“The Clock strikes hope and time to bring / but it’s turning into a beast like you”

Posted on 05/21/2013 by ericmcclanahan

I spend all my time looking forward. I don’t want my present; it’s hardly a gift. I think ahead to a time when I won’t be so destitute broke and all the wonderful things I’ll do. A time when I won’t be so unbearably busy and all the wonderful things I’ll do. A time when I’ll be more productive and all the wonderful things I’ll do.

I want to do wonderful things.

I have been sitting down and budgeting a lot lately. I have to. I make a handsome salary and also get four bonuses a year. The first bonus of fiscal 2013 will be coming to me shortly and it’s already spent. On fun things; adventures for my wife and I? Nope. Bills. I have to pay the outstanding balance from my three useless therapy sessions, I have to get a new tire for my car (one of them has a slow leak), I have to finish paying for my tux for the wedding in upstate New York in July, I have to pay for my car’s registration for 2013, and I have to start paying towards my tax liability for 2012. So, yeah; that money, which I don’t even have and couldn’t begin to quantify, is gone.

The tax liability for 2012 is particularly frustrating. I was being undertaxed; they were withholding too little. So what did I do with that extra money that found its way into my pockets over the year? I gave it all away. I donated $600 to charity in 2012 and then when it was all over I owe $900 in taxes. Very, very frustrating.

I hate being concerned about money. It’s not me. It’s not who I am. But here it is.

When my affluence returns, I will use it to relax. I haven’t been allotting any time to myself in the past six months. I need to be a friend to myself again. I can’t remember the last time I finished a book. Maybe I’ll write more. Doubtful, but maybe.

My mentor at work is leaving at the close of the summer, so that derails my career path rather significantly, also. This year started out so bright, so full of promise, but it has shown itself to be a downright bastard in the past few months.

But, again, I’m looking forward. Always forward. There’s no time for the present…

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“Seaside and down on the wayside”

Posted on 05/07/2013 by ericmcclanahan

My dreams are volatile, the skin I’m in screaming for claws. I’ve been acutely aware of my femoral artery lately; it undulates in my body when the world slows down, singing to my fingernails, nearby blades, shards of porcelain. Inside it lives a Demon that wants a fight; a good, short, bloody fight. It licks insults, flicks Its tongue, bites Its thumb at me. It incites me, enrages me, begs me to take action against It. The Demon wants to die, but more so It wants to take me with It. It’s getting harder to ignore.

I haven’t been as active on social media lately with my quips and witty dissertations, my sharp-tongued opinions, lacerations of pop culture and friendly distractions. Because I don’t think anyone wants to hear my opinions. Because I don’t want to hear my opinions.

Trust me: you don’t.

Reach In and Pull This Out

Reach In and Pull This Out

 

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Mid-year update (sort of)

Posted on 05/06/2013 by ericmcclanahan

So, here we are, it’s May 6th.  How am I doing with my New Year’s Resolutions? Okay, I guess.

I unfortunately don’t have much to say.  It’s not that I don’t have thoughts or issues or whatnot; if anything, there’s too much shit in there, but I just can’t muster up the energy to exorcise any of it.  I’m not unhappy; I’m just here.

Iron Man 3 was really good!

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“That he’d gotten all he wanted / a crowd to watch him bare the pain”

Posted on 03/21/2013 by ericmcclanahan

We’re not drowning, but we’re not swimming too well, either.

