beatles than "With a Little Help from my Fwends," the tribute set to be released by The Flaming Lips, covering the Beatles' "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band."<br />
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While you can, the album is streaming for free on NPR at<br />
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<a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/10/19/356125413/first-listen-the-flaming-lips-with-a-little-help-from-my-fwends%22">http://www.npr.org/2014/10/19/356125413/first-listen-the-flaming-lips-with-a-little-help-from-my-fwends</a><br />
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The Lips' cover of Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" was respectful but fresh. I really liked that album.<br />
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Have you met Sir George Martin, the Beatles' producer?<br />
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I have, he's a freaking legend who made my knees buckle, and I have sat in on a two-hour lecture about the making of this monumental album, oh gosh, some 15 years ago or more. (My most memorable moment from the lecture being body-slammed by Cheap Trick's Rick Nielsen in a hallway.)<br />
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Martin lovingly took the crowd track-by-track as to how the songs were written, produced and performed. He gave us an insider look at the laborious process through which the boys went to bring the album to the magnitude that it is and always will be. Tape-looping and cutting, overdubbing, re-recording things backwards, using strange instruments lying dusty in the Abbey Road studios...all of that was resurrected by the Beatles' ideas and Martin's natural genius as a producer.<br />
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On June 1st, 1967, a masterpiece was released.<br />
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Specifically, what interested me the most were the stories behind "With a Little Help From My Friends" and "A Day in the Life."<br />
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Ringo Starr, not being the best singer but charming nonetheless, tried take after take to nail down the closing note. Martin's story was that the other 3 Beatles and he, himself, sat in the control room while Ringo listened to the recording track, and once Ringo "got it," they all cheered. Martin nearly teared up. It is rather remarkable and touching.<br />
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Regarding "A Day in the Life," Martin thought the Beatles were out of their minds. Converge an entire symphony in the recording studio to produce what Martin called an "orgasm of sound" at certain junctures of the song? The group (mostly McCartney) wanted the symphony to play their instruments at louder and louder notes until, finally, a piano coda lasting 45 seconds would conclude the song and the album. Counting the beats between notes for the symphony and the band was reliable roadie Mal Evans, which you can hear in the final track.<br />
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I have little doubt that The Beatles would imagine a performer as mediocre and foul as Miley Cyrus would conclude a remake of the song. I think what irritated me most about the Flaming Lips' cover is that they could've done SO much more with it than produce annoying noise, especially with "A Day in the Life." If that's their interpretation of it, so be it. It just seemed awfully benign and anti-climactic.<br />
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I'd be interested to hear what McCartney and Starr have to say about the Lips' remake. They're hip, they're cool, but would they be in favor of a messy, quickly-thrown-together onslaught of stomach flu that is "Fwends?" I'll concede on one point alone: the proceeds from the album are going to a charity. To be fair, you should buy it for that alone, if you're a life-long Flaming Lips fanatic or a Beatles fan, both of which I am.<br />
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But I'm one of those Beatles purists. My ex-husband likes to taunt me relentlessly, and has for the 22 years I've known him, with mostly extremely horrible covers of Beatles songs, knowing how much they annoy me. It's an inside joke these days, which doesn't bother me as much as it used to, but it further cements my impression that you can't top the best. The Beatles were the best.<br />
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That said, the Flaming Lips have put out an enormous amount of product in the last few years, from "Fwends," to "The Terror," to "Embryonic" to "Heady Fwends." But I think they're getting tired and lazy. George Harrison said during the making of "Cloud Nine," that he recorded in analog because he preferred "real people making real music." Of course, that was in 1987. The Flaming Lips utilizing technology and computers (which aren't my issue) to create much of their music as of late, the "Sgt Pepper" cover being no exception.<br />
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The Lips' remake is a hot mess. It was decent enough live at Riot Fest, when they did "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" without Miley Cyrus, and Steven Drozd's vocals on "Fixing a Hole" are beautiful. Otherwise, holy crap, stay far, far away if you really love the Beatles. I have a feeling you will.<br />
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This remake isn't fresh,. It isn't an intense, trippy psychedelic adventure. The overall criticism I've read and explored has been that the record is "messy." Indeed it is, and I agree with that. I read Rolling Stone online reviews that were far more scathing than that which I'm offering..."I lasted 11 seconds...." "I lasted 48 seconds...." "This is a piece of shit." Same with NPR's reviews, but a little less vulgar. I have yet to read a glowing review.<br />
