Rerun - Interview: Therese Borchard on the Dark Side of Funny

I often forget what I wrote. So when I happened upon this piece (from Jan 2010) the other night, I read it as if for the first time, as if reading someone else's writing. I enjoyed it so much I decided to share it with you again ...

Therese Borchard has come out with a terrific new memoir of depression, Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression and Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes, that had me rolling in the aisles. That’s right, a book about depression that is funny. I decided to confront Therese on this ...

John: Listen, Therese. William Styron’s memoir of depression was bleak. Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar was heart-breaking. Yet, here you are, agony with a thousand punch lines. This has to be sacrilegious.

Therese: Funny you should ask the question that way. Gus Lloyd, who has a radio show on Sirius Satellite, confronted me with the same thing this morning. But he asked me, “How do you know when you are using humor and comedy to heal, and when it is perceived as offensive?” I responded, “I don’t. I guess that’s why a lot of people stay away from humor.” I typically offend 5 to 10 percent of my readers when I use sarcasm and wit in a post. So should I skip the attitude satire? Absolutely not. I hate to say this – it sounds cold and heartless – but I’d rather offend five listeners to allow 95 listeners a moment of healing laughter, than to stay boring and safe. It’s sort of the opposite philosophy of Jesus and the lost sheep. I’d rather lose one sheep in order to help out the 99 that are desperate for a laugh. Sorry, Jesus.

John: Uh, uh. I’m not letting you get away with that. By your own admission, you’re a self-confessed manic-depressive, alcoholic, stage-four people pleaser; ritual performing weirdo, hormonally imbalanced female, and Catholic. What could possibly be funny about that? Honey, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.

Therese: Here’s the deal, John. It goes back to the Seinfeld rule on humor. You remember that episode? When Jerry is telling dentist jokes and his dentist calls him an anti-dentite. And the dentist converts to Judaism so he can tell Jewish jokes safely? If someone came up to me and said, “Therese, you are one manic-depressive, alcoholic, people-pleasing, ritual-performing weirdo!” I would be offended if they A) were wearing ugly clothes, B) could not laugh at themselves too, C) could not check off anything in the DSM-IV, and D) had no sense of humor. I have earned the right to call myself all those things with levity because … for crying out loud … I’ve wanted to die for big chunks my life. Cut me some fricking slack! Now if a former co-worker of mine emails another co-worker and accidentally copies me on the email in which she says I’m looney (true story, actually), then yes, I have a right to be pissed. But can I call myself looney? ABSOLUTELY. I say let’s err on the side of recklessness.


John: Right, that’s your story and you’re sticking to it. Okay, let’s shift gears a bit. Some of our darkest thinkers in history also doubled as our greatest humorists. I’m thinking of Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut, and George Carlin. You can also throw in Shakespeare and Swift. What accounts for this? Were they as twisted as you are?

Therese: I believe in the theory of the rubber band. Your brain (sanity) is stretched, and stretched, and stretched, and stretched to where it … ZAP! … just snaps one day, and from that day on, everything in life is somewhat hysterical because you can’t believe how messed up the world is. You see everyone around you trying to walk straight while juggling five heavy suitcases of baggage … and for some reason, it’s funny, and you know you can’t take life so seriously. As G.K. Chesterston once said, “angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.”

Stephen Colbert was interviewed in Parade magazine a while back, and he explained the night to burst out of his shell of pretension and was able to fully be himself on stage. He said, "Something burst that night, and I finally let go of the pretension of not wanting to be a fool." I don’t know, John, something burst in the psych ward, where I sat eating rubber chicken with women wearing granny underwear for everyone to see and painting birdhouses with a teenage boy who wanted to hook up with me at the mall after we were discharged. Some people probably wouldn’t find the humor in it. But man, they do make great social hour stories (and especially since I don’t drink or use any illegal drugs).

John: Are you trying to tell me that had you been born “normal,” you’d be some shallow humorless stuck in the mud?

Therese: Yes. Absolutely. Haven’t you noticed that pattern? Those who’ve had rather uneventful lives don’t have as much to say at cocktail parties as the ones who have been cleaning up feces for a few decades. As much as I curse depression and bipolar disorder (and most of the DSM-IV that I’m diagnosed with … let’s be honest), it has brought me the blessings of humor, perspective, compassion, humility. Plus I write better! Because I no longer have to make stuff up anymore. There actually WAS a guy in my inpatient unit that tried killing himself by chugging down a gallon of Tide laundry detergent. And there WAS a psychotic woman who attacked an innocent 97 year old man one night because she said her spouse slept with the old man’s wife! Let me tell you, that group therapy session was interesting!

John: In all seriousness, Therese, you are a gift to humanity. Any concluding words?

Therese: Thank you, John. As I’ve said to you before, I have no idea how I am going to repay all your kindness and generosity. I think you should rename your blog as “Beyond Blue Promotion Site.” I suppose I must quote Kay Redfield Jamison here, because she gets credit for my philosophy on humor, and I live by her words every day. She says, “Tumultuousness, if coupled to discipline and a cool mind, is not such a bad sort of thing. That unless one wants to live a stunningly boring life, one ought to be on good terms with one’s darker side and one’s darker energies.” I guess I ran from my darker side for so many years. And that just made me more afraid. So now I try to look the beast in the eyes and ask him what he’s got for me, and, whenever possible, to “break his face” as Jerry Seinfeld says, to make him laugh.

Purchase Beyond Blue from Amazon 

Read Therese's blog, Beyond Blue

Rerun: Depressed or Thinking Deep - My Take

From Nov, last year. Enjoy ...

Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue always has a way of making me feel that on a planet of six billion strangers I have at least one person I can talk to. Last week, she opened a blog piece this way:

I spent my adolescence and teenage years obsessing about this question: Am I depressed or just deep?

When I was nine, I figured that I was a young Christian mystic because I related much more to the saints who lived centuries ago than to other nine-year-old girls who had crushes on boys. I couldn't understand how my sisters could waste quarters on a stupid video game when there were starving kids in Cambodia. Hello? Give them to UNICEF!

Now I look back with tenderness to the hurting girl I was and wished somebody had been able to recognize that I was very depressed.

See what I mean? I just know that had we been in the same class at grade school, while the other kids played ball during recess, Therese and I would have found a quiet spot to sit under a shade tree, sharing cookies our moms packed and discussing how Augustine of Hippo must have felt after Alaric the Visigoth sacked Rome in 410 AD.

So, what was it? Were Therese and I two sensitive souls waxing philosophical, or two depressives acting strange? Therese cites both Paula Bloom PsyD (from a blog on PBS) and Peter Kramer MD, author of "Against Depression" (from a NY Times piece) in support of the proposition that depression and thinking deep are clearly distinct. Says Dr Kramer:

"We idealize depression, associating it with perceptiveness, interpersonal sensitivity and other virtues. Like tuberculosis in its day, depression is a form of vulnerability that even contains a measure of erotic appeal." First the ancient Greeks, then Renaissance thinkers, and later the Romantic movement assigned spiritual and artistic and even heroic virtues to melancholy. Nonsense, Dr Kramer responds. "Depression is not a perspective. It is a disease."

If I interpret Therese correctly in her blog piece, she found comfort in this. It came as a great relief to her to realize that her capacity to think deep, even at a young age, although unusual, was not pathological.

I, on the other hand, have an entirely different reaction. "Wait!" I want to scream at Dr Kramer. "You mean my depressions have all been for nothing?" My lost hours, lost days, entire lost years, a lost life practically, served no useful purpose whatsoever?