 

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“Well, me, it’s nice talking to myself / a credit to dementia”

Posted on 02/24/2013 by ericmcclanahan

So, Thursday I went to PsyCare to see my new therapist, a multi-doctorate psychologist with a sonarist, calming voice.  My experience in the waiting room was probably the saddest point of the day.  So much pain in such a small area.  I arrived shortly after 8:30am and checked in, passing off my insurance card and receiving a clipboard full of forms with highlighted areas for me to sign.  I took a seat across from an incredibly tired woman with two adorable young children, each beaming with youth and exuberance, a foil to her defeated fatigue and subdued parenting.  While navigating the forms (the one on top was blank; WTF?) a young man came in with his son and started fighting with one of the receptionists about his copay.  My Dr came out and introduced himself and let me know he was looking forward to seeing me and that they’d buzz me in when I was finished with the forms.  I had finished some time before but was waiting out the fight at the window.  I finally approached and had my forms scrutinized, even to the point that I had to resubmit one.  I’d signed that I had no qualms with my therapist sharing information with my primary physician, despite not having a primary physician.  Apparently, that meant I wanted to refuse such communication.  Which I don’t.  But whatever.

The receptionist went on to tell me that she hadn’t been able to contact my insurance provider and hence didn’t know what my copay would be, and asked me what I thought it might be.  I shrugged and said “fifty?”, to which she shrugged and said “sure, give me that.”  I presented my coupon (WTF!!) and paid forty, then we looked at each other for awhile.  Finally I said, “Aren’t you going to buzz the doctor?”  She lazily did so and he reappeared and led me to his office.

The first thing he mentioned was that I was a Leo, then went on to tell me what a “firecracker” my signature indicated me to be.  He surveyed me and made a comment that I appeared quite put together and subdued.  I shrugged.  We went into his office and I began to piece together a portrait of him through the various displays on the walls and bookshelf.  There was his Theology commendation, a framed reproduction of an illuminated text piece of Bach’s “Ave Maria”, a framed flyer from the Dalai Lama’s recent visit to San Diego in 2009.  He asked me about my high school, then asked why I’d not pursued more scholastic endeavors after high school, commenting that I seemed very intelligent and educated.  I told him life got in the way, but I’m an avid reader.  He asked me a bit about my family and my wife, then turned his chair to face me and told me all about him.

He is 64, married only once, has a 25 yr old daughter.  He is a theologian, with extensive study in seminary, hebrew, islamic, and buddhist sects.  He is a theater aficionado, a music lover, and a current practicer of the martial arts.  It was like staring into the future.  As I told him more about me, he seemed more pleased that we’d been placed together.  I think he’s just as happy with me as I am with him.  I had barely begun to hint at what brought me to seek therapy, merely suggesting that I had recurrent depression, before our session was over.  He told me his initial diagnosis is that I am biporal with major recurrent depression.  I shrugged and said, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He walked me out to speak with the receptionist about my insurance copay debacle, but he wasn’t able to get any more information than I was.  I scheduled four more appointments with him, one for each week in the next month.  I told the receptionist that I thought it’d be best to meet once a week at the onset of our time together and then see about tapering off to every two weeks, to which she just shrugged.  A lot of shrugging all around was to be seen that day.

So, yeah, I like my therapist and I’m looking forward to working through my concerns with him.  At this point, I think he likes me, but I haven’t really gotten the opportunity to scare him with the darker aspects of my psychosis.  Which is a shame; he seems like a really nice guy.  I worry that I might hold back out of admiration, which isn’t fair to either of us.

I suppose we’ll see.  Like me, he’s not terribly anxious to put me on medication and would rather explore therapeutic options first, which I was very happy to hear.

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“Have a seat, a cup of wine, have a good cry”

Posted on 02/19/2013 by ericmcclanahan

hey casanova

I am doing much better today. I broke down last night and cried. I needed it.

I left work and went to the bar and had three whiskeys in a short amount of time, then went home and poured myself another glass.

