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Depression, Succubi, Adultery, and the Damn Travel Channel

Depression is a lot like an all day sleep-and-bingeathon, only there aren’t any cool accolades if you eat more than a human reasonably ought to.  I watch TV sometimes. There’s a show called Man Versus Food on Travel Channel where the show’s host, Adam Richman, goes around the US in search of restaurants with customer challenges that would send any sane man crying home to his mama.  I’m serious.  Try doing something like eating a ten-pound burger in less then five minutes.  The rare select few whose intestines don’t explode get some kind of reward, like a T-shirt and their name on a plaque.

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I don’t know why they do that.  I’ve seen the fat that drips off of cooking hamburger meat, and if you’re crazy enough to eat a ten-pound burger then the plaque comes post-attached to your arteries.  Following that, if your intestines have the fortitude to withstand the culinary punishment, it’s your heart that explodes instead.

I’ve always thought they should forego the T-shirts in lieu of toe-tags for this very reason.  Whichever part of your body bursts first, the tags make for easy identification.

How unfair is all of this?  After all, when I get depressed, I eat a lot.  Adam Richman eats more than I do and he doesn’t look a bit depressed.  In fact, he looks positively bubbling with gaiety.  Maybe it’s because he sleeps a lot, instead.   That’s the damned thing about depression.  When you sleep all day, you tend to wake up hungry.  Then, once you’ve eaten until the capillaries in your eyes all pop, you get sleepy again because of the carb crash and have to call someone to come over and help you back to your bed because you’ve eaten yourself blind.

My grandmother used to tell me if I masturbated I’d go blind, but that wasn’t true, though I did walk in on my roommate doing that once in college and seriously contemplated putting my eyes out.  I guess grandma had it half right.

I went to the Golden Corral steak buffet and tried to eat the image out of my head.  It didn’t work.  I just gained three pounds.  And when I found that out, I went for some serious comfort food then.

Oh.

And I started knocking on the door before I went into my dorm room.

Because of depression I ruined a wonderful job once.  For one brief golden year I taught English at a college.  The job was a dream-come-true.  Then Rebecca, the girl of my dreams, dumped me for a man who makes a quarter of a million dollars.  I was already in a bad place because I had left my wife for Becky and my conscience kept telling me I had to mask the pain by eating at establishments with names like Fat Daddy’s or Gut Busters.  Otherwise I knew I was going to have to face what I did.  Facing up to your own treachery and betrayal never, ever tastes good.

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To make matters worse, Becky was suicidal.  That’s enough to drive anyone into a depressed state.  Especially when you’re taking phone calls four and five times a night to talk someone off of a potential ledge.

Not only that but she suffered from a mood disorder that drove me to the edge of my own personal cliff.  I’m sure she suffered from several other disorders, actually.  Unfortunately being a life-sucking, gold-digging succubus hasn’t been entered into the DSM-V yet.  There’s no medicine for that.  Instead of pills I found out the hard way that they were handing out well-paid computer engineers instead.  When that happened I hoped Becky would get an STD.

She got a BMW instead.

The worst thing about all of this is that Adam Richman never seems to gain a freaking ounce.  It would be different if he were as round as a basketball and half the size of Jupiter.

Luckily I’m six foot four.  I don’t look like Jupiter, but most of the weight is in my stomach.  I look like Saturn instead.  After all, that’s pretty fitting because Saturn was considered the Roman god of generation and noting generates like binge eating and sleeping all the time.

Unless you’re Adam Richman.  But I bet with all the money he’s not too depressed about anything unless he get salmonella after eating a ten mile sausage dog.

Seriously, depression not only takes the life out of you, but it takes you out of life.  That’s the real mischief of depression.  Instead of doing my job I went home and curled up into a fetal position until the next day.  Working with my students was what got me through each day.  But in the end I sabotaged that.  The main thing I want anyone reading this to take away is that if you find yourself in the same place I did, GET HELP.

And not the kind that comes from buffet bars or hiding in your bed and praying for your life to go away.  If I do my blog correctly tonight there should be a link to the signs and symptoms of this sometimes debilitating disorder.

As for the life-sucking succubus, dump his or her ass and fork over the fee for eHarmony.  I found two amazing girls there.  One is a physician and she’s my best friend.  The other I’m going to marry.

Grab a stake, not a steak.  Use a crucifix if you think it will help.  Get the toxic partner out of your life.  Leave the vampires to Stephanie Meyers. That voice telling you that you won’t find anyone else is a liar.