Screw you, Kramer! I want to keep screaming for no logical reason, whatsoever. Something that took so much from me, so much out of my life, I demand some kind of return - Jedi powers, a mystical third eye, roll-over phone minutes, whatever.

Yes, Dr Kramer is right, but so is everyone else. When it comes to the enduring question - Who the hell am I? - we are all struggling to find the truth. Here's what I'm looking at right now:

Proposition One: Any depression that is not part of my temperament sucks - whether mild or severe. Take my depression - please. They throw me off my game, ruin my day, wreck my life. Whether it's a depression that is the equivalent of a mild cold or one that is psychic double pneumonia I seriously don't want to be inside my brain on this planet when my neurons have gone on strike. If this is the disease that Peter Kramer is talking about, I'm behind him one hundred percent.

Proposition Two: At the same time, mild to moderate depression is part of my temperament, my personality (as is hypomania). As opposed to my disease depressions, I'm very comfortable in this state. It is a part of who I am. My energy is down, my thoughts tend to be very dark, but - here's the key difference - I thrive in this state. My neurons are working with me, or perhaps me with my neurons. It's as if I'm calmly sifting through the ideas I rounded up in my hypomanic frenzies, whether I'm lying in bed, at my desk, or taking a walk. If this is Dr Kramer's version of just thinking deep, I would have to respectfully disagree.

What we are talking about is the classic distinction between "state" and "trait." Trait is who we are. State is invasion of the brain snatchers. But no distinctions are ever as clear-cut as they seem.

We tend to get hung up on DSM-IV check lists while ignoring a key DSM injunction - namely that we are only in a state of mental illness when the symptoms interfere with our ability to function (as in work or relationships). So - from my personal perspective - if I am comfortable and not struggling while depressed, then I hardly have an illness that needs treatment.

Now let's flip it. I also get hypomanic, and I've written a lot about this. Here's the test: For Marilyn Monroe to act like Marilyn Monroe (at least when she's up) - that's normal, for Marilyn, anyway. For someone else to act like Marilyn Monroe, on the other hand - that's probably a sign that very bad things are about to happen.

So, back to depression. For me to act like me (when I am down), under most situations that is normal for me. I can handle it, it is healthy. For someone else to act like me, trust me, that is cause to get one's personal affairs in order.

Here's where it gets complicated. When does my productive depression start becoming a nuisance and when does this nuisance seriously start messing me up? Similarly, when does my upbeat hypomania cross over into social embarrassment and in turn morph into something that causes me to make very bad decisions?

It's as if we're turning up the heat. When, in effect, instead of a nice warm soak in the tub, do we find ourselves in hot water? Everyone has different tolerance thresholds, and you can make a good case that we can expand the range of these thresholds to lead healthier lives. Of course, every time I congratulate myself on doing this, God just laughs and throws a psychic lightning bolt in my direction.

So - my normal would probably cause most people to stay in bed for six months, or (in the other direction) have neighbors dialing 911.

One more twist. In her blog, Dr Bloom reported on this confused reaction from a patient: "When I reflected to her that she sounded depressed she said 'I don’t think so, that is just my personality.' So many people confuse depression with just being a lazy, unmotivated person."

So our depressed state tends to give us a wrong read on our baseline traits. Who the hell are we? It's a question I'm still trying to figure out.

***
Therese is my fellow terminal deep thinker and favorite blogger. Please check her out at Beyond Blue.

Longing to Return to the Planet of My Birth

Following is an abridged version from a chapter of the book I am working on: "Raccoons Respect My Piss - But Watch Out for Skunks: My Metaphor for Life on a Planet Not of My Choosing and How I Finally Came to Terms"  ...

Sometimes I do get to return to the planet of my birth. It's just that I can't recall them. I like to imagine it's a happier place than this one, filled with shady trees, with kind people spread out on the lawn beneath, pulling out containers of Thai noodles and watermelon chunks from their picnic baskets, beckoning me to join them.
   
One of these people would be my good friend and muse, Therese Borchard, author of Beyond Blue. Therese has a way of making me feel that on a planet of six billion strangers I have at least one person I can talk to. One day, she opened a blog piece this way:

I spent my adolescence and teenage years obsessing about this question: Am I depressed or just deep?

When I was nine, I figured that I was a young Christian mystic because I related much more to the saints who lived centuries ago than to other nine-year-old girls who had crushes on boys. I couldn't understand how my sisters could waste quarters on a stupid video game when there were starving kids in Cambodia. Hello? Give them to UNICEF!
   
Now I look back with tenderness to the hurting girl I was and wished somebody had been able to recognize that I was very depressed.

See what I mean? I just know that had we been in the same class at grade school, while the other kids played ball during recess, Therese and I would have found a quiet spot to sit, sharing cookies our moms packed and discussing how Augustine of Hippo must have felt after Alaric the Visigoth sacked Rome in 410 AD (which is precisely how I felt when George W Bush was re-elected in 2004).

So - were Therese and I two sensitive souls waxing philosophical, or two depressives acting strange? When it comes to the enduring question - Who the hell am I? - we are all struggling to find the truth.
   
Part of what we are talking about involves the classic distinction between "state" and "trait." Trait is who we are, our personality. State is invasion of the brain snatchers. But no distinctions are ever as clear-cut as they seem.
   
We tend to get hung up on DSM-IV check lists while ignoring a key DSM injunction - namely that we are only in a state of mental illness when the symptoms interfere with our ability to function (as in work or relationships). So - from my personal perspective - if I am comfortable and not struggling while depressed - thinking deep, in effect - then I hardly have an illness that needs treatment.
   
Here's where it gets complicated. When does my productive depression - thinking deep - start becoming a nuisance and when does this nuisance seriously start messing me up? Similarly, when does my upbeat side cross over into social embarrassment and in turn morph into something that causes me to make very bad decisions?

Life, unfortunately, doesn't come with a manual, and the tech support is a joke. Seriously, when has God - or St Aloysius, even - ever gotten back to you? Is it too much for God to stop what He is doing for just one second and tell me that the vital piece of hardware I dropped on the floor - the one I desperately need to assemble my counter extender from IKEA - rolled under the refrigerator?

It's not like I am asking God to move the refrigerator for me. Or, for that matter, to assemble my IKEA furniture, though that would be a very nice gesture. IKEA, by the way, is Sweden's revenge for not being allowed to be Vikings, anymore.

So, back to depression. Keep in mind, medications are designed to treat an illness, not change a personality, which may explain why antidepressants only get some people somewhat better some of the time. In other words, if you are undergoing clinical depression right now, all those around you - including your psychiatrist - assume your brain will eventually boot back up to “normal.”

But suppose your "normal" is depressed? What then? First, this may not be a bad thing. If you’re the type who prefers staying home alone with a book to going out dancing, you may be a lot happier and better adjusted than Joe Cool and Miss Congeniality.
   
But suppose your normal keeps you a prisoner in your own home? So - here you are, home alone, wondering whether to ask someone out on a date. You punch in three numbers, then you freeze, paralytic. Maybe you're afraid of rejection. Maybe your inner critic is working overtime and you consider yourself worthless. Maybe it's a combination. Whatever the reason, you put down the phone. And now, here you are, alone and socially isolated. How does that make you feel? Well, depressed.

It's a very overwhelming world out there, very difficult to negotiate, and most of the time - very frankly - I don't want to be in it. Certainly, I spent a good deal of my childhood wishing I was very far removed from it. I found refuge, instead, in my own inner world. Over time, I succeeded in tuning out just about the whole world around me.

Engage me in a conversation, and sooner or later you will pick up an odd mannerism: My eyes glaze over, I’m unresponsive. I am not present. Literally - I am somewhere else.
   
