the road from there to here (part 2)

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[if you haven't already, you might want to read part 1 first]

schizoid?

scary-ass word--conjured up all sorts of images from the three faces of eve and sybil--which is probably why whenever i ran across the term in my early, obsessive searches for what the fuck was the matter with me, i always skimmed past it in search of more promising leads.

turns out had i bothered to delve into its meaning way back when, i could've solved my mystery long ago.

see, i had confused the term "schizoid" with "schizophrenic"--an easy mistake, since both words have as their root the greek word schizo, meaning "split." difference is, schizophrenics are split from reality, whereas we schizoids are merely split from...well, humanity.

still confused? can't blame you; it's not like oprah's ever done a show on the subject [that could change, though--hell, with the right marketing, i could totally see this becoming the new bulimia].

anyway, here are (a) the definition of, and (b) the diagnostic criteria for the condition that so opened my eyes that day (along with my personal assessment of where i rate on each):

schizoid: a pervasive pattern of detachment from social relationships and a restricted range of expression of emotions in interpersonal settings, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by four (or more) of the following:

1. neither desires nor enjoys close relationships, including being part of a family. on a scale of 1-10, i'm at least 7 (and probably higher) on this one--i.e., sufficiently aloof to find relationships painful, yet not enough to erase the knowledge of what i'm missing and the pain i'm causing the people who love me.


2. almost always chooses solitary activities. yup.


3. has little, if any, interest in having sexual experiences with another person. for the first thirty-four years of my life i was a virtual monk; for the next eighteen, i fucked anything that moved. didn't matter much either way--i was always by myself.


4. takes pleasure in few, if any, activities. wait--you're tellin me there's people out there who actually enjoy shit?


5. lacks close friends or confidants other than first-degree relatives. it is understood among my relatives that mkf is "different," but they put up with my standoffishness because they have to; conversely, i can count on one hand the non-relatives in my life who haven't finally thrown up their hands and walked away.


6. appears indifferent to the praise or criticism of others. this, believe it or not, actually intimidates people.


7. shows emotional coldness, detachment, or flattened affectivity. if i work at it (and it's hard work, trust me), i can fool most people into believing i give a shit. it's a pretty good show, but don't try to go backstage.

needless to say, i scored myself high in every criterion save maybe the last--and that, only when i actively resist it.

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anyway, back to the story--having digested all this information, next time the good doctor paid a visit, i asked him if, as in my case, schizoid and depression always went hand in hand.

he replied, "not at all. hard-core schizoids are often perfectly content in their solitary little worlds; it's the borderlines--the ones like you, who can't live with people yet can't give 'em up, either--that have so much trouble with the condition."

and in answer to my next question, he said, "no, personality disorders by their very nature tend to be treatment-resistant--once you're there, whether you were born that way or acquired it through trauma or loss, you're pretty much there for life."

"so," i said, "what you're telling me is, i can never, ever, hope to regain the feelings for people that i had before all the trouble started."

"i'm afraid that's it, mike" (checking his watch, checking his pager). "i'm sorry, but i have to go."

and there you have it--more useful truth from a tactless, competent psychiatrist in two fifteen-minute sessions than i'd ever gotten from a lifetime of compassionate, incompetent therapists.

it was shortly thereafter that i began my serious drinking and found, to my surprise, that the good doctor was, at least in one respect, full of shit--given sufficient alcohol, many of those good feelings for people that i'd been told were irretrievably dead came roaring back with a vengeance--but at a price, of course.

four years in, it's time to find a less lethal trigger, if such a thing exists; i guess we'll see.



[in case you're wondering what the title of this thread has to do with its content, i had originally intended to get all this background covered in part 1 (what can i say--i got tired), and then trace my trajectory from open, happy kid to shut-down, schizoid adult in part 2. i have since changed my mind about that (the history's not that interesting, really, and certainly not deserving of a part 3), but since it's out there already i'll let the title stand.]

the road from there to here (part 1)

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a few years ago i came down with a serious illness and was hospitalized for several weeks. once it became clear i was gonna live, my doctor (who had become concerned about my mental state after my prolonged confinement) had a friend of his, a prominent psychiatrist, drop by a couple times a week for a little chat.