You can.

You will.

The Price of Adultery: Part 1

My ex-wife Julie and I met one night at college as we each walked alone along separate paths.  I was lonely, and she told me later that she had been drawn out onto a lonely walk because of another guy.  She liked him, but her feelings had gone unrequited.  That night she walked to let go of the idea of him and reconcile herself to the fact that something she had hoped for would never be.

By that time of my life I have discovered that I was already in a lifelong battle with depression.  As I passed groves of mountain evergreens lining the walking paths that skirted the campus, I remember the faint emotional sirens singing insidiously to me the same song that seems to tug at people with depression.

I felt like I was not “good enough” to be a part of the company of other students I admired.  My life was always the life of the outsider standing in the cold night looking into a window spilling out warmth, light, and laughter of people within . . . groups of people, the voice within me chided, that I could never possibly belong to.

I always watched from the other side of that window, pretending to smile, hoping that the grin on my face showed those inside that I too was one of them, one of the blessed elect, and that except for my solitary errand, I would doubtless be elsewhere enjoying the same mirth and happiness they reveled in.

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But I knew inside that I was really one of H.G. Wells’ Morlocks, a collegiate J. Alfred Prufrock not fit to share a smile or a laugh with a pretty girl or a close friend.  I knew in truth that it was time for me to go, always time for me to go.  Only the ghost of me remained.  If all I left in others was the believable pretense of a smile and the veneer of acceptability, then I felt like I broke even.

That night we both secretly carried our own baggage of disappointments and letdowns.  We met and walked together, and at some point I held her hand.  Neither of us suspected how far things would go, or how far things would fall.  I sensed from the beginning that we weren’t the best fit, but two months later I discovered I had MS and Julie was the one person there for me.  6 months after that she was pregnant and 10 months after that we were married.

Julie was a wonderful girl.  Gentle.  Sweet.  Thoughtful.  Considerate.  Unsure of herself and full of her own self-doubts.  And why shouldn’t she have been?  When Ju was born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, choking her.  The resulting brief reduction of blood flow to her brain left her with a number of learning disabilities.

Growing up, she attended a prestigious and expensive private Catholic school, and it was hell for her.  All of the kids came from families with money and they possessed the kind of self-confident arrogance that sometimes accompanies children born among the Eloi, or the elect.

Julie attended special ed. classes to help her learn to work with her learning disabilities.  But you can imagine what it looks like to snooty school kids when one of their classmates has to leave regular class in order to attend “special” classes taught by the same teachers who were also working with mentally retarded children.

Julie knew that almost everyone looked askance at her as far as perceived academics went.  The boys liked her because she was thin and cute and more jock than preppy diva.  Julie has always been extraordinarily modest.  Any nascent arrogance got beaten out of her by a father that walked out on her when she was young.  And then there were the cruel remarks children made behind her back because she obviously wasn’t like them.  More, Julie never knew how pretty she was when she was younger.  The girls did, though, and they had their ways of making her feel ostracized . . . like a Morlock.

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Our marriage was full of trouble from the beginning.  I was always impatient with Julie.  Despite her learning disabilities, Ju was bright and just as capable as any other girl.  She just took longer to process and sift through things she read and heard.  I was book smart and grasped literary and philosophical things easily—the kind of guy who never opened a book and hardly went to class but still pulled a B effortlessly.

Julie worked and fought for every academic accomplishment she earned.  I had little respect for her at times because I constantly had to stop in mid-conversation and explain things to her I found self-evident.  She frequently became passive-aggressive and defensive whenever issues arose.  On top of that she suffered from what was at times a severe social anxiety.

Despite all of this, Julie loved me wholeheartedly and with the kind of devotion many people would shave years off of their lives to experience from another.  For all her love and fidelity, I returned her affection with an affair that left her shattered and devastated.

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Julie spent most of her life unsure of herself and afraid to live, to step out and take a chance.  Most of the time she got by with just existing.  This took its toll on me over the years.  That’s about the only thing I can offer up as an explanation as to why I cheated on her.  For a long time I clung to it as a life raft, excusing me from the deep and damning waters of my betrayal.