I am probably experiencing what the experts refer to as disassociating. In extreme cases, certain individuals may assume different personalities. Thankfully, my little manneristic quirk comes across as mere inattentiveness. It has nothing to do with that fact that I may find you interminably boring (even if you are). This planet is simply a challenge for me. Always has been. Sometimes, my mind has to flee. Where it goes I have no idea, no recollection. I like to think it’s back to the planet of my birth, a place where I belong.

A kind lady beneath a tree beckons me. She serves up a plate of Thai noodles. I help myself to some watermelon chunks. You're safe here, says the look on her face. Welcome home.

Is There Anything At All Possibly Good About Depression?

In a blog piece late last year, Therese Borchard (pictured here) of Beyond Blue wrote:

I spent my adolescence and teenage years obsessing about this question: Am I depressed or just deep?

When I was nine, I figured that I was a young Christian mystic because I related much more to the saints who lived centuries ago than to other nine-year-old girls who had crushes on boys. ... Now I look back with tenderness to the hurting girl I was and wished somebody had been able to recognize that I was very depressed.

In my own blog piece a day or two later, I reported that I very much identified with Therese:

I just know that had we been in the same class at grade school, while the other kids played ball during recess, Therese and I would have found a quiet spot to sit under a shade tree, sharing cookies our moms packed and discussing how Augustine of Hippo must have felt after Alaric the Visigoth sacked Rome in 410 AD.

But here’s the rub. Were Therese and I two sensitive souls waxing philosophical, or two depressives acting strange? In her piece, Therese cited Peter Kramer MD, author of "Against Depression" (from a NY Times piece) in support of the proposition that depression and thinking deep are clearly distinct. Says Dr Kramer:

"We idealize depression, associating it with perceptiveness, interpersonal sensitivity and other virtues. Like tuberculosis in its day, depression is a form of vulnerability that even contains a measure of erotic appeal." First the ancient Greeks, then Renaissance thinkers, and later the Romantic movement assigned spiritual and artistic and even heroic virtues to melancholy. Nonsense, Dr Kramer responds. "Depression is not a perspective. It is a disease."

Therese found comfort in the realization that her capacity to think deep, even at a young age, although unusual, was not pathological. Her personality was fine. Her depressions were another matter. Nevertheless, she was not prepared to go as far as Dr Kramer, noting that “some of my depth caused by depression is a good thing. Not on the days where I'm in excruciating pain, of course.”

The viewpoint I expressed was fairly similar to Therese’s, but with this overlay: I feel my depressions are both part of my illness and my temperament. The illness aspect is an alien invader that I would gladly kill off. The temperament aspect, on the other hand, is a true part of me that gives depth and meaning to my experiences.

In a blog piece from last week, Therese revisits Peter Kramer, but adds: “However, having said all that, I do hereby appreciate the gifts that this ugly and manipulative beast has laid upon my table.” Then, David Letterman style, she serves up a Top Ten list of good things about depression. Number Nine is too juicy not to quote in full:

I have fascinating conversations with strangers.

Here's how the majority of my first conversations/introductions go with people who I sit next to on the plane, train, or at my son's soccer games:

"So what do you do?"
"I write a mental health blog."
"Oh. That's interesting. How did you get into that?"
"I had a major nervous breakdown and wanted to kill myself for about two years. So one day I told God that if I ever woke up and wanted to be alive that I would dedicate the rest of my life to helping people who are trapped in the Black Hole. That morning came. And you, what do you do?"

On a more serious note, Number Five:

I am more outwardly focused.

Abraham Lincoln taught me this one. Poor thing did not have the benefit of medication. But my friend Joshua Wolf Shenk, author of "Lincoln's Melancholy," says the most important contributor to his climb out of the Black Hole was turning to a greater cause ... of transforming his melancholy into a vision for emancipation. I get that. I really do, because I feel like Beyond Blue and my outreach efforts on behalf of those cursed with brain chemistry inspire me with a mission worth getting out of bed for.

Therese also notes that, among other things, depression has: Made her a better writer (with “material oozing from my very heart and soul”); Given her perspective (“When you've lived on the fault line between death and life for years at a time, the little stuff doesn't matter as much.”); Honed her sense of humor (“Just like G. K. Chesterton once wrote, ‘Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.’"); and made her more compassionate (“My mood disorder didn't just disrupt nerve cells in my brain, it also expanded my heart.”)

Therese’s post drew 47 comments, and to my considerable surprise they were overwhelmingly favorable. This, from Bill, is fairly representative:

I'm a better human being, man, counselor, writer, father, and potential catch (had to throw that in) thanks to my circumstances. Absolutely, my feelings often twist me up in knots, but at least I can feel...unlike so many hardened souls in this world. I am who I am. More so, I will be who I choose to be. I was dealt a hand, and I'll play it ...

And, from the dissenters:

“Nothing is really good about the actual depression - it is a monster, an evil entity living in our minds,” and, “from where I stand, depression has been an enemy and a robber of happiness.”

There is no right or wrong, of course. On one hand, there is no denying the malevolent nature of depression and what it has done to us. Similarly, society-at-large has absolutely no appreciation for the destructive nature of this illness and what we have to endure.

On the other hand, for all the hardship, horror, and humiliation I have faced as a result of my depressions, I know I am a much better person as a result. I may hate the illness, but over the years I have learned not to hate myself. Until I read the comments to Therese’s post, I thought she and I were in the minority. Sometimes it feels good to be wrong.

***

My favorite blogger Therese has a terrific book just out: Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression and Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes, which you can purchase from Amazon by clicking the link.


Check out my first review ...

... and my second. 

Also, check out Therese in a live interview, Thursday, 1 PM EST, on Blog Radio.

Interview: Therese Borchard on the Dark Side of Funny

Therese Borchard has come out with a terrific new memoir of depression, Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression and Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes, that had me rolling in the aisles. That’s right, a book about depression that is funny. I decided to confront Therese on this ...

John: Listen, Therese. William Styron’s memoir of depression was bleak. Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar was heart-breaking. Yet, here you are, agony with a thousand punch lines. This has to be sacrilegious.

Therese: Funny you should ask the question that way. Gus Lloyd, who has a radio show on Sirius Satellite, confronted me with the same thing this morning. But he asked me, “How do you know when you are using humor and comedy to heal, and when it is perceived as offensive?” I responded, “I don’t. I guess that’s why a lot of people stay away from humor.” I typically offend 5 to 10 percent of my readers when I use sarcasm and wit in a post. So should I skip the attitude satire? Absolutely not. I hate to say this – it sounds cold and heartless – but I’d rather offend five listeners to allow 95 listeners a moment of healing laughter, than to stay boring and safe. It’s sort of the opposite philosophy of Jesus and the lost sheep. I’d rather lose one sheep in order to help out the 99 that are desperate for a laugh. Sorry, Jesus.

John: Uh, uh. I’m not letting you get away with that. By your own admission, you’re a self-confessed manic-depressive, alcoholic, stage-four people pleaser; ritual performing weirdo, hormonally imbalanced female, and Catholic. What could possibly be funny about that? Honey, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.

Therese: Here’s the deal, John. It goes back to the Seinfeld rule on humor. You remember that episode? When Jerry is telling dentist jokes and his dentist calls him an anti-dentite. And the dentist converts to Judaism so he can tell Jewish jokes safely? If someone came up to me and said, “Therese, you are one manic-depressive, alcoholic, people-pleasing, ritual-performing weirdo!” I would be offended if they A) were wearing ugly clothes, B) could not laugh at themselves too, C) could not check off anything in the DSM-IV, and D) had no sense of humor. I have earned the right to call myself all those things with levity because … for crying out loud … I’ve wanted to die for big chunks my life. Cut me some fricking slack! Now if a former co-worker of mine emails another co-worker and accidentally copies me on the email in which she says I’m looney (true story, actually), then yes, I have a right to be pissed. But can I call myself looney? ABSOLUTELY. I say let’s err on the side of recklessness.