I haven’t had much of an appetite but I needed to try, to pretend, to lie to myself, to do something, anything, so I decided I’d make some macaroni and cheese, a constant comfort food of mine. I opened the box and found the appropriate pot to cook it in but the bottom of the pot was scratched and the teflon coating was flaking off. I slammed it on the counter, dejected, and decided I’d just watch some TV instead. I sat down on the couch and grabbed our cable remote and cued up an episode of “The Soup” I’d DVR’d but the select button has been wonky lately and it wasn’t working. That’s when I broke. Frustration swept into my depression and I just collapsed under the weight of it all, heaving tired sobs. Mer came out to try to calm me down and I just kept sobbing, saying “The world is broken” over and over again. I think I might have scared her a little a lot. I was wavering between a wailing depressive’s cries and a manic’s fascination with simple solutions, even going so far as to ask if I could break one of our chairs. She didn’t let me, and I think that’s for the best. I eventually descended into soaking wet apologies for being so broken, so useless, such a terrifying burden.

Despite the relatively frightening nature of it all, it did me a lot of good. I feel much better today, and so I drove to PsyCare to try to get myself a healer. While researching therapists covered under my healthcare plan, I noticed a great number of them were all in the same building, like a garden of magicians, so I figured I’d just drive up there and nab one. No.

A quick word about my concerns with PsyCare: on their website, they have a first-time patient special; a coupon for $10 off your first visit. A coupon!! Umm… does anybody else find this completely, utterly baffling?? Price breaks for the broken??

I walked into the office to find two receptionists behind glass. One greeted me and asked if I needed to check in for an appointment, and I said, “No, I’m a new… guest… customer… patient? I’m new.” She responded by handing me a card and circling a phone number on it (which was preceded by “To Cancel Only call”) and saying I should call and set up an appointment. I was too shocked or tired or something to risk a fight and explain “Hey, there are literally dozens of doctors behind those doors; I just want one. How many fucking crazy people can there be in San Diego?” so I just numbly accepted the card and walked out the door I’d come in.

I went back to my parked car and climbed in and called the number. A woman answered and asked “Can I help you?” and I responded “Yes, I need to talk to someone about my crippling depression.” My blunt directness tripped her up a bit, but she recovered and put me on hold to transfer me. I talked to a nice-sounding woman who pre-screened me with the usual questions: Are you concerned you have a substance addiction? Are you in danger of hurting yourself or others? Are you currently taking any medication for mental illness? Well, why the fuck not? You’re clearly crazy, or else you wouldn’t be calling me!

My personal favorite was when she asked “Are you in danger of being harmed by another person?” Ummm… I don’t… think so? Why? What have you heard?

Long story… long, I have an appointment to meet with a man whose name eludes me (but I recall it sounded rather severe) on Thursday at 9am. Seeing as how I don’t eat or sleep, shouldn’t be a problem being up that early or skipping breakfast. The lady asked me if I’d prefer a male or female therapist and I said I guess it didn’t matter, but in honesty I think I’d respond better to a woman, or open up more, anyway. I didn’t want to say it out loud, though. It seems strange to me to order a woman, like a footlong sandwich. “Lettuce, tomatoes, and breasts, please. Thank you.” I think I’d prefer the nurturing nature of femininity more, is all.

In any case, the path to healing has begun, my humor has returned a bit, and I am looking forward to a swift and tearful recovery…

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“They keep calling me…”

Posted on 02/18/2013 by ericmcclanahan

I can’t sleep.  I lie in bed and listen to the screaming in my brain.

I can’t keep my eyes open; the world is too garish.  I can’t close them; the swirl of fury and flames and defeat in my head are too terrifying.

I can’t eat.  I can’t pretend.

My heart is broken.  My mind is fractured.  I… can’t.

I feel like I can’t live in this world that I’ve come to know.  A world where rapists and brutes are given second chances.  A world where seemingly smart people drink poison and call it faith.  It hurts me too much.

I have been broken.  I spend the hours of the day trying not to cry.  I envisioned another version of myself as I was lying in bed, not sleeping, refusing to face the world; one where I smiled and pushed the strife to the back of my mind.  One where I was no longer in a rut.  But I knew it was a lie.  I would rather live in the truth than a lie.  That is why this new world that I’ve seen affects me so; because it is the truth that I’ve been spared for so long.

