Is 'psychologize' even a word?

Over a bowl of Raisin Bran:

"I don't know how you eat that stuff. I had issues with Raisin Bran growing up."

"Are they in any way connected to your Dad issues?"

"Oh, definitely. It was all about thinking it was gross and not being able to say anything about it. Thanks for psychologizing me."

"Well, that's part of what you signed up for when you married me."

"Yeah, you're right. But I'm gonna psychologize you right back. AND CORRECT YOUR GRAMMAR!"

One day in August

I've spent a good amount of time this semester reading about depression and getting other people's perspective on their experiences with the disease. Some of it has been to satisfy my own curiosity, some of it has been required reading for my classes. But it's all been beneficial. Counseling degrees are good like that--you can advance your education AND realize, in fact, how many of our problems stem from the fact that A. Our parents don't know what they're doing most of the time and B. No one ever really gets over middle school. These two insights alone could potentially save you hundreds of dollars on shrink fees and self-help books and allow you to move straight to the booze. Or not. But the option is always there.

A few weeks ago I sat down and read through the archives of Heather's posts on postpartum depression--her struggle with medication, being hospitalized, and her recovery. One post in particular stood out to me, not so much because of what she experienced in the hospital, but more of what was going on around her. Specifically, having to endure the scratch-my-eyes-out-with-a-rusty-nail voice of Bob Costas as he reported on the Olympics.

The Olympics.

2004.

And then it hit me like a bolt of lightening. I might as well have been sitting in that hospital with her along with the other crazies and Mr. Costas.

The summer of 2004 was a particularly rough time for me. I had recently graduated from college not knowing exactly what to do next and very quickly digging myself into a very deep financial pit. I wished I could return to the safety of student-dom, where things made sense and responsibilities could be shrugged off at least for a little while longer. But the lack of income wore on me more than anything. Being a college graduate and having to ask your parents to pay the rent for an apartment you can't afford because you can barely afford to eat everyday doesn't do much to boost the self-confidence in succeeding at life. I hated the phone calls home, having to tell my parents that I needed money for rent and I'm sorry I can't contribute more, but I got a little hungry. I felt trapped in my situation with very little hope of finding a way out. I started going into a progressively deep depression, the likes of which I don't wish upon anyone. And then August came.

One of the things about depression is that, in the midst of the darkness and hopelessness, it is impossible to imagine a world where good things happen and happiness exists. You eventually accept things are the way they are, there's nothing you can do to change it, and you can either learn to live with it or not. That 'or not' part is where my thinking started to gravitate. It wasn't that I thought my friends and family would be better off without me, or that it was the only way to solve my financial issues--although that did play a part. I saw myself as succumbing to a disease and this disease was eventually going to kill me. It wasn't giving up, it wasn't cowardly; it was as natural a progression as any terminal illness. Looking back, I can see the obvious flaw in that thinking, specifically DEPRESSION IS VERY TREATABLE, NOT TERMINAL. But in that moment, I couldn't see any alternative. I started making preparations of sorts--writing down PIN numbers and passwords so they could be found later. I started spending what little money I had, knowing I wouldn't need it much longer.

On Wednesday, August 18th, 2004 my life changed. And as I watched my car roll off its jack and come down on top of me, the only thought that went through my head was "here we go. This is it." Fortunately, I overestimated the weight of my car and how much it would take to crush me. Instead, and perhaps just as bad, I was trapped under several hundred pounds of car and I couldn't get out. I gasped for air and screamed to help. Eventually enough people were rounded up to lift the car off of me. When the paramedics arrived, they immediately decided I needed to be airlifted to Roanoke. It was my first helicopter ride, and I was strapped to a backboard, forced to stare at the ceiling and think about how bad the paramedic's breath was.

X-rays showed a couple of cracked ribs, but no internal injuries. And other than a few stitches above my right eye and some swelling in my face, I was going to be ok, physically at least. The doctors remarked at how lucky I was, and I just nodded in agreement, feeling like I was sitting in the middle of the biggest lie of my life.

My next door neighbor drove me home from the hospital and my parents drove up to be with me. No one asked, and I didn't offer any alternative explanation as to what happened. My brother joked that I could've found a cheaper way of getting a helicopter ride. I just laughed it off because I didn't know any other way to respond. Because that's what it was--I got bored and wanted to figure out the quickest way to get a bird's eye view of the Appalachian Mountains.

I spent the next few days and weeks sitting at home watching the coverage of the Olympics because I couldn't pick up any other channels. And eventually the swelling in my face went down, my stitches were removed, and my ribs mended. But the truth and the memory of what happened never left me. Three and a half years later I feel like I'm finally in a place where I can talk about what really happened, that it wasn't some freak accident. I knew what I was doing when I pushed my car off its jack. I'm not quite sure what I'll accomplish in writing about it or what the response will be, if any. I always envisioned myself telling a priest during confession and being done with it because that's how these things get resolved. When in doubt, tell a priest and overlook the fact that you're not even Catholic. But somehow, I don't think it works that way.

I just want to be ok with it.

I represent the Creator of the Universe without passion or prejudice--and my client has a case!