John: Right, that’s your story and you’re sticking to it. Okay, let’s shift gears a bit. Some of our darkest thinkers in history also doubled as our greatest humorists. I’m thinking of Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut, and George Carlin. You can also throw in Shakespeare and Swift. What accounts for this? Were they as twisted as you are?

Therese: I believe in the theory of the rubber band. Your brain (sanity) is stretched, and stretched, and stretched, and stretched to where it … ZAP! … just snaps one day, and from that day on, everything in life is somewhat hysterical because you can’t believe how messed up the world is. You see everyone around you trying to walk straight while juggling five heavy suitcases of baggage … and for some reason, it’s funny, and you know you can’t take life so seriously. As G.K. Chesterston once said, “angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.”

Stephen Colbert was interviewed in Parade magazine a while back, and he explained the night to burst out of his shell of pretension and was able to fully be himself on stage. He said, "Something burst that night, and I finally let go of the pretension of not wanting to be a fool." I don’t know, John, something burst in the psych ward, where I sat eating rubber chicken with women wearing granny underwear for everyone to see and painting birdhouses with a teenage boy who wanted to hook up with me at the mall after we were discharged. Some people probably wouldn’t find the humor in it. But man, they do make great social hour stories (and especially since I don’t drink or use any illegal drugs).

John: Are you trying to tell me that had you been born “normal,” you’d be some shallow humorless stuck in the mud?

Therese: Yes. Absolutely. Haven’t you noticed that pattern? Those who’ve had rather uneventful lives don’t have as much to say at cocktail parties as the ones who have been cleaning up feces for a few decades. As much as I curse depression and bipolar disorder (and most of the DSM-IV that I’m diagnosed with … let’s be honest), it has brought me the blessings of humor, perspective, compassion, humility. Plus I write better! Because I no longer have to make stuff up anymore. There actually WAS a guy in my inpatient unit that tried killing himself by chugging down a gallon of Tide laundry detergent. And there WAS a psychotic woman who attacked an innocent 97 year old man one night because she said her spouse slept with the old man’s wife! Let me tell you, that group therapy session was interesting!

John: In all seriousness, Therese, you are a gift to humanity. Any concluding words?

Therese: Thank you, John. As I’ve said to you before, I have no idea how I am going to repay all your kindness and generosity. I think you should rename your blog as “Beyond Blue Promotion Site.” I suppose I must quote Kay Redfield Jamison here, because she gets credit for my philosophy on humor, and I live by her words every day. She says, “Tumultuousness, if coupled to discipline and a cool mind, is not such a bad sort of thing. That unless one wants to live a stunningly boring life, one ought to be on good terms with one’s darker side and one’s darker energies.” I guess I ran from my darker side for so many years. And that just made me more afraid. So now I try to look the beast in the eyes and ask him what he’s got for me, and, whenever possible, to “break his face” as Jerry Seinfeld says, to make him laugh.

Show your gratitude to someone who helped you in your time of need. Nominate your favorite mental health grunt for a free copy of Therese Borchard’s Beyond Blue. See: Calling All Mental Health Grunts.

Purchase Beyond Blue from Amazon

This Time I'm Really Reviewing Therese Borchard's Terrific Book, Beyond Blue, and I Mean It

Okay, this time I’m really going to review Therese Borchard’s terrific new book, Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression and Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes. As you will recall from a recent blog piece, I started out with the best of intentions, only to get diverted. You see, doing book reviews is kinda like handing in book reports - you cheat if you can get away with it.

You read a little bit of the intro and a few random page samples, then go to the keyboard and set your fingers to yada-yada-yada mode.

It’s easy. War and Peace, 40 minutes tops. Russian family drama, Napoleon loses. Nothing to it, really. Throw in the odd quote: “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way ...” Oops! That’s from Anna Karenina. Not to worry, who’s going to notice?

Last time, I made the mistake of opening Therese’s book in search of something quotable, only to find myself actually reading the thing. Ha! Won’t make that mistake again. The book is safely out of reach on a top shelf. Wait! Batty, don’t go up there!

Oh crap! My crazy cat knocked the book to the floor. Hold on:

I have a magnet on my refrigerator that reads, “Jesus loves you, but everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.”

Stop reading! Stop reading! The prose is addictive. Can’t stop. (Must be an OCD thing):

Perfectionism is like an untreated person with OCD who gets stuck analyzing a lady bug on a blade of grass - struggling to determine what shade of brown its dots are instead of appreciating the view of a spectacular rose garden she’s in.

Quick, flip the page. “It’s Depression - Naming the Pain.” Good, anything with a title this depressing has to be as boring as the definitive text on dental fillings. Just one or two quick sentences and I can get on with it:

To my dorm room, where I hid. There, I’d bury my head in the writings of the Carmelite saints Teresa of Avila and Therese of Lisieux. Because their words made sense of my suffering. They had experienced their own inner torment and said it served a higher purpose. ...

Sorry, no book review today. If anyone asks, I’ve got Tiger Woods’ Blackberry right here and I’m speed-dialing all his female contacts. I can’t golf, but I make up for it by having no money. 

Show your gratitude to someone who helped you in your time of need. Nominate your favorite mental health grunt for a free copy of Therese Borchard’s Beyond Blue. See: Calling All Mental Health Grunts.

Purchase Beyond Blue from Amazon

I Was Supposed to Review Therese Borchard's Utterly Fantastic New Book, Beyond Blue, Today, But a Funny Thing Happened (and a Few Serious Ones, Too) ...

I thought I would have an easy time reviewing Therese Borchard’s terrific new book, Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression and Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes. You see, I already read an advance copy several months ago, so it wasn’t like I had to start from scratch. Just skim a few pages to refresh my memory, then get crackin’.

So I opened to:

There is a saint for every neurosis: St. Joseph takes care of those prone to panic attacks while traveling. For twitching, Bartholomew the Apostle is the dude. Those roaming the house in their sleep can call on Dymphna. The venerable Matt Talbot is the patron saint to those struggling with alcoholism and drug addiction. And, of course, St Jude covers the hopeless causes. ...

Dang, this is interesting. Flick to something boring. No, wait ...

11 Ways You Know You’re an Addict: 1. You can recite the Serenity Prayer in three different languages. ... 6. When you look up dysfunctional in the dictionary, you find a portrait of your family of origin. ... 8. You accidentally feed your sobriety chip into a vending machine. ...

Crap, this is like potato chips. Can’t stop:

“Pretend that I am an editor with Ladies Home Journal,” my therapist said. “I walk up to you and say, ‘Hey, Therese! Good to see you? What have you been up to?’ What will you say?

“Oh. Nothing much. Just hanging out in the community room of a psych ward with Allen, an eighty-five-year-old who has slept with ninety-six women and wants to make it ninety-seven.”

“Try again,” she said. "You are still tutoring at the college, right?”

“Until the dean discovers a whackjob is teaching tomorrow’s leaders.”