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I attempted to be more constructive with my criticism with the band itself. Never mind that Wayne Coyne is going through a huge midlife crisis, divorced his wife and took up with a tramp....he and Miley got matching "With a Little Help From My Fwends" tattoos, (So did the girlfriend, inexplicably.) I told Wayne all along, "Bad idea, bro...." to a guy who said 10 years ago he vowed never to get a tattoo for any reason (GO TEAM MICHELLE MARTIN).<br />
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But I digress.<br />
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On Instagram, I offered an extremely brief review of the record, which was negative. Not only was I blocked from being a follower of Wayne, but I can't even look him up. My son can, and has. This boils down to enough Coyne/Cyrus fans complaining about me to get me booted and blocked. To that, I say fuck you all. I don't need that negativity in my life. Remember this, Wayne?<br />
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I heard his ex-wife bought a boat and a bunch of books on sailing, and is keeping away as far as she can from someone who is, as she iterated to me, "killing himself." I wish Michelle nothing but all the joy she can muster in this life. She's a beautiful person.</div>
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The Flaming Lips as a band stopped following me on Twitter. Fine, because all I post is stuff about psychology and shit about Luke and how crazy my mother is. </div>
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If my only connection to the band remains Steven Drozd, I'm fine with that. He is my friend. He is not superficial and does not draw rock star attention to himself. If he reads this review and it pisses him off, we can talk about it civilly, not ban one another on social media. Our bond is solid, social media be damned. I'll still see them when they play Chicago, but just because I want to spend time with Steven and hear what they're up to musically. I certainly hope it's better than "Fwends." Because as this Beatles purist would say, it sucks.</div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-11677598651858350702014-10-15T10:06:00.002-05:002014-10-15T13:58:59.491-05:00Nothing In This Life That I've Been Trying Can Equal or Surpass the Art of Dying.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Meg and I went out to dinner the other night. Much needed girls' night out.<br />
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We lamented about what's going on in our lives which causes us to feel craptastic. But we had a lot of laughs too. <br />
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She has some negative coping mechanisms, but far more positive ones than I do. For example, when I feel like self-harming, I don't forego the impulse and go for a FORTY MILE BIKE RIDE. I sleep.<br />
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For me, in any case, it seems I've done everything wrong when it comes to POE. Granted, Guy was frequently less than a mile away and POE is thousands of miles away, but Guy, for his extremely shitty responses to communication, was more communicative than POE. I understand busy lives. I have one too.<br />
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I started to tear up with Meg when I told her how much I miss being able to text Guy all of my little observances and tidbits of the day, which he loved to read but didn't always respond. But he'd check in once in a while. POE? I send tidbits to of rather dire or great importance regarding school or what have you, and it takes him like 2 weeks to send me a quick message back. I should have his license by now. I should have his graduation stuff by now, and I don't. When I try to iterate to POE that these are sort of crucial things, he just doesn't answer.<br />
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I get it. He has spotty internet reception, the power goes out a lot, and he found a job that keeps him busy. That said, like Guy, it takes 30 seconds to type over a reply, or say hi, or just let me know I haven't been forgotten. Meg and I talked at dinner, wondering if Guy has been on the blog just checking in, and he hasn't to the best of my knowledge. Neither has POE, who I still think doesn't know much about me having a blog.<br />
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Last night, I had these horrible dreams. One was a PTSD dream about Chris during which he was telling me all about his new girlfriend and telling me he didn't want to see me anymore (which isn't that far off the mark of what really happened) and the other; Craig became a transsexual, and I wouldn't let him have any custody of Luke. Not that I inherently have anything against transsexuals, but in the dream, I had absolutely no patience for Craig's lipstick-donning bullshit.<br />
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Point being: there's something amiss about every fella I know. And it's probably all my fault. I really thought POE was a slam dunk of luck--but then my brain catches up with me, and reminds me that I'm most likely too overweight and homely for him to give a shit, other than to get his paperwork in on time. Meg has more internal, serious problems, but half of her maladies are because she's TOO pretty and awesome.<br />
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The transition to Argosy has been relatively smooth, save for one class where you have to do weekend residencies. I was sidelined by a nasty injury and infection last week that had me just SLIGHTLY under the weather:<br />
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Attractive, isn't it? Anyway, I have to find my old syllabus from when I took the same class at Adler, which I've asked the professor to email me, which she hasn't yet. If I can get credit for having taken the class already, I won't fail. If I do fail, I have to take the course again. The ring beside the infected one is my father's wedding ring. It was also in danger of having to be cut off, but thanks to Luke and a trick with a string on YouTube, he got it off intact, thank God. Still, antibiotics that made me feel sick to my stomach, pain pills that put me to sleep, and soon enough, like this morning, I've fallen into a depressive episode.<br />