One day I finally let go of the raft and allowed myself to sink into the depths of that pitiless and self-recriminating sea.  Not a day goes by now when I do not in some way or another pay for the emotional toll I exacted on her.  I know that we weren’t good for each other.  Intellectually we had very different needs.  But this knowledge doesn’t do a bit of good to buoy up so my head remains above water.  It’s all I can do to hold on and tread.  Guilt is such a thinner thing than water that when we let go of the defenses we cling to in order to keep it at bay, we sink.  And down below, where the water is deepest, the guilt exerts a pressure that is unbearable.

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Julie has the kind of tenacity and spirit that will allow her to remain afloat in even the worst storms.  I am not so strong or resilient.  But rarely are the souls of the damned made of such durable stuff.  She sails in better and safer waters.  I live at the bottom of a sea floor littered with the wrecks of torpedoed relationships, walking and stumbling blindly among other lost souls in the dark, hoping for a redemption that remains ever elusive and forbidden.

Borderline Personality Disorder

Over the course of my life, I’ve been sidelined, streamlined (that happened every time I started a diet program), off-lined, hard-lined, close-lined, and once in a boating accident, shore lined.  It wasn’t, however, until I began a three-year long affair with my old high school sweetheart, my first real love, that I came into contact with mental illness from the other end of a relationship.

Ever since high school I’ve always run what a therapist once told me was a low-grade depression with occasional severe flare-ups.  Depression is bad.  Sometimes really bad.  It led me once to cut my wrist into hamburger meat with a steak knife.  My housemate came into the kitchen and saw what I was doing.  She called 911 and very well might have saved my life.  That was the day that I realized a number of things: 1) steak knives, while readily on hand, make terrible instruments of suicide, 2) I needed seeeerious help, and 3) not all mental illness were created the same.

That’s when I discovered I had been borderlined.

Becky, the girl I was involved with, had a personal history of suicide attempts as well as a family history of it, too. I cannot tell you how many nights she called me multiple times seeking comfort and reassurance.

I was always there for her.

I guess you could say in that respect I was a lot like the all the other guys she screwed around with.  But I think they were always there for her with an entirely different set of priorities in mind.

What I knew and none of then had a clue about was that in addition to suffering from severe depression with a history of suicide, Becky was also diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.

If you’re not sure of the difference between depression and borderline personality disorder, please take a few minutes to review the following links:

  1. Depression:  http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/depression/index.shtml
  2. Borderline Personality Disorder: http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/borderline-personality-disorder/index

Borderliners can be amazing people.  They can also be nightmares.  I mean no disrespect to sufferers with this clinical diagnosis.  None at all.  But if you are in a relationship with some one who is a borderliner, please keep in mind studies show that loved ones and close associates of borderliners need therapy as well.

That’s because in my experience, comparing living with depression to living with BPD is like the difference between playing with bottle rockets in your backyard and tinkering with fat man at the trinity test site.

If you have BPD, you know how terribly the mood swings push you into dark places you’d rather not go.  Kind of like Frodo without the benefit of a lava lake and a ring to toss it into.

If you suffer with BPD, not only do you wear a ring you cannot take off . . . you discover somewhere along the way that to your horror, you are the ring.  Statistics show that borderliners not only frequently attempt suicide, but they are also statically more likely to succeed in their attempts.

Currently the mainline treatment regimen for BPD involves finding and effective SSRI or some other medication in combination with Dialectical Behavior Therapy, which can be accessed by this site: http://psychcentral.com/lib/an-overview-of-dialectical-behavior-therapy/0001096

I now what a hell it can be for people on both ends of this spectrum.  If you suspect someone you love suffers from BPD, feel free to email me and I will be happy to help you access the latest studies and literature on the subject.

Remember.

You are not alone.

First of many thoughts on an affair

I had an affair several years ago.  My wife and I just weren’t meant for one another.  When you’re young, it’s easy to think that all it takes for a relationship to work is a dose of good intentions mixed with a dash of hormonal chemistry.  All it really led to, though, was getting the girl who became my first wife knocked up.

I had a son because of the whole hormonal drive/best of intentions scenario.  I’m proud of him.  He’s about to enroll on the Army.  He’s also still pissed at me for what I did to his mom.  When his mom and I met, several of my friends worried that we just didn’t have the right personalities to mix well.  I didn’t listen to them then.  Usually the kinds of mixes they were concerned with at that time dealt with the ones that went well with Jose Cuervo or schnapps.  In college we drank so much we could have double majored in Spanish and German by virtue of our drinking habits.

The older I have grown, however, the more I’ve realized that there’s really something to personality matches, especially where marriage longevity is concerned.  (To my credit, I had figured out, however, that schnapps and tequila never mixed well.)  When the affair happened I hadn’t yet looked into the myriad different personality types or the ways divergent personality traits can make or break a relationship over time.