[i was touched by my doctor's concern--gee, he sent so many specialists over to check on me--until, that is, i got the bill and realized that all those specialists, including said psychiatrist, dinged my insurance company an average of $400 for each of their 15-minute visits, but my outrage at doctors feeding like pigs at the insurance trough is a story for another day]

point is, this guy was good. after laying out the long-practiced patter of my background, i asked him one day, "so tell me, doc--what the hell's the matter with me?"

understand: i had asked this same question of every mental-health professional i'd ever encountered and gotten nothing back but bullshit, so i wasn't really expecting anything different from this guy; i was just askin for the hell of it.

but he surprised me; without hesitation, he replied, "is that all you want to know? that's obvious--you have a personality disorder; more particularly, you're schizoid."

"schizoid?! fuck you, i'm not schizophrenic--there's just one of me, thank you very much."

he smiled, shook his head. "schizoid is worlds away from schizophrenic, mike." he then pointed at the laptop on my bed, said "google it--i think you'll find it interesting," and left (my 15 minutes were up, you see).

i did just that, and in a flash my whole life was explained.

[and you can google it for yourself, and/or wait for part 2]

mkf attends a hollywood party

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so the other day i'm online reading a vanity fair article about an old-hollywood architect by the name of john woolf a friend had sent me--a truly fascinating story which explains, among other things, why you see mansard roofs all over america these days--when i unexpectedly come across the following picture of one of this guy's creations and realize i've been there.

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one night back in the mid-nineties, i got a phone call from my friend and former roommate dumb-doug [a name used to differentiate him from the other, blonder doug in our circle, the aptly named fun-doug, but that's another story for another day], asking me if i wanted to go to a party.

"you know i don't go to parties."

"it's at bob evans' house."

"i'll be ready in ten minutes."

backstory: at the time, dumb-doug [who in reality was more clueless than dumb, and has since gone on to write at least one successful off-broadway play (and maybe more--i haven't kept track)] was a lawyer working as in-house counsel for a publishing house that specialized in cheesy, celebrity-driven content.

its founder, a flamboyant, hard-driving impresario who, along with his beautiful former-actress wife, had started the company in their garage and built it into a publishing powerhouse, happened to be good friends with mr. evans--and on this particular night, said legendary hollywood producer of such epics as rosemary's baby, love story, the godfather and chinatown had decided (for a reason that escapes me now) to throw a party at his legendary estate in honor of said publisher.

and dumb-doug had to make an appearance and needed a semi-respectable date, which is where i came in.

as we drove [wasn't far--turns out bob and i are homies], doug filled me in on some background which would add a surreal layer of machiavellian intrigue to an evening that really didn't need any embellishment: seems that less than a week after tonight's party honoring doug's boss, doug's boss was gonna turn around and release a salacious tell-all book written by a bunch of former high-priced hookers which would trash the reputations of, among many other hollywood luminaries, the very guy who was throwing the party in his honor.

the fact that i would be one of only four people at the party in possession of this juicy little tidbit made it even sweeter--or so i thought at the time.

my impressions of that night? unfortunately, my memory being what it is [and seeing as how back then i guzzled everything that was handed to me], recollections are spotty, but here are the stand-outs:

warren beatty. in a drab gray windbreaker, who, as soon as we walked in the door and he figured out who doug was, dragged him off my arm and into a corner, where he grilled him relentlessly for half an hour in an effort to figure out how badly he was gonna come off in the forthcoming tell-all book [as it turned out, not bad at all]. as i watched their intense interchange from across the room, all i remember is how small and insubstantial the man came across in real life.

left to my own devices, i wandered, drink in hand, through this wonderland of celebrity as if i owned the place, inserting myself into this group and that, devoid of any sense of intimidation or fear (one of the few advantages of being schizoid).

deborah raffin. this was my first up-close-and-personal experience with the sorta self-discipline combined with expert preservation of the highest order in which hollywood excels. while she had to be in her mid-forties on this particular night, she didn't look a day older than when she'd appeared in the last convertible fifteen years earlier. i told her she looked untouched, and she smiled.