Stop reading! You’re supposed to be doing a book review. Wait, you’ll enjoy this:

30 Ways Motherhood is Like a Mental Illness ... 6. Both feel like you’re being pecked to death by a bird. ...

But Therese also has a deadly earnest no-joke zone to her persona:

When Liz encouraged me to train my mind without drugs - to reach inside myself for the strength and discipline to do it without the crutch of medication - she spoke with no understanding of what it’s like to have your survival instinct completely dead, to have 99 percent of your energy going toward not pursuing one of five ways to kill yourself.

And ...

How can you possibly explain severe clinical depression to a four-year-old boy who wants a stable, cheery mom - one that can take him to the park without breaking into tears behind a tree, or miss his great karate achievement because she had to bolt to the restroom and let her body shake with anxiety like a woman with severe Parkinson’s.

Okay, it’s pretty obvious I’m not going to get to reviewing Therese’s book today. I’m otherwise engaged, so don’t bother emailing or phoning me, not even if you’re Angela Jolie telling me you’ve broken up with Brad and are lonely. You see, I’m re-reading a truly outstanding book.

Win a copy of Therese Borchard’s Beyond Blue. See: Calling All Mental Health Grunts.

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Guest Blog: Therese Borchard, Confessions of a Holy Whackjob

My favorite blogger Therese Borchard has a terrific new book out, BEYOND BLUE: Surviving Depression & Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes. The following excerpt is reprinted by permission of the publisher, Center Street, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc, NY. Copyright 2010. All rights reserved.

Some people are born with jagged edges—restless and discontent with volatile moods and intense emotions—explained author and professor Kay Redfield Jamison in an essay broadcast on NPR’s This I Believe series. And others emerged from their mothers’ wombs with smooth lines and unbroken skin, grounded and peaceful. These Mr. Rogers types find contentment in the smallest and simplest of things (a bowl of instant oatmeal, a green cardigan sweater, a goldfish swimming to the surface to eat crumbs), while the Michael Jacksons among us—the creative but combustible artists—sit down to a gourmet feast at a five-star restaurant, only to bolt to the restroom three minutes later in a panic attack as their food gets cold.

That would be me.

Hi. I’m Therese. I’m a manic-depressive, an alcoholic, and an adult child of an alcoholic; a codependent, a boundaries violator, and a stage-four people pleaser; an information hoarder or a clutter magnet, an Internet abuser, and an obsessive-compulsive or ritual performing weirdo; a sugar addict, a caffeine junkie, a reformed binge smoker, and an exercise fanatic; a hormonally imbalanced female, a PMS-prone time bomb, and a sexually dysfunctional or neutered creature; a workaholic, an HSP (highly sensitive person), and, of course, I’m Catholic. Which could possibly explain some of the above.

To most eyes I look normal, and I can behave normally, at least for two-hour intervals. No one would guess my insides to be so raw, or suspect that I was twice committed to a psych ward, was suicidal for close to two years, and considered electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) after the first twenty-two medication combinations failed. Then again, the more human beings I interview Barbara Walters–style, the more convinced I am that everyone struggles. There are just many layers, varieties, and degrees of strains inside the human psyche.

The difference between me and most of the civilized world is that they don’t publish their insecurities, irrational fears, personality flaws, and embarrassing moments online and in print for everyone, including their in-laws and neighbors, to read.

Why on earth would I do that?

It has something to do with the twelfth step of most 12-step support groups I’ve attended, which is nearly all of them: to share my experience, strength (if you can call it that), and hope with others in order to secure some sanity for myself. Or, to use the language of the existentialist Søren Kierkegaard, the twelfth step is about getting cozy with our true selves, becoming “transparent under God” and vulnerable before others in order to form a bond of communion with those persons experiencing similar struggles.

There’s nothing short of stripteasing that could get me more transparent under God and naked before readers, some of whom can be pretty mean—take the lady who called me a “bitter, complaining, self-serving, whiny white woman,” not that I memorized her words—than writing my blog, Beyond Blue. Every day I write, Full Monty style, about my very imperfect recovery from everything, I expose all sorts of moles and cellulite patches to the public.

And you better bet there are ample freak-outs behind the scenes. I obsess in the shower about what I should have left out. And I can’t press Send without at least one good round of second-guessing about the Beyond Blue post in which I disclosed an ugly memory or an unbecoming quality of mine . . . jealousy, hypocrisy, and rage come to mind.

But then I’ll get a note on the combox of a Beyond Blue post like this one from a reader named Wendi: “Thanks for being so open. I’m standing at the edge of the black hole, trying so hard not to fall in, and your courage and your vulnerability are inspiring me to keep going today.” And I know it was the right thing to do, even if I’m walking with my tail, or computer, between my legs. Her sentiment makes risking public rejection and ridicule worth it, and encourages me to put myself out there yet another day.

More on Therese's book in future blogs.

***

Are you a mental health grunt? The spark, the glue, that everyone depends on but nobody ever thanks? I have five copies of Therese’s terrific new book, Beyond Blue to give away, and it’s a no-brainer who they’re going to. Tell me your story. See Calling All Mental Health Grunts for details.

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Calling All Mental Health Grunts

You know who you are, even if other people don’t. You’re the one who arrives before everyone else to turn on the lights. You’re the last one to leave to turn them off. Whatever it takes to get the job done, you’re doing it. Maybe you’re the spark that animates a local NAMI. Maybe you’re the glue that keeps a DBSA group going. Maybe you’re that reassuring voice on the phone ...

You’re the grunt in the trenches. Everyone depends on you. No one thanks you. No one pays you. People even abuse you. That’s the deal. You knew it when you signed on for it, and you keep signing on, anyway.

I know who a lot of you are. I’ve met many of you personally. There’s no adequate way I can show my appreciation. But I do have five books to give away, and it’s a no-brainer who they should go to. Read on ...

Therese Borchard was written a terrific new book, Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression & Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes.

Here is part of the endorsement I sent to Therese’s publisher (they used another part):

This is The Book of Job as Art Buchwald might have written it, had he been as talented as Therese. Wise, compassionate, and funny beyond measure, Therese ultimately offers up healing. This is a book for the ages.

Here’s the deal: Tell me who you are and what you do. Wait - you’re a grunt, that’s not your style. So it looks like I’m going to have to depend on those of you who know a grunt - you do the talking.

Okay, grunts and friends of grunts alike: Send me an email. A few paragraphs, something much longer - whatever you feel does justice to your story. Please include a mailing address.  Five of you will get Therese’s book. All of you will get acknowledged in this blog.

Note: This is strictly for individuals (or local groups) who have served others, with no thought of recompense or thanks or acknowledgment. So, if you were helped out by attending say a DBSA or NAMI group, this is your chance to show your appreciation. Tell us about the individual who made you feel welcome and not alone. Or, tell us about the whole group.

Let’s make this a 10-day deadline. Emails to me by midnight PST, Jan 15. Note: Only US and Canadian residents eligible (sorry, those are the publisher’s rules) and no PO box addresses.

Purchase Beyond Blue from Amazon

Therese Borchard's Amazing New Book

I had the pleasure of reading an advance copy of Therese Borchard’s new book, BEYOND BLUE, which is title of her highly-acclaimed blog. (Long title of her book: "Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression & Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes"). Over the last year, Therese has become one of my favorite people. Here is the endorsement I sent to Therese’s publisher:

I don't know how Therese does it - a singularly unique woman who strikes a universal chord, a one-of-a-kind that we can all relate to. Let me count the contradictions: perfectionist-screw-up, brilliant-confused, depressed-hilarious ... Therese is a saint in pursuit of a masterpiece, and BEYOND BLUE is Exhibit A. This is The Book of Job as Art Buchwald might have written it, had he been as talented as Therese. Wise, compassionate, and funny beyond measure, Therese ultimately offers up healing. This is a book for the ages.