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Kate was totally on top of my finger situation, though she was on holiday in Maine and then had to go back to New York because her father-in-law passed away in Colorado. She kept insisting that no matter what these other bozos think of me, I always have BMF, which is true, and Meg reiterated that at dinner. Seeing BMF had me on like a 3-week high, during which I largely ignored how hurt I was feeling from POE being so unresponsive.<br />
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But that's worn off, and now I'm aggravated and lonesome again. I don't like to cry in front of Meg. I hate to. I'm supposed to be her rock. Her go-to girl. But at dinner, I broke down just a little bit and once again resigned that my life heretofore will be my son, my work and myself, by myself, and that it was just something I'd have to get used to.<br />
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No, I'm not going to join an online dating service. It is my belief that one shouldn't have to pay to find love, and I think the whole concept is ridiculous. Even free sites, like OKCupid, have the worst algorithms for matching I've ever encountered. But I'm just tired of it. Tired of it all.<br />
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I expressed to Meg missing Guy, missing POE, being perturbed at POE (over which he did apologize once), and my general discontent towards the lack of affection and love that I have in my life.<br />
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Recently, I read an article on social isolation and loneliness. It concluded through a study that social isolation is twice as deadly as obesity, worse than smoking 15 cigarettes a day, and far more people will die from it than they will from Ebola, I found these statistics to be probably pretty accurate. Thank God I'm overweight and smoke like a chimney. That triples the rate at which I could die.<br />
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It doesn't help that I'm completely not sleeping well. I'll doze off around 11 or 11:30, but I wake up at 12:30 and am up until like 3am, fall back asleep at 5am, then up at 7 to instinctively make sure my son has left for school, then going back to sleep until almost noon. That's not healthy or helping much. I think it's part of being manic depressive, the disruption of the nocturnal pattern in a mixed mood.<br />
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My thyroid's still fucked up, so the doctors increased the dose of the medication, It's not supposed to see-saw numbers around. It's not stable. It took my prodding and medical knowledge to convince the doctors that I needed to be on a higher dose of medication. Idiots. No wonder I'm not losing any weight.<br />
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I'm sure I have some paper to write, or some other work which to attend, so I'll put a cap on this one. A cap on the crush on POE. Reel in the flutters of missing Guy. Mentally prepare myself for growing alone, surviving alone and dying alone.<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-24337655252818797042014-09-25T22:21:00.001-05:002019-08-05T19:41:07.746-05:00Bear Hugs. Not Bare Hugs.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We all hug our babies. It's part of our motherly/fatherly instincts. Why? Because we love them. And they're so dang cute and cuddly. They also unequivocally need you when they're that age. We, as parents, are relied upon for our children's sustenance, a job the vast majority of us do not take lightly.<br />
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As they age, and we age, their independence grows. Soon they're toddling, walking, falling. I remember when Luke was about 2, and he fell down (I think it was) about 3 carpeted stairs down to our living room. He cried, naturally, but I called the paramedics. They came, sat him on the kitchen counter, did a basic neuro check, he had no scrapes or cuts to mend and told me I was an overprotective mother, but that was okay.<br />
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The years progress. You hug them tightly the first day you leave them at pre-kindergarten, wondering how you could've left your child in the care of SOMEONE ELSE for 3 hours when his babysitter up until that point had only been his grandmother, whom you trusted.<br />
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When he was 8, he came to visit me in rehab. How surreal that must have been for him, but he needed to be reassured that I was going to be okay and he would see me again soon. And he did, just days later when I was released.<br />
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Certainly, boys and their mothers (though I've never personally seen this with little girls and their fathers), at a certain point, in middle school or thereabouts, don't hug as much, if at all. I remember getting pats on the back and if Luke was feeling very generous, he'd touch his lips to my cheek as a "kiss that wasn't a kiss." This, I accepted as part of his maturation process. Suddenly, Mom was icky.<br />
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But then I started getting sick. Very sick. I was constantly in and out of the hospital, with a litany of maladies and necessary operations. I have this t-shirt I like to sleep in, a picture of mid 70's heroin'd out Keith Richards, which says, "Too Tough To Die." The day I had my hysterectomy in 2012 when Luke was 12, I asked if he could break his school's dress code and wear my t-shirt that day to school. The request was granted, and I knew from his teacher that he was nervous that day, asked if the class could pray for me and from my ex-husband that Luke was anxious that day and anxious to see me that night after I'd had some time to recover. He has saved all of the hospital visitors passes he's received when I've been an inpatient.<br />
