Somewhere Over the Rainbow, I've Lost My Damn Mind: A Manic's Mood Chart (18 page)

KEY TERMS:
ATROXTHEATROPHOBIA, #TRUESTORY, CRAZINESS, PURE EVIL

Submitted on 4/1/11

Green

So my blood work came back from the lab this week. You would have known about this if you followed my tweets; you really should, I’m funny sometimes. One irregularity popped out at me. They can’t tell a lick about my BMD from these tests, but they did find out about my immense fear of scary movies what I call atroxtheatrophobia. My brothers despise them too, so it’s a family trait.

I’ve only gone to the theater and watched three scary movies in my life:

1. The Blair Witch Project
   in high school with Cuzin Art (I still make him go down basement steps before me).
   

    
   

2. Saw
   while I was in the Witt Bubble on a double date (well, Tristan and Boomer went, so I had shades on in the theater and kept my eyes closed through most of it; #truestory#fact#honesty).
   

    
   

3. A Nightmare on Elm Street
   in A-Town with my girlfriend whose name was so Southern she hyphenated it; she was way out of my league, and she got a kick out of annoying me by getting the entire ticket line to make fun of how nervous I was about the scary movie (good thing she was fine as hell or I wouldn’t have put up with that shit; who am I kidding, yeah, I would).
   

    
   

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had this fear of scary movies and shared it with my brothers. I think Monkey put it best when he described why he hated horror movies: “Let’s see how you do when you’re a seven- or eight-year-old kid and you’re home alone, out in the middle of the country in a remote cornfield, and your older brothers are the only ones around; and they’re scared as hell too. I guarantee you won’t be watching any of that scary movie shit then.”

The last thing my brothers and I were about to do on a dark, cold, weary and eerily calm night in the country was watch
Children of the Corn
(oh, and Crybaby Bridge; not real fond of you either). Instead, my brothers and I could probably be found watching Comedy Central and trying to laugh the fear out of our minds.

So of course when it comes to handing out symptoms of BMD, I get dealt one of my ultimate fears of horror films: psychosis. What can be more terrifying than the complete unknown? Nothing scares me like pure evil. Pure evil has no reason, no cause, and no justification for its ways; how can something without sympathy do anything else? That is what I see in my mania. It comes as it pleases and does as it pleases. The craziness that overcomes my world can be described simply as my own person horror film come to life. Yet I’ve found pride in living with this. Pride in knowing I am strong enough to overcome my worst fears and then some. And I’m proud to know that I live in what others can only experience in horror movies. Boy, that sounds crazy, which kind of makes sense.

Session

JP: This entry reminds me of an article I read a few years back in the
New York Times
May 11
^th
, 2008 issue by Grabrielle Glasert titled “’Mad Pride’ Fights a Stigma” , and I want to share a part of it with you because I think you will like it, Derek:

“
Until now, the acceptance of mental illness has pretty much stopped at
 
depression,” said Charles Barber, a lecturer in
 
psychiatry
 
at the
 
Yale
 
School of Medicine. “But a newer generation, fueled by the Internet and other sophisticated delivery systems, is saying, ‘We deserve to be heard, too.’
”

About 5.7 million Americans over 18 have bipolar disorder, which is classified as a mood disorder, according to the National Institute of Mental Health. Another 2.4 million have schizophrenia, which is considered a thought disorder. The small slice of this disparate population who have chosen to share their experiences with the public liken their efforts to those of the gay-rights and similar movements of a generation ago.

Just as gay-rights activists reclaimed the word queer as a badge of honor rather than a slur, these advocates proudly call themselves mad; they say their conditions do not preclude them from productive lives.

JP: I’ll take it from that ear-to-ear shit-eating grin on your face that you liked it.

KEY TERMS:
“CONTENTED CAMEL,” DIFFERENT, LABIA MAJORA, BUTTER

Submitted on 4/8/11

Green

I’m fairly sure all of us are familiar with the classic Hans Christian Andersen fairytale, “The Ugly Duckling.” It’s a popular tale of redemption for the awkward, unpopular duckling that eventually finds itself and joins the majestic, beautiful swans it was meant to be with. It warms the heart, but unfortunately I can’t relate at all. Nope, I’m more like “The Contented Camel.” Oh, you’ve never heard of it? Interesting. Well, I’ll break it down then.