The publisher chopped this to a single sentence back cover blurb (to make room for the other rave endorsements, I might add).

The book goes on sale in January, but Amazon has it in stock right now. I have heard that Amazon orders heavily influence whether book stores will stock certain books or not, so I strongly urge all of you to order from Amazon now.

Any follower of Therese is well acquainted with her keen sense of humor. To give you a feel for her style, I rounded up these extracts (with her permission) from some of her funniest blog pieces. Enjoy ...

Fear of Fish

From a blog piece on competing in a triathalon:

You’d think the paranoia would end as soon as I could exit the sooty pond, but not for an OCDer.

As I sat on my bike seat, I heard a squishing sound.

"I heard the fish. I just squashed it! I knew it!"

"It’s probably the padding in your shorts. Chill out. And even if you managed to catch one, he’ll be dead by the time the ride is over."

"But I can’t ride 14.2 miles with a dead Nemo in my pants!"

Every time I shifted gears, I thought about Nemo, wondering how he was doing. In fact, no matter how hard I tried to direct my thoughts to something else, preferably the race I was participating in, I continued to freak out about the fish.

Like when I passed a chicken farm, about a half of a mile into the run.

"I smell it! It’s a whole family of fish, reproducing as I run! Nothing short of a fish school drying out could smell that bad!"

I finally crossed the finish line singing the tune from "The Little Mermaid": "Les poisons, les poisons, how I love les poisons!"

Which was fitting, because considering all the seaweed (but no fish!) that fell off of me in the shower afterward, you’d think I was "The Big Mermaid."

Trash Night

A year or so ago, I got fed up with my mate's constant begging for sex, so one night I asked him point blank, "What is the minimal number of times a week that you need sex in order to be satisfied?"

"Twice. Absolute minimum."

"Fine," I said. "You get Monday and Thursday. If you don't beg any other night."

It then occurred to me that Monday and Thursday evenings were trash night. We drag out all of our rubbish and recyclables from the last few days and leave the stuff on the curb ... to be picked up at 5 a.m. the next day, when the trash truck compressors will try to wake up our slumbering kids.

Yes, trash night is sex night in our household. Clearly a "Seinfeld" episode in the making.

This concept ... of a scheduled sex session ... was so intriguing to the other birthday guests that trash talk dominated the entire conversation for the rest of the evening.

"What about bulk pick up?" one asked.

"And what if you miss a day?" asked another.

"Eric's lucky," said the guy crossing his legs. "Our trash is only picked up once a month."

Schedule of a HSF (Highly Sensitive Family)

A typical Saturday morning in our highly-sensitive house looks like this:

2:00 a.m. HSH (highly sensitive husband) goes downstairs to sleep on the couch because he keeps getting awoken by the loud snoring of his HSW (highly sensitive wife), who is having anxiety dreams (she missed her final exam because she got carried away with the ice-cream machine at the dining hall--filling up 21 small paper ketchup containers with all the different flavors, all of which are too cold on her highly sensitive teeth).

2:10 a.m. HSH is back upstairs to get a softer pillow for his highly sensitive head.

5:15 a.m. The state of South Dakota on the HSB's (highly sensitive boy's) talking puzzle of the United States wakes up HSH again. He bangs it with his highly sensitive hand, but it won't stop saying "Pierre is the capital of South Dakota. Population, 14,000."

Finally, the miffed HSH goes into his highly sensitive woodshop (the garage) to get a screwdriver to dismantle the thing. As he yanks the IN (insensitive) AA Energizer batteries out of there, it finally shuts up. This reminds HSH of the time his HSW tossed a Winnie the Pooh keychain into the back yard when it got stuck playing the Winnie the Pooh theme song. (Her efforts with a hammer in the woodshop didn't succeed at rendering the thing mute ... So every time she opened the back door to let the dogs do their business for three days--until the AA Energizers finally surrendered--she heard the annoying tune.)

***

Lots more from Therese in future blogs. In the meantime, don’t delay: please order from Amazon now.

Surviving the Holidays

Shortly before Thanksgiving, on BipolarConnect, I offered this holiday advice:

• Keep your expectations low. We tend to do the very opposite, then find ourselves dealing with the disappointment. You will be a lot better off if you don't think of the holidays as a time to strengthen your bond to your loved one, impress your parents, reconcile with a difficult brother or sister, or be a hero to your nieces and nephews.
• Take time out for yourself. The holidays put us in situations where we are easily overstimulated and overwhelmed. If you sense a force nine family fight about to break out at the table, don't be afraid to summarily remove yourself from the scene. The same holds true even if there is no family tension, even if everyone is enjoying themselves. You don't need a good excuse to make an exit - any bad one will do.
• Plan ahead. The less surprises the better. The less last-minute rushing around the better.
• Figure out your needs. Some of us need to be around people. Some of us are better off taking a Sabbatical from humanity. Don't let family obligations and other duties affect your decision. We are all dealing with a severe chronic illness, with huge consequences when things go wrong. Interpersonal stresses can set us up for a crash and burn at one end, isolation can make us sitting ducks at the other. The only wrong decision is the one you make against your own best judgment.

Finally: Don't be afraid to have a happy holidays. They have been known to happen.

Two of my favorite bloggers, Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue and Willa Goodfellow of Prozac Monologues cover the territory with a lot more depth and insight. On a normal day, their blogs are to me what coffee is to Starbucks. For the holidays, they are a must-read:

From Willa:

• Don't You Love the Holidays?
• At the Movies
  

From Therese:

• 21 Holiday Stress-Busters
• 10 Tips for Steps for Stepfamilies
• Holiday Stress Tips
• Depression Before the Holidays

Depressed or Thinking Deep - My Take

Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue always has a way of making me feel that on a planet of six billion strangers I have at least one person I can talk to. Last week, she opened a blog piece this way:

I spent my adolescence and teenage years obsessing about this question: Am I depressed or just deep?

When I was nine, I figured that I was a young Christian mystic because I related much more to the saints who lived centuries ago than to other nine-year-old girls who had crushes on boys. I couldn't understand how my sisters could waste quarters on a stupid video game when there were starving kids in Cambodia. Hello? Give them to UNICEF!

Now I look back with tenderness to the hurting girl I was and wished somebody had been able to recognize that I was very depressed.

See what I mean? I just know that had we been in the same class at grade school, while the other kids played ball during recess, Therese and I would have found a quiet spot to sit under a shade tree, sharing cookies our moms packed and discussing how Augustine of Hippo must have felt after Alaric the Visigoth sacked Rome in 410 AD.

So, what was it? Were Therese and I two sensitive souls waxing philosophical, or two depressives acting strange? Therese cites both Paula Bloom PsyD (from a blog on PBS) and Peter Kramer MD, author of "Against Depression" (from a NY Times piece) in support of the proposition that depression and thinking deep are clearly distinct. Says Dr Kramer:

"We idealize depression, associating it with perceptiveness, interpersonal sensitivity and other virtues. Like tuberculosis in its day, depression is a form of vulnerability that even contains a measure of erotic appeal." First the ancient Greeks, then Renaissance thinkers, and later the Romantic movement assigned spiritual and artistic and even heroic virtues to melancholy. Nonsense, Dr Kramer responds. "Depression is not a perspective. It is a disease."

If I interpret Therese correctly in her blog piece, she found comfort in this. It came as a great relief to her to realize that her capacity to think deep, even at a young age, although unusual, was not pathological.

I, on the other hand, have an entirely different reaction. "Wait!" I want to scream at Dr Kramer. "You mean my depressions have all been for nothing?" My lost hours, lost days, entire lost years, a lost life practically, served no useful purpose whatsoever?