I am only so much bitterness and disappointment.  I don’t want this anymore.

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“Don’t fret, precious; I’m here / step away from the window”

Posted on 02/17/2013 by ericmcclanahan

I whispered this mantra to myself as I lie in bed this afternoon:  I am more than merely a bottle of anger.  Beneath my skin there is more than just fire.  I can be a reasonable person.

I am miserable.  It’s one of those days when I want to just quit.  And I don’t mean my job.

Anger is a fire that consumes everything, and it feeds upon itself.  No one likes being angry, so being angry makes them angry, hence the compounding nature of anger.  And after (if) it subsides, no one is pleased with who they were when the anger took hold of them, so remorse sets in.

That’s been me, all day.  I am currently in the remorse state, and it is eating me alive.  I can’t eat, I have no energy; I just want to throw my hands up and start wailing.

But I can’t do that.  I’ve got a job to do, money to make, so I can pay bills that don’t go away and keep living a life that some days I don’t even want.

I want to disappear.

I’m the perfect villain because I believe I’m a good guy.  But I’m not.  I’m bad at loving, bad at caring, bad a being a human being.  I never lie, I always keep my word, and I remember almost everything.  I believe I am right most of the time.  These seemingly admirable qualities add up to a fierce and destructive individual that will burn the earth because he cares about only a handful of people.  I am the perfect villain, a brilliant monster.

Gentlemen, a word of advice: the affection of a woman, physical or emotional, is a gift.  It is not to be taken or taken for granted.

I want to break everything.

I can’t keep all of this to myself anymore.  I want to break down.  I had a mini panic attack the other day while driving home from work.  I thought about my insides bursting and then felt light-headed, and I was certain my brain was trying to will me into dying.  And I kind of wanted it.

I think I’m going to drive to PsyCare tomorrow and start interviewing therapists.  If I don’t have a meeting at work, that is.  That’s the worst part: I can’t be miserable, or sick, or depressed, or dying.  Life won’t let me!

“go back to sleep”

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“I’m getting hungry / peel me a grape”

Posted on 02/04/2013 by ericmcclanahan

The Sad is not going away.  It is abating, at times, and even some happy is getting through the cracks on occasion, but the Sad is not done with me.

I’ve been very busy the past month.  January was excruciatingly long.  I would frame my thoughts and experiences but I honestly don’t know what to say.

I’m very agitated lately, and I find the pervasive thought in my head being one of “CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”  I have often found myself to be a man of minimal fears and stresses, and the exceptions to this state of being are often the residual flailings of those around me; the shrapnel of others’ concerns.  It’s not as though I don’t have my own issues that need resolution; I do.  I just choose not to blow them out of proportion, and to deal with them in a calm and orderly fashion.  I am a sprinter and a marksman, not a distance runner or sniper.  When something needs to be done, I do it, immediately.  I don’t let unresolved issues fester inside me and crystallize into cancer; I excise them forthwith.  I rarely treat anything short of a conflagration as a fire.  Many around me do not have this calm and even-handed view of the world and its tribulations.  They wail and gesticulate wildly, beating their brows and chests and wringing their hands at the insurmountable futility of it all.

While I softly walk across the room and turn the water on, then coolly turn to see the flames wither away and the smoke of precision and decisiveness fill the room in lieu of the screams of the overtaken.

But sometimes their exclamations are too loud, too passionate to speak over or reason to.  Sometimes they choke me out while crying themselves hoarse, and like napalm, their fear and weakness coat my form and sink into my skin.  It’s very upsetting.

JUST CALM THE FUCK DOWN! please.

I have been retreating into music and books in the past weeks, and I’m totally okay with that.  I’m rediscovering some wonderful music that I’ve been neglecting (I will always be a faithful Marilyn Manson fan) and educating myself with more versatile literature choices.  I’m currently reading Sartre and Alarcon; good stuff.  I’ve considered writing more, but I’m collaborating with several other people on assorted projects and so my attention is a bit diverted.  Perhaps in late February.  (February is shaping up to be excruciatingly long, as well.)