A license plate I saw today while driving around town:

GDSLAWR

It's good to know that God has a lawyer on retainer in the event he gets blamed for famine, pestilence, and any other unforeseen event causing widespread and/or personal suffering.

It's also polite to tip your drug dealer

From an interview on the TODAY show with a former escort. I didn't see the interview, but I read the transcript. This part made me do a double-take:

Q: Are clients expected to tip?

A: I never, ever demanded tips. I never encouraged or asked for tips. When you get to that price, it's kind of ridiculous to ask for more. When you're dealing with the lower end of the price spectrum, at that point, I think it's the norm, and I think it is GOOD MANNERS to tip the girl. If she's booking for $200 an hour, she's taking home less than $100.

Politicians and would-be escort service users--take note. You don't want to come off as a cheapskate.

Chemically altered

Last week I met with my doctor to follow up on how I was doing with the Zoloft. And although I was doing much better--my mood was better, my thoughts were clearer--there were still some side effects that were difficult to live with. A big one was fatigue. After the initial side effects went away, I spent two weeks feeling wonderful. Then, everything crashed and my constant tiredness made it difficult to get out of bed. I spent my spring break sleeping until 10am, then getting up to doze on the couch until I had to get ready for work. When I explained everything to my doctor, she suggested I add Welbutrin to pick up where Zoloft left off. I agreed; and within the first few hours of taking the Welbutrin, all of my side effects disappeared. It's been amazing to get re-acquainted with what "normal" feels like for most people. I had forgotten what it was like.

I also discussed with my doctor the possibility of my depression being the result of a thyroid condition. She didn't think it was, since I was responding to the antidepressant, but agreed to run the test anyways. She called last night with the results that show that I do, in fact, have hypothyroidism as well.

Fighting depression on two fronts. What are the odds?

In the course of a month, I've gone from taking no medication to being on three prescriptions. At this rate, my arthritis will flare up in about six months and I'll have to schedule a hip replacement.

I'll talk to my doctor again next month to see how everything is going. I plan on asking what she can give me for the RASH ON MY ASS.

Because you needed to know about it.

Sans TV, day 2

Sitting in living room. TV staring at me.

Must...fight...urge...to...turn...on...

The more I think about it, the more this feels like camping. Except I'm at home.

Sans TV

Last night, Meredith and I decided to join the ranks of our brothers and sisters who have already given up something during this Lenten season. A little late, yes. But better late than never.

We decided to turn off the TV. For a month.

The immediate results are compelling. In the first two hours alone, I have:

• Had breakfast, complete with bohemian-style French-press coffee.
• Listened to N.P.R. and realized that voters in Florida are, in fact, dumbasses.
• Caught up in my reading of the last thirty days of Get Fuzzy.
• Realized my complete and utter disgust in the way our tax code is so unfairly distributed.
• Read up on my nautical history of the sinking of the Vasa.
• Blogged. Twice.
  

At this rate I'll finish graduate school sometime next week so that I can devote myself more fully to solving the world's energy crisis.

Thanks. I think.

For a couple of different reasons (should be read: I'M LAZY!), I haven't shaved in nearly three weeks.

Last night, a friend of mine told me I closely resembled Wolverine. A couple of other friends concurred.

I'm still not sure what I think about this.

You know, that thing with the complex algorithms and the infinite knowledge

Last weekend, on a whim, I googled my name to see what came up. To my astonishment, I found references to other Jason Boling's, who were not me and who I didn't know existed. I guess at some point in our lives, we realize that we are not the only person who carries our namesake; if you're John Smith, you learn this pretty quickly. If you're me, it takes a little while.

But one of the things I found was a letter to the editor I wrote last year and thought was never published. I wrote it right after the Virgina Tech shootings, in response to an op-ed piece written by Jacob Hornberger, a libertarian writer with some flawed ideas about gun control. The original article can be found here, and specifically I was responding to the sixth paragraph.

Here is my letter. The political agendas people tried to spin out of Virginia Tech still blows my mind.

What they don't tell you to register for

Meredith and I went through several sessions of pre-marital counseling before we got married. Our parents have nearly sixty years of marriage between them. Both my brother and sister are married as well as many of our close friends. AT NO TIME during our engagement and planning of the wedding did anyone--ANYONE--sit us down for a heart-to-heart conversation and discuss the obvious benefits to preemptively purchasing a toilet plunger.

Because, the alternative? Having to walk through Wal-Mart at 10 o'clock on a Sunday night and having to look the cashier in the eye and say, yes, I was caught unawares.

Again with the vending machines

This afternoon, Meredith and I stopped by a local four star restaurant to pick up a gift certificate for my mom's birthday. As it turned out, the gift certificates were available through the adjacent four star hotel front desk. As we waited for the front desk clerk to get the gift certificate ready, I got a look at the bill of the guy ahead of us in line. On the way out...

Me: Did you get a look at that guy's bill? $300 for a one night stay?

Meredith: It's not that expensive. Plenty of places are $300 a night. It's not that big of a deal. Well, I dunno. Maybe it is. Yeah, you're right, that is a lot of money.

Me: I mean, for that much money, I'd at least expect some damn vending machines.