The contented camel was very similar to the ugly duckling in that while growing up, he was always different, yet he continued on his own way, just happy to be alive. The other horses would poke fun of his hump (“Humpty Dumpty”), his long eyelashes (“Maybelline called, they want all their mascara back!”), his long neck (“Look at that long neck!”--they weren’t very creative with that one) and wide feet (“Cameltoe”). The contented camel went on with his own day, happy to be around and happy to be different: the end; not much of an ending, I know.

I see a lot of myself in the contented camel. I never really fit into the farm crowd; I was a little different from them and always seemed to do my own thing. As I’ve mentioned, somehow the farm gene skipped me. My brother could spot a tractor a mile out in the field and be able to identify the make, model, year, what it was pulling, and the guy in it by the age of eight. I still pop the trunk to check the oil.

I was friends with this group but not part of it. I played soccer (grass fairy) and ran track while the “jocks” played football and basketball. I wore “queer earrings” instead of Wranglers, smoked a little (just a little) bit of dope instead of putting in a chaw during class, and put out the vibe instead of hanging out in a cabin. I can also relate to the whole nickname shenanigans that the contented camel faced.

It was junior high, and even though the girls didn’t have much interest in me, I had tons in them. I was searching for any in with the females. One day, when my crush since like the fifth grade (I fall hard, kids) gave me a nickname, “Butter,” I thought I had broken the code; I thought I was in. All the girls were talking to me and calling me every variation of Butter you can imagine. I’d finally made it. The nickname stuck through high school and even spread to some nearby schools, but of course it was all too good to last. Come to find out, I had come to school that day in junior high with really yellow teeth, so that’s why I got the nickname “Butter” (woh woh waahh). So I can sympathize with the contented camel’s being nicknamed after the
outline of a human female’s labia majora, sort of.

I guess the point I’m trying to make (if there is one) is that I was always a little different growing up. I don’t think it hurt me. I didn’t have to take any abuse or anything excessive like that, and I was pretty content with being different; maybe even a little proud of it. Sure, I may not have been cut from the same cloth as many of the kids around me, but I was me, and I’m not sure they can all say that. Maybe it was good I was different and took a little bit of guff for it (it’s all in good fun anyhow; except for you Cedarville punks, I still despise you) because now I’m a lot different and only getting more so by the day, it seems. It could have been worse, I suppose; I could have been nicknamed after a woman’s genitalia.

Session

DT: I probably have to explain what a cameltoe looks like for you, JP.

JP: Nope. Remember, I used to have sex with women before I came out.

DT: That’s right. Was it as uncomfortable and awkward for them as it was for you?

JP: More than likely; I really wasn’t into it.

DT: Don’t worry about it. I’m all in and still can’t figure out how to pleasure women. I mean, half the time I just lie there, let her take control and try not to screw anything up.

JP: How’s that strategy been working out for you?

DT: Some times better than others.

KEY TERMS:
NEPOTISM, OUTPREPARED, AMBITION, STRANGER

Submitted on 4/15/11

Green

“
By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”

--Benjamin Franklin

I didn’t have the professional business skills (hell, someone had to teach me how to fax my first day at AT&Tizzle), the summer internship(s) in college (too busy yelling at Lady Tiger joggers on Fountain Avenue from the seal truck;
“I SEE YOU BABY; shaking that ass, shaking that ass!”
), nepotism or networking behind me (unless I wanted to farm, no G’Pa I’m sorry, I still don’t), or strong academics with multiple clubs and recognitions (I actually missed the GPA cut-off for ASAP (AT&T Sales Apprenticeship Program, damn, they loved acronymns), so I lied a tiny bit on my resume. Oh, like
you’re
perfect. To compensate for all of this, I was determined to not be outworked or outprepared.

Don’t get me wrong. There were some days when I would ride the elevator up to work in the mornings and be absolutely miserable. I would doubt myself the whole ride up on why I decided to leave everyone I knew and everything I was comfortable with for getting my butt kicked in at work, day in and day out. I mean, I was a Communication (no “s”) major from the cornfields of central Ohio who knew nothing about city life, Southern ways, telecommunications, business etiquette, or office behavior. But I had a plan and knew no one would outwork me to get it.