i know i promised to give him a month's grace, but that was before i knew it was gonna get so bad so fast

.
my job brings me into fairly regular contact with several movers and shakers in the political arena, most (ok, fine--all) of whom are insufferable, self-important windbags, but one of whom--a seasoned veteran of many political wars who in the course of his career has scaled the heights, been everywhere and met everybody, and whose last campaign was one of the slickest, shrewdest and most effective i've ever seen (hell, it almost got him elected)--i actually like; this is one of those guys, you put a nickel in, you always get a dollar back.

anyway, back during primary season last year i ran into him in the break room one night and said, "ok, so tell me--what's the deal with obama?"

he snorted and said, "obama? lemme tell you about obama--he's a punk."

"a punk?" i asked, amused. "do tell."

and, boy, did he. turns out a "punk," in political parlance, is a neophyte who expects to reach out and grab the brass ring without having any idea of what he's doing and/or paying his dues first.

"look," he says, animatedly [and i'm paraphrasing here, because it's been awhile], "i know barack obama; i met him years ago and yeah, i was impressed--he's a very glib, charming, book-smart guy. but so what? here you have a guy who comes outta nowhere and manages to parlay some success in local chicago neighborhoods into a state assembly seat--which doesn't amount to shit, trust me [and, since he's been there and done that, i do]. then, after one lame-ass term of voting 'present,' he decides he's now ready to run for congress. which is one thing if he'd been running against somebody ordinary, but he--this ivy-league outsider--goes up against fucking bobby rush--four-term incumbent, former black panther, chicago homeboy, everybody in the district loves him.

"and what happens? he gets his ass handed to him as he damn well should have--but does the loss humble him, give him some sense of perspective? hell, no--next thing you know, sumbitch is running for the goddam senate--the senate, can you believe it?! and then, fifteen minutes after he gets there, instead of thanking god for the lightning strike that got him there, he's running for the presidency of the united states like he actually deserves it?! give me a fucking break."

at which point he crumples his coffee cup, tosses it in the can and strides disgustedly from the room.

* * * * *

flash-forward several months later (i.e., three weeks ago). i run into the guy again--he's been outta the country and it's the first time i've seen him since before the election.

and i ask him, "so, obama--he still a punk?"

and he looks at me, his body language totally changes and he says [and again, i'm paraphrasing], "forget everything i ever said, mike--this guy's the real deal. i've never seen anybody run a campaign like he did; it was almost flawless. and even under pressure, he never cracked--unlike any politician i've ever known, he's the same in private as he is in public: always cool, calm and collected. i'm tellin' ya, this guy's gonna be our generation's roosevelt." [this last said without any trace of irony]

as he walked away, i tried to keep in mind that of course he had to say this shit--like all the other early hillary supporters in our government department, he'd had to do a quick, backpedaling reverse-field and change allegiences once the tide had turned.

but i hadn't seen any reluctance in his eyes (and trust me, i looked for it); on the contrary, i'd seen a cynical, hard-bitten politician turn to mush at the mere mention of our new president-elect's name.

"holy shit," i remember thinking then, "when a punk can fool even the pros, we're really in trouble."

the road from there to here (part 2)

.
[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.

* * * * *

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)

.
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]

machine of wonder

.
so i'm outside the rite-aid with my three-gallon jug, fishing in my pocket for change for the usual biweekly refill, when out the door spills a noisy gaggle of kids, each clutching a hand-packed ice-cream cone (this being the beverly hills rite-aid, it still features such amenities).

they spot me and i'm immediately surrounded--"hey, whatcha doin?" i look up at their accompanying adult--they couldn't possibly all be his kids--and he shrugs, like, "go figure--they get excited by the strangest things."

i tell 'em i'm getting water from the machine; i open the door, place the bottle inside and explain how it works--you put the money in, push the button and voila!, water. electrifying, huh?

well, it is to them--they're totally in. and when i ask if they wanna help, pandemonium breaks out--you'da thought i'd made 'em honorary teenage mutant ninja turtles or something. i line 'em up, they each get a coin to insert (three gallons means three quarters and three nickels and there's six kids, so that works out) and, after some discussion, the three necessary button-pushes are each delegated to teams of two.

the process goes relatively smoothly, with great suspense at the end--"how does it know when it's full?" i tell 'em, "it just knows--watch." they do, breathlessly, and when with less than an inch to go before overflow the water magically stops, there is much jubilation.