I guess that’s it.

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“Swallow whole / lose myself in you”

Posted on 01/16/2013 by ericmcclanahan

The funk has rolled in and settled around me. I have been in a haze of depression for over a month now, and I am very displeased. I sleep constantly, and when I’m not asleep, I’m pouring alcohol in the open sore of my face. My productivity at work has declined considerably, my contempt for my fellow Man has risen sharply, my temper is shorter, my conversations succinct, my patience thin. I have been incredibly introspective, which as a relative point of light, has allowed me to examine myself more closely and come to some somber if not illuminating conclusions:

1.  I am outrageously vain. I’ve suspected as much for quite some time, but it’s becoming more apparent. I want everyone around me to love me. Not appreciate, admire, or revere me; to love me. To cling to me desperately, to claw at me lasciviously, to yearn for me endlessly. I will do whatever it takes to ensure this inevitability, as well. I hold myself in very high regard, so much that I sicken myself. Because I have such a high-self opinion, because I genuinely believe I am worthwhile, altruistic, benign, intelligent, talented, passionate, attractive, and capable, I consider myself to be a man of infinite self-respect, bordering on narcissism. And why shouldn’t I? I’d wallowed in self-deprecation and low self-opinion for years, and at the time it was well-deserved. Now I lead a fulfilling and impressive life, and I built it with my own hands. I came from nothing, and now I have everything I could ever want, and no one to which I am indebted. I am amazing, and therefore narcissistic. And I hate narcissists. So, henceforth, do the math: I hate myself, because I love myself too much.

2.  I am hopelessly shallow. I surround myself with beautiful people and beautiful people only and I show no shame for it. I am an avid appreciator of beauty in all its forms, and I desire the finer things in life: art, music, literature. I sneer in disdain at that which disgusts me, and quite a lot disgusts me. I am an elitist.

3.  I am incredibly lonely. I’ve built a wall around myself from which to fine tune the machine that is me, the face that I project. I have closed myself off so that the disgusting and harmful cannot chip away at my perfect veneer, so that I will never drop my guard, diminish my performance. Because, remember, I want everyone to love me, so I’m constantly putting on a show, so no one who ever meets me really meets me. Since no one meets me, no one knows me, and therefore I am incredibly alone.

4.  I am, ostensibly, an awful, awful person.

And this is what I come face-to-face with when the day comes to a close, when those moments arise, ever so rarely, that I fall asleep, as opposed to the oft-scenario wherein I simply stop being awake.  I tuck warm and comforting linens to my chin and try to convince myself the world doesn’t matter for the time being, all the while remembering how I’d charmed, lied, and misdirected my countenance toward the whole cruel crusade.  I know, when the day concludes, what a vain, shallow, lonely, and awful person I am.  However, the one silver lining I can cling to is that I am not cruel.  You see, the concept of one who is vain and selfish will often coincide with those who are cruel, as diminishing those around can help to elevate one amongst the downtrodden.  However, I will never be that sort of person; for all my shortcomings, I refuse to find any superiority in standing upon those I might consider below me.  I’ve always heard the concept of “Vain, Selfish, and Cruel” and, trust me, I get it; but no matter how Vain or Selfish I’ll become, I doubt I’ll ever be cruel.  Even if, as I mentioned earlier, something/someone disgusts me, I would never tout my opinion as fact, or any kind of meter of one’s importance in the general ledger of humankind.  That’s not my job, and I’ll never assume it to be.  Whether I’m Kelley Osbourne on the Red Carpet or me on my terribly Selfish Onslaught of Internet Accountability, the voices you hear are just that: Voices.  You have the power to believe them or ignore them.  I choose you listen to yourself.

 

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