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I don't consider it to be a "mama's boy" scenario, or a helicopter parent thing, but I'd say in the last 6 months or so, he's reached out for a big bear hug and a kiss on the cheek when we say goodnight. Last night struck me in particular. He was sitting at his desk at his computer, and I was prepared to just say goodnight and go into my room. He said, "Wait a sec." He rose from his chair, walked across the room and gave me a big hug. A tight hug. And this has been the case for quite some time. It is a warmth I welcome because affection starvation is a very real thing. When you're not touched or held for a great deal of time, every hug, every hand-hold, every rumble/tumble becomes all the more important. Luke's become a big old teddy bear, and I couldn't be happier. We're often cited by lots of people who can tell how close we are as mother and son. True, he is the most important person in my life. Not my mom, not my friends....my son.<br />
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And you can tell a genuine from an ingenuous hug instantaneously. I was so glad to hug BMF when we saw one another a couple of weeks ago, my body filled with joy. He was feeling huggy himself that night and even hugged Luke and commented on what a close relationship we obviously have.<br />
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Apart from my hugs from Luke and BMF, the last meaningful hugs I have received are from Meg and from POE, when we parted at the airport. Meg is a huggy bear like I am, and we always hug, and there is genuine love in all of those hugs. I hug members of my family, but those feel more obligatory than affectionate sometimes.<br />
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Those hugs from Luke? I never want them to end. Ever. I'm proud that I've raised a sensitive and warm young man who's not afraid to show his love and emotions. (I know he reads some of these blogs and I'm probably embarrassing the hell out of him.) I hope that when he moves forward in relationships, he is likewise as respectful and affectionately grounded as he is now, even more so.<br />
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Luke treats me with respect (sometimes) and I do as well (usually). Our offbeat relationship works. I'd challenge any single mother with a teenage son to show me how much fun, how many laughs, how many commonalities, and how many hugs she gets from her boy. I'm truly blessed to have such a phenomenal young man in my life, who makes me think every day that yes, I'd like to stick around for awhile longer, even when I'm deeply depressed.<br />
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Bonus: HE CAN LIFT ME OUT OF SINKING MUD.<br />
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Someday, he's going to leave me...whether that's off to college, or to get married and have a family of his own (he damn well better not for a very long time). I like to think that when we do get to see one another, those incredible hugs will still never cease. It's my fervent hope that he raises his own children to be as open with their affection as he has always been, even during those awkward years.<br />
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That's not to say he doesn't hug or love on his dad, though. Craig spent a lot more time playing with Luke as he grew up than I did. It's a guy thing...they just had a lot more in common to do (i.e. Legos, Star Wars, etc.) together than he and I did as he grew up. And they still enjoy the same hobbies--photography, radio broadcasting, all that sort of stuff.<br />
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So Craig and I both take some of the credit for the young man Luke is. But Luke, himself, has formed his personality. Nature/nurture. Keep hugging me, Luke. And I'll keep hugging you. We both need it.<br />
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-29002955354850018212014-09-14T20:06:00.000-05:002014-09-15T20:00:36.471-05:00A Picture says a Thousand Words. I'll be brief.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Riot Fest, 2014</div>
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Hey, at least I didn't post the photo here of me trying to eat his cheek with my smoochies. Er, wait.</div>
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We had no cell signals, so it was almost impossible to find one another. 2 bars of reception = no es bueno. But eventually we did. </div>
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We got quite a giggle making fun of Guy.</div>
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We had fun talk, serious talk, sarcastic talk, deep and vapid thoughts, and lots of laughs. He's too sweet for words. Wayne, meanwhile, oddly didn't stick around and visit with anyone and took off with his girlfriend back to the bus. </div>
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Steven, Luke and I enjoyed a nice long, overdue visit. </div>
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Security was a bitch. Literally.</div>
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No more festivals for me....ever. Steven said if that were they case, he'd agree and not do any if he could help it. </div>
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The Flaming Lips show was fantastic, well, until they blew out all the power, which came back on.</div>
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Luke and I got stuck in the mud. Deeply. Badly. Valium-worthy.</div>
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We walked approximately 5k and not prepared for that AT ALL. Humboldt Park is BIG and the signage for the entrance was MILES AWAY. </div>
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We missed most of Wu Tang Clan while Luke was lifting me out of mud quicksand.</div>
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We didn't have the best view of the Lips, but Luke got up in front for "Lucy in the Sky With Dimonds," (the Miley-free version) and his mind was blown away. I'll post that video when he's done editing it. </div>
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The Offbeat Drummer, The Onbeat Drummer, and my Offbeat Offbeat Offspring.</div>
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Steven loved Luke's hair and agrees, he should never cut it. It's too cool. </div>