when it's all done, i cap the bottle, thank my helpers and reach in to grab it, but i'm beaten to the punch by the oldest boy, who wraps his arms around it, pulls it out--it's almost as big as he is and i just know he's gonna drop it but i resist the urge to help him--turns with a stagger and hands it off to me with a proud grin as the younger kids ooh and aah at his strength.

and then, wham! quick as they came, they're gone--racing off across the parking lot to their next thing. i watch them go, then shlep my water bottle back to my truck and head home.

i long ago came to terms with the fact that i'll never have kids and it's definitely for the best, and i'm totally ok with it.  most of the time, anyway.

guy could get a complex

.
came across this tonight while clearing out old drunken shit i wrote last year that didn't make the cut--tonight, though, it made me laugh, so it's going in.

guy responds to my ad, drawn by the X pic, of course. preliminary negotiations ensue and face pics are exchanged, after which he comes back at me with, "you SURE that's your dick?",  the unavoidable implication being that, after having done the pleasure/pain equation, he's willing to endure the face only if that's really the dick that comes with it.

good thing you get more thick-skinned as you get older, eh?

and yeah i probably fucked him, most likely from behind.

home for the holidays

.
last night

on the way back from p.f. chang's, she said, from the backseat, conversationally and totally outta the blue, "so i guess if i live another ten years, i'll get to see you ten more times."

a sharp knife through the heart as i realized she might be right--you shouldn't hit people with shit like that while they're driving, i wanted to say when i got my breath back.

instead, i said something like, "don't be silly, ma; we've got lots of time" and changed the subject.

i couldn't explain to my mother, who loves me like nobody else ever will, why i'm a once-a-year son any more than i can explain to my guy v, who loves me even though he shouldn't, why i'm a once-a-week boyfriend.

or how sometimes in the middle of the night i sit bolt-upright in bed, heart pounding and covered in sweat, still half-dreaming that everybody i give a rat's ass about is gone and it's too late.

* * * * *

tonight

my headlights catch maggie bounding down the street to meet me as i turn into the driveway. i pull my bags out and reach down to pet her; she rises on her hind legs and tucks her head into the palm of my outstretched hand.

as i write these words, she's sprawled across my legs and purring. tomorrow she'll be standoffish as ever, but for now she's happy to have me home.

the dark side of change for the better

.
i can't write anymore.

while i've rarely been able to write sober--all my self-defeating, overthinking, second-guessing inhibitions come into play and paralysis sets in almost immediately--i could always at least count on being able to write drunk.

until now, anyway.

one of the timeworn cliches of self-improvement is that you have to let go of one side of the pool before you can get to the other, and in the midst of my most recent carefully-constructed quest for something better outta life, i've apparently begun that painful process of letting go.

and it looks like we're starting with alcohol.

the good news is, as a result of recent and ongoing therapies and treatments, i'm growing demonstrably sounder in mind and body--yay for me. the bad news is, said new-found health is seriously getting in the way of my drinking (and thus, my writing--and thus, this blog).

it's weird; the desire to get shitfaced is suddenly not there anymore--apparently, my improving physiology is literally shrinking away from the alcohol and, hard as i try, i can no longer drink with my former wanton fluidity.

it's funny--i still look forward all week to the theory of friday night, that magical time when i can cast all cares of the week aside and start drinking. these days however, when the actuality of friday night arrives, instead of racing for the freezer and grabbing the vodka as in days of yore, i now tend to delay mixing that first drink and then, when finally mixed, let it sit there and sweat for awhile before i force myself to take that first swig. and in the last two weeks i've allowed my work to get in the way of my weekend drinking, a prospect that even recently would've been unthinkable.

in other words, i guess i've let go of one side of the pool; problem is, between letting go of one side and successfully reaching the other, there's this big, scary, seemingly insurmountable stretch of shark-infested water in between, with no life-preservers to be found.

another way of stating the problem? nothing positive has come along to take alcohol's place yet, which is why this blog (among other things in my life) sucks so bad right now.

and it's also why this post is so painfully awkward--i mean, what would you expect from something written on less than one mkf cocktail [look it up--i really don't feel like digging up the original reference to link to], which, in days of yore, woulda been a mere warm-up to the real drinking--and, consequently, to the real writing.

will i turn tail and swim madly back toward the dark safety of the side i know? time will tell, i guess.

* * * * *

i remember back in the eighties all the rich-bitch wives of my uncle's high-living, hard-drinking petroleum-club buddies sitting around twirling their diamonds and complaining incessantly about their husbands' drunken excesses. and then, when after their first heart attacks and/or dui's said husbands dutifully sobered up, leaving them because they weren't fun anymore.

another one of those things i didn't understand then, and totally understand now.