chazz palminteri. while he'd never particularly grabbed me on the big screen, in person (and in stark contrast to mr. beatty), he was this big, smiling, larger-than-life and indescribably magnetic personality who, when he laughed at something i said, put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a rough shake, left me with tingles in places i didn't even know i had.

bob evans and the aforementioned publisher. watching these two arm in arm and smiling--knowing, even if mr. evans did not, that they'd be at each other's throats before the week was out--was interesting, to say the least.

there were lots of other minor celebrities and behind-the-scenes power players--a houseful, in fact--but i can't for the life of me remember 'em (only wish i'd been writing shit down back then, because this story would be so much better).

truth is, i coulda given a rat's ass about most of the people there that night, because as soon as i walked through the gates of woodland (named for one of its bordering streets), i was completely entranced by my surroundings, forgot almost everything else, and could totally understand why mr. evans had sold his soul for the place. small by hollywood-mogul standards, this little masterpiece had an impact far beyond its relatively modest size.

once i managed to drag dumb-doug away from warren's clutches, he and i explored each exquisitely-proportioned room of this magical house, and then wandered the grounds--down the steps and around the oval pool with its fountains to the cabana on the far side [which, since the above picture was taken had been transformed into the screening room in which jack nicholson swears he hasn't he hasn't been laid properly since it burned down], and onto the tennis court beyond.

once we'd had our fill of the outside, we walked back up to the house, gave our thanks to mr. evans [who politely thanked us for coming--he was wearing blue-tinted granny glasses that night, as i recall], and reluctantly took our leave.

damn, i wish there had been little digital cameras back then.

[alternatively, i wish i'd thought to take some screenshots of woodland before i dropped the kid stays in the picture into the mail after v and i just watched it--rent it if you wanna know.]

the sex therapist, part 1

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what's with all the sex around here lately in a blog that used to be all about the booze, you ask?

it's where my mind is right now--for the past several months, i've been rooting around in my psyche tryin to dig up little nuggets of insight into what moves me in that particular arena and why, the fruits of which laborious cogitation can be recently seen on these here pages.

the booze, i'm handling.  smoking has really helped in that regard (yeah, i know), but even before i started that shit again, i had, through a systematic reduction in dosage, dropped my alcohol intake to a point where i'm really not worried about it right now.

when i came out at 34, i couldn't then have imagined the sheer depth and range of the sexual experiences i had waiting for me in this fine city of the angels.  at a time in life when most gay men start winding down from their hedonistic youth, i set out to fulfill every sexual fantasy i had ever entertained--check off every last box, goddammit--and in that quest, i can say i've pretty much succeeded.  for an hour, anyway.

but, like the old joke, i can't really say i've had 21 years of experience in gay life--it's more like one year of experience 21 times.  and now i'm 55 years old and i've had a helluva run, but if i don't move on up the gay evolutionary ladder on my own pretty soon, nature is sure as hell gonna do it for me.

problem is, your faithful blogger is a novelty junky--if i had a nickel for every time i've turned down a hot, willing guy i'd seen a few times for whatever was waiting behind door no. 3, i'd be typing this in a really expensive whorehouse in rio right now.

and the thought of an actual relationship?  at even the first hint of intimacy, and no matter how great the sex and how perfect for me the guy might be, my schizoid ass freezes up tighter than hillary's twat in a pair of brass panties in january (v could tell you a little about this--and yet he still sticks around, though god knows why).

which brings us to the point of this post:  with the booze thing pushed to the back burner, i decided late last year it was time to finally tackle the big problem--i.e., my existential aloneness--and what better way to do this than on the couch of a sex therapist?

but finding one i could respect and allow to challenge me was a problem, and a big one.  see, in my experience--and i've had more than a little--most therapists are dimwitted, conventional hacks, and when sitting across from one i tend to find myself thinking three moves ahead as they dully process whatever bullshit i choose to feed 'em on that particular day, because god knows their little pinheads would explode if i actually told 'em some of the truth i've laid out here.

and then something interesting and most unexpected happened--i thought i'd maybe found him.

and what a disappointment he turned out to be.

i'll finish this tomorrow--sun's coming up and i'm tired