Screw you, Kramer! I want to keep screaming for no logical reason, whatsoever. Something that took so much from me, so much out of my life, I demand some kind of return - Jedi powers, a mystical third eye, roll-over phone minutes, whatever.

Yes, Dr Kramer is right, but so is everyone else. When it comes to the enduring question - Who the hell am I? - we are all struggling to find the truth. Here's what I'm looking at right now:

Proposition One: Any depression that is not part of my temperament sucks - whether mild or severe. Take my depression - please. They throw me off my game, ruin my day, wreck my life. Whether it's a depression that is the equivalent of a mild cold or one that is psychic double pneumonia I seriously don't want to be inside my brain on this planet when my neurons have gone on strike. If this is the disease that Peter Kramer is talking about, I'm behind him one hundred percent.

Proposition Two: At the same time, mild to moderate depression is part of my temperament, my personality (as is hypomania). As opposed to my disease depressions, I'm very comfortable in this state. It is a part of who I am. My energy is down, my thoughts tend to be very dark, but - here's the key difference - I thrive in this state. My neurons are working with me, or perhaps me with my neurons. It's as if I'm calmly sifting through the ideas I rounded up in my hypomanic frenzies, whether I'm lying in bed, at my desk, or taking a walk. If this is Dr Kramer's version of just thinking deep, I would have to respectfully disagree.

What we are talking about is the classic distinction between "state" and "trait." Trait is who we are. State is invasion of the brain snatchers. But no distinctions are ever as clear-cut as they seem.

We tend to get hung up on DSM-IV check lists while ignoring a key DSM injunction - namely that we are only in a state of mental illness when the symptoms interfere with our ability to function (as in work or relationships). So - from my personal perspective - if I am comfortable and not struggling while depressed, then I hardly have an illness that needs treatment.

Now let's flip it. I also get hypomanic, and I've written a lot about this. Here's the test: For Marilyn Monroe to act like Marilyn Monroe (at least when she's up) - that's normal, for Marilyn, anyway. For someone else to act like Marilyn Monroe, on the other hand - that's probably a sign that very bad things are about to happen.

So, back to depression. For me to act like me (when I am down), under most situations that is normal for me. I can handle it, it is healthy. For someone else to act like me, trust me, that is cause to get one's personal affairs in order.

Here's where it gets complicated. When does my productive depression start becoming a nuisance and when does this nuisance seriously start messing me up? Similarly, when does my upbeat hypomania cross over into social embarrassment and in turn morph into something that causes me to make very bad decisions?

It's as if we're turning up the heat. When, in effect, instead of a nice warm soak in the tub, do we find ourselves in hot water? Everyone has different tolerance thresholds, and you can make a good case that we can expand the range of these thresholds to lead healthier lives. Of course, every time I congratulate myself on doing this, God just laughs and throws a psychic lightning bolt in my direction.

So - my normal would probably cause most people to stay in bed for six months, or (in the other direction) have neighbors dialing 911.

One more twist. In her blog, Dr Bloom reported on this confused reaction from a patient: "When I reflected to her that she sounded depressed she said 'I don’t think so, that is just my personality.' So many people confuse depression with just being a lazy, unmotivated person."

So our depressed state tends to give us a wrong read on our baseline traits. Who the hell are we? It's a question I'm still trying to figure out.

***
Therese is my fellow terminal deep thinker and favorite blogger. Please check her out at Beyond Blue.

Halloween Special - The Friday Frights

My good friend Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue looks positively frightening in this Halloween special video, Facing Your Fears, released today. But for sheer fright quotient, you need to see me doing rap. My video, Gonna Build Me a Tree, was shot last year. As to who is more frightening, me or Therese, you be the judge - but remember, I didn't need to wear special makeup. Enjoy ...

Beyond Blue: John McManamy (That's Me) Talks About Play

My favorite blogger, Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue, recently interviewed me on the topic of play, which she broke down into three pieces, published today:

Five Steps to Having More Fun

Play is Crucial to Good Mental Health

Operating Instructions: This is How You Play

Following is a brief excerpt from that interview:

Question: John, could you outline maybe five steps to help the readers have more fun in their lives?

John: Now there you go, Therese, asking tough questions. Look, I already told you I'm an expert in feeling miserable. Why don't you ask me to share my secrets on getting high scores on your math SATs while you're at it? Geesh - okay-okay-okay. I'm thinking ..

1. - Enjoy the peanut butter. As you can see in the picture, here I am trying to explain to Spock the concept of peanut butter. Spock is telling me that peanut butter is not logical (Cardassian tofu apparently is) which is exactly my point. Forget about the bread. Stick a fork in the jar and go for it.

"Enjoy the peanut butter" is my metaphor for living in the present. It comes from an old Zen parable about savoring strawberries as tigers are about to rip you apart. The present is where life is happening, here, right now.

For lots more, please click the links above or visit Beyond Blue's home page. Therese is a brilliant writer, with great insights and a keen sense of humor. At the same time, she never forgets who she is and the challenges she faces in getting through each day. I can't recommend her blog enough.

Play!

My good friend Therese Borchard at Beyond Blue has been urging me for some time to do a blog piece on the benefits of play. Her piece today, Do Something You Love, serves as a timely reminder why I need to get crackin'. Therese writes:

Last summer, when I was going through a bout of depression, a friend told me to do what made me happy as a kid. So I tuned up my mountain bike and headed to the trails for a few hours. Afterward I treated myself to an ice-cream cone: mint-chocolate chip with LOTS of chocolate sprinkles on top. That was exactly how I spent so many summer days as kid.

My brain recalled it, because I could hear a voice say, "Oh yeah. I remember this. It was fun ... before your dad put you on treadmill and a diet and you were afraid to eat ice-cream again."

What happens to us when we get older? Are we programmed to actually forget how to be happy?

Remember what it was like when you were five? When you and your friends had that feeling of never wanting to stop? Until your moms called you in for dinner?

Why can't we bring back some of that?

Trust me, I will be writing an awful lot on this. Play is a vital element in our recovery. So much so, I contend, that if you are not spending at least part of your time acting like a child then getting through adulthood is going to pose a major challenge.

In the meantime, in case you have forgotten what play is like, here is a video from my two resident experts, Rocky and Bullwinkle at age six weeks. Enjoy ...

April Fools

See if you can distinguish the real stories from the fake pieces below. Warning: If truth is stranger than fiction, then fiction can be more credible than truth - and often more true. Ah! the hazards of being crazy in a crazy world. But we're the ones being treated.

Also, my good friend Therese Borchard at Beyond Blue has compiled a great April Fools collection. Please, check it out.

Laugh - it's good for you. Believe me, without laughter I'd be dead.

Enjoy ...

Depression - Are We All Alone?

Trying to tell someone who has never experienced depression what depression is like is like trying to describe a headache to someone who has never had a headache. People just don't get it, and they never will.

No one writes about this better than Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue. Here's the last three paragraphs from a blog post from yesterday:

"The pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it," Styron wrote. "To the tragic legion who are compelled to destroy themselves there should be no more reproof attached than to the victims of terminal cancer."

Like Styron, I was both enraged and saddened that friends and family were shocked to hear that two doctors sliced me open--before full anesthesia kicked in--to save little David's life in an emergency C-section. Yet when I voiced the desperation of depression--which made the knife cut feel like a knee scratch--they often brushed it off, as if I were whining to win some undeserved sympathy votes.

But I should know better. Most people don't get it. And the day I get that through my head I'll be less disappointed.