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Rating: Lips + Steven = 100%</div>
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The entire rest of Riot Fest = -2,000%</div>
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Love!</div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8191306183209604345.post-56484561079978610352014-08-28T22:02:00.000-05:002014-08-28T22:42:10.532-05:00Laugh.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On the bipolar scale, I'd say right now, I'm neither manic nor depressive. Quite overwhelmed, with a lot of tasks I've procrastinated, but overall, I'd say I'm stable.<br />
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School at Argosy starts in a week and I still haven't submitted my stipend loan paperwork. I haven't purchased my books. I haven't finished my classes from last term at Adler. There are money woes, but I'm pretty much slacking in them off in favor of other pursuits.<br />
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Tonight's my first night not responsible for assuring that Luke gets to high school on time, walking to the bus at 6:45 am. The week's been harrowing with his schedule. The first day of school, my nephew came in from UIC for the evening and to surprise Luke. Our big surprise was that 2.5 hours later, we'd still be waiting in the school parking lot for my mechanic to jump my car battery so I could drive to the service station. While exasperated, I couldn't help but just chuckle at the predictability of my misfortune.<br />
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Everyone is on edge. The world is on edge. There is war, senseless death, racial tension and tragedy, famine, Pat Robertson, drought...pretty much every icky thing God promised He'd send our way in the Bible (I think).<br />
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What sparked this blog entry? What threw me over the cliff? I realized that I'd spent most of the day laughing. Maybe it's just by-product of me being nuts, but then I saw this:<br />
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It's just a cat. But it's a cat wearing aviator sunglasses, who evidently leads a double life as another family's pet cat, and now they're in a custody battle over who gets the cat. It was at that point when I realized that life, if you dissect it into pieces, is quite honestly pretty ridiculous. This cracked me up.<br />
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Everybody's in such a rush. I'm no exception. I'm lucky if one task gets scratched of the to-do list on a daily basis, leaving the 100 other things undone. Is it my lack of motivation which makes me find literally everything funny? I'm not sure. We're in a rush to find jobs, to get our finances and school supplies in order. We run to meetings, breathless. Why? Truthfully, yes, we have to be responsible people completing the challenges we face, many of which aggravate or confuse us.<br />
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What grace will save you? The realization that all of this crap will work itself out--the way it's supposed to--when it's supposed to happen. If I were depressive right now, I'd be ignoring and/or missing out on all of this goofy world. Color me blithe about the severity of the current events of the world and living in my own little crazy bubble if you want. Frankly, that doesn't bother me. Like the Beach Boys song above says, "Don't Worry, Baby....everything will turn out alright." Ditch the dread. Cling to the hope. Let the frenzy subside when you lay your head down on your pillow at night. </div>
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Learn to suspend your reality, even if it's for just few minutes a day and explore something silly. Engage with people, whether that's virtually or in-person. Half the reason I'm going into the field of psychology is for the fact that most people are just PRETTY. DAMN. WEIRD. I want to help these people. I'm not going to lie and repeat what my first therapy skills teacher said and make sure all of my clients are walking out with "bubbles and butterflies," but learn to appreciate the uniqueness of each individual you encounter. Trust me, there'll be something about them, even if they drive you apeshit, that will either bring a smile to your face or an outright guffaw. Maybe that's the lesson I learned as a result of Robin Williams' suicide. We miss people, we'll miss Robin, and while his depression devoured him, he left behind a powerful legacy and lessons, which are to be kind, compassionate, forgiving, and to make others smile. </div>
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We all suffer, some more severely than others. When I'm depressed or even wondering if it's worth it to stick around, I remember that religion, money, the 1%, the poverty rate, the wars overseas...they're all horrible crises, but life is beautiful and enjoy it while it lasts. You might bear the burden of much--too much--on your shoulders, but relax. As Prince said in "Let's Go Crazy," (appropriately enough) "Hang tough, children." </div>
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Love the people who love you, be them your family, your kids, your friends, your co-workers or fellow students. Hell, your drug store checker who tells you when you leave, "Have a good day and be well." (Thank you, Walgreens guy, by the way.) Try to remember that in most cases, we all want one another to have an opportunity to be happy and yes, to LAUGH.</div>
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I would't bet my stipend that my flowery mood will last really long, which is why I cherish it even more. Yesterday's headache might be tomorrow's migraine, but until that happens, which it invariably will at some point, this bipolar bear will carpe diem. </div>
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This is a great little 2 1/2 minute oldie from The Monkees, entitled "Laugh." The video clip, from the television show, is a humorous romp. It's a good song. </div>
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The Offbeat Drummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297496441624179505noreply@blogger.com0