Looking back, I now realize just how ignorant of myself I actually was.   At the time, all I knew for certain was that I just didn’t enjoy being around my spouse as much as I wanted to.  Early on, people asked me why I cheated.  For a long time I tried blaming it on bad Chinese food. The excuse didn’t wash, though.  Apparently she kno fun isn’t a real entrée down at the Super Number 1 China Buffet, so that sent me on a search to discover why I, along with millions of Americans, committed one of the most painful acts possible in a relationship. (I’ve made a lot of discoveries and hope to share them with you in this blog, along with lists of websites and books that might help save you from loads of heartache and self-induced suffering.)

Something I want you to know is that even though I have committed adultery, in my heart and mind, infidelity is right up there with murder in terms of the emotional toll it takes on everyone involved.  I still hurt for what I have done every day of my life.  Marital infidelity may still be de rigueur among the glitterati in pop culture, but in mainstream society it still places me a few steps short of a social pariah, somewhat like Dick Morris or Newt Gingrich but without their fat bank accounts, generous speaking deals, and publishing contracts.

I feel terrible for my ex-wife and wish I could undo all of the pain I caused her throughout the whole ordeal.  The ironic thing about looking at events in retrospect is the old truism that things are always so much clearer once they’re done and over with.  In the middle of it all I was having a groovy time.  After all, the affair was with my former high school sweetheart—the girl I had always loved and never gotten out of my system.  She was unhappy and I was unhappy and we both realized that we never should have grown apart: the sort of thing tragically romantic Hallmark movies are made about.  Only this was real life, and in real life anything that’s tragically romantic winds up either as tragedy or as farce.

My story wound up being a bit of both.

Tragedy because I devastated my ex-wife and strained my relationship with my family and close friends, farce because my high school sweetheart, the girl I was destined for, cheated on me and then married the guy.  She later told me she did it because he made a quarter of a million dollars a year.

I ended up cutting my wrist and spending about a week in a psych ward, and she ended up with a $5000 wedding ring and a $100,000 honeymoon in the Caribbean.  She even sent me a picture of the view from her honeymoon suite and bragged about swimming naked in her very own private lagoon.

What I wanted to send her could only be legally transported by the Hoke County sewage and water system, and when I called to inquire about international delivery, they informed me that they didn’t fly that sort of thing overnight.

Really, what did I expect to get from a girl who thought only “normal” people lived in houses starting at $300,000 or more?  I feel bad for the guy she married.  At this point, for reasons of discretion, I should probably avoid mentioning that her name is Becky and his name is Matt.  It really would be a pity if Matt stumbled across my blog.  To this day I’m certain he is unaware that while she was dating him she was still asking me to “visit” her while he was away on weekend trips to a second home he owns upstate.  There were several things she told me I was especially competent at that Matt wasn’t.

None of them he would appreciate reading about on a total stranger’s blog.  He’s a computer engineer so you’d think he’d be quite handy with his fingers at least, but according to Becky that’s just one of his numerous flaws.

If you must know, I refused to oblige Becky.  Would you believe that while she was propositioning me, she had the nerve to admit that she was not only cheating on me with Matt, she was also doing her ex-husband behind both of our backs?  That was quite the little coital trifecta.  I guess turnabout is fair play, because following Becky’s admission I felt completely violated.  I know somewhere in southeastern North Carolina my ex-wife is still smiling about that.

But really, all of that money and still screwing over three guys who loved her?  Behold the yuppie dream.  Becky made the kind of devil’s deal that gives yuppies a bad name.  Imperishable things are sacrificed on the altar of mere things.  It would be different if the expensive backyard restoration Matt did for her while they were dating (to the tune of $25,000) could follow her into the afterlife, or even the guys she’d screwed while her high priced boyfriend was dating her, but I suspect there’s no one beyond the veil willing to change her sheets for her between liaisons.

Heaven doesn’t make latex rubber gloves and hell never uses them.  Bad news for Becky on both sides of the hereafter divide.

I hope that if you’re thinking of having an affair and you read this that you have the sense to take my story as a cautionary tale.  I looked at the girl I loved enough to destroy my marriage over through blinders.  When love is the first thing in your heart to get a divorce, what it usually leaves is common sense.  Then you’re left seeing what you want to see.  The results for yourself and others are usually disastrous.

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