Obviously, Therese touched a raw nerve. Her blog post (as of right now) drew an incredible 209 comments, nearly all of it along the lines of "my friends and family don't get it, either."

So, are we on our own? No, not really. Way too many of us, unfortunately, get depressed. Between those with major unipolar depression and those with bipolar depression, not to mention those with depression as a symptom of another illness, we are talking in the neighborhood of one in five Americans who experience major depression over the course of their lifetimes.

So, if your family and friends are deaf to you, all you have to do is reach out a little further. Literally, throw a stone out the window. It is bound to land on someone who has been through depression. You will have someone to talk to. Keep in mind that Bill Styron, cited by Therese, cultivated friendships with fellow depressives Mike Wallace and Art Buchwald.

Also, keep in mind that although most people don't get depression, they are not exactly hostile, either. Chances are, depression has touched their lives in some way. They may not understand what is going on, but a good many are truly moved by the suffering they have witnessed close-up.

Finally, be mindful of the fact that depression affects our capacity to process positive news. Friends and family may be more supportive than you give them credit for.

Industrial Disease: What Are We Doing To Ourselves?

Consider:

The average working couple in America spends 20 minutes a day together.

"Family time" has become a goal, an achievement, rather than a natural consequence of being a family.

Most Americans are trapped in a vicious cycle of overwork and over-consumption.

Dropping in on a neighbor is practically nonexistent.

Keeping busy and multitasking are praised, while slowing down is frowned upon.

This from Therese Borchard, writing on the Huffington Post. She was drawing from a book by Abby Sexias, "Finding the Deep River Within."

"The disease of a-thousand-things-to-do," is how Ms Seixas describes it. I would give it another name: industrial disease.

In 2004, a major World Health Organization survey of 14 countries and two Chinese cities found Nigeria and Shanghai with the lowest prevalence of mental illness, way lower than the US and Europeans. In mood disorders, the Nigerians were at the very bottom (less than one percent over 12 months compared to nearly 10 percent in the US).

Maybe Nigerians are too worried about where their next meal is coming from to ruminate on the things we do. But I have a strong suspicion that they have something we haven't got, things we lost a long time ago, things our kids will never know about.

The beginning of the industrial revolution in the mid-eighteenth century coincided with a sudden explosion in mental illness. It didn't take people long to finger the stresses of urban life as the culprit. The asylums - literally sanctuaries - that sprang up in nineteenth century were beautiful country estates with farms attached. They were the product of the various reform movements of the age that included abolition, self-improvement, and enlightened Christianity.

In other words, way back when, people actually recognized that if you treated the mentally ill with compassion, took them away from stressful environments, and gave them opportunities to take pride in their work then their condition might actually improve.

The inaugural 1844 issue of the American Journal of Psychiatry (then called The American Journal of Insanity) reported on an institution in Utica, then in operation for 18 months. According to the report, of 433 patients admitted, 123 had recovered.

It was only later that these same institutions became the chambers of horrors that shame us as humans.

So, have we learned anything over the intervening years?

Yes. If we place families under impossible financial obligations with absurd expectations, force both partners to labor late into the night in high pressure corporate sweat shops devoid of fresh air and natural light, sleep-deprived and alienated from nurturing communities, sooner or later they will go crazy and drive other people crazy.

Not only that, see what happens when we over-school and over-regiment their kids.

Our brains simply weren't built for this.

If you scroll back to some of my recent blogs, you will note a number of short home-made nature videos. They are there for a reason. Since moving to a rural environment more than two years ago, I noticed something astonishing - my mental health improved, dramatically so. I work from home. I keep my own schedule. When I need a mental health break, I take it. All I have to do is step outdoors.

Welcome to my world.

Your world - and your responsibilities - are certainly a lot different. But your brain undoubtedly has the same limited warranty as mine. This is a tough world, growing tougher by the day. Survival depends on your creativity in carving out sanctuary - asylum.

It's a principle as old as the hills. Our ancestors understood it. Nigerians and other societies probably still do. We are incredibly slow learners in a painful process of relearning.

The Bipolar Relationship Riddle

Later this afternoon, I will be making a 50-mile drive in the pouring rain to La Jolla in San Diego to attend a DBSA friends and family support group. It concerns a very bad communication I had last week with a former girlfriend. I really need to talk to some people who understand.

I have bipolar. Or more accurately, bipolar plus other stuff. I have yet to meet someone who just has bipolar.

My second marriage - to a very lovely women with bipolar plus her own collection of add-ons - ended just prior to Thanksgiving two years back. Then I had a short relationship with delightful cowgirl with bipolar (more pluses) that ended just prior to Thanksgiving a year back. Then a slightly longer relationship with personally stunning ball of fire (bipolar fully loaded) that ended - drumroll please - just prior to last Thanksgiving.

What is it about three Thanksgivings in a row?

I'm obviously no expert on relationships - in fact, call me a jerk - but my experience from both sides of the bipolar fence as a patient and loved one has conferred me with certain insights. In the six weeks this blog has been going, I have already posted two blogs on relationships, and intend to post many more.

The experts talk about "functionality," which is arguably a more reliable indicator of the severity of our illness than ticking off a symptom checklist. The two key indicators of functionality are work and relationships (keeping in mind we may choose healthy alternatives to both). Predictably, our population performs poorly in both categories.

Obviously, figuring out how to get it right is a fairly reliable predictor of recovery.

Think of the above as a preamble to this announcement: My favorite bipolar blogger, Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue is devoting an entire week to relationships. Here, she gives a rundown on what we can look forward to in future posts. Check out her first installment, You Deplete Me: 10 Steps To End a Toxic Relationship. Brief excerpt:

"Be prepared to dry off as you step out of the river of Denial. A few questions will get you there. Ask yourself these, for starters: Do I feel energized or drained after I spent an hour with X? Do I WANT to spend time with X or do I feel like I have to? Do I feel sorry for X? Do I go to X looking for a response that I never get? Do I come away consistently disappointed by X's comments and behavior? Am I giving way more to the relationship than X? Do I even like X? I mean, if X were on a cruise and I didn't know her, would I walk up to her and want to be her friend/boyfriend based on her actions and interactions with others?"

More later ...

From mcmanweb: Family Fallout

"The authors devote a whole chapter to mood triggers, and place strong emphasis on partners working together to reduce the stress in the living environment, from keeping work and social obligations under control to more discriminate TV viewing to proper diet, sleep, and exercise. ..."

We Have Competition!

It seems there are THREE singing bipolar bloggers!

Followers of "Knowledge is Necessity" and Beyond Blue are well aware of the Bipolar Singing Blogger Smackdown between yours truly and Therese Borchard.

Therese got off to a flying start with her "12 Bipolar Days of Christmas" video, but I came right back rappin' to "Gonna Build Me a Tree." (See "The Bipolar Singing Blogger Smackdown" here at "Knowledge is Necessity" and on Beyond Blue.)

In the next round, Therese and her smiley faces thought they had me smoked with "A Few of My Favorite Things," but me and my gorilla homey, we were ready with my bluegrass "Recovery Anthem."

In the process, I invented a new hybrid music form that combines the worst of bluegrass and rap - "bluecrap."

Now Therese informs me we have competition - serious competition - Giannakali of Beyond Meds. One quick listen and you will realize that Giannakali and her canine homey have put my sistah Therese and me on serious notice that we need to lift our games.

Otherwise it's Metamucil and retirement for us.

Okay, Giannakali and homey: You may have wiped the floor with my face this round, but next time I'll be ready. Therese, too. You may think you have your howls and yowls down pat, well I got news for you - I have a didgeridoo that I can't play. You just wait.