Somewhere Over the Rainbow, I've Lost My Damn Mind: A Manic's Mood Chart (21 page)

KEY TERMS:
MUSIC, “UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE,” HENDRIX, HALLUCINATIONS

Submitted on 9/2/09

Yellow

I’ve slowly became addicted to a new channel on my cable service, known simply as the Science Channel. I am totally fascinated by the discoveries, theories and observations that people can come up with; for instance, the whole multiple dimensions and parallel universe ideas going on right now are re-dunk-u-luss (yeah, I said it, re-dunk-u-luss). My intelligence is way, way, way too underdeveloped for me to even imagine debating the theories previously mentioned, but there’s another one I’d like to take a shot at: the whole “Universal Language” talk that’s going on.

For the sake of argument (plus, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to use MLA, APA or Chicago style to cite a source in a blog) we’ll go ahead and assume that mathematics is the Universal Language. The supporters of this so-called theory would more than likely present the fact that numbers do not lie and that everyone in the world agrees on the principles, rules, formulas and equations of mathematics. I am not trying to debate any of these facts, but I will be a brat here and ask:

“
What about music?”

Call me old-fashioned, but I believe the term “universal” should be defined as all- encompassing--in other words, every person on earth should be able to communicate using the Universal Language. I for one cannot imagine that all of the 6.7 billion people on this planet understand mathematics. But I would bet my prized Sean Casey (The Mayor) autographed baseball card that all of them can relate to some kind of music.

That is what I consider the amazing thing about music; it speaks to all of us in one manner or another. I do not have a lick of musical talent in my bones; I can’t read, play, write or sing along to music, although it should be noted that I could jam on a mean recorder back in my middle school days. However, there’s something unbelievable about music that no math problem could ever do to me: send me back to another time in my life.

I love it when I hear a song on the radio or wherever else and I am instantly thrown back to the time in my life when that song was most prevalent. “Jump” by Van Halen came on the other day, and I was immediately transported back to my dad’s Ford “Rescue” Ranger in the mid-eighties with the windows down and the music up. My two brothers and I would all be standing up in the back half cab of the truck, just jamming out to those hair band Van Halen classics as we cruised around the back roads of Clark, Greene and Madison counties. Mind you, we were around the ages of three, five, and seven; sorry, Mom, you had no chance with us. I think everyone reading this is thinking of one of those songs that were so popular when they were growing up; so I dare you to go download it now and play it. The images, emotions and utter delight that rush back to you kick the crap out of logarithms.

During my episode last year, I had one of these musical experiences; however, the outcome and overall play out was a bit different. It started with me sitting in my living room listening to music, when all of a sudden the urge to spark a J hit me (that’s marijuana in case my hip lingo left you behind). At this point in my episode, I was smoking from time to time to try and calm down from the mania, so that wasn’t the unusual part. It was that I was smoking with Jimi Hendrix. There are a few difficult things to explain about this.

One: Jimi Hendrix is dead.

Two: I don’t know how to roll a joint.

Three:
Jimi Hendrix is dead
.

How I rolled that joint, I couldn’t tell you. Why Jimi Hendrix was there, I couldn’t tell you. How Jimi Hendrix was there, I couldn’t tell you. I can only come up with a few similarities between us. Jimi Hendrix was twenty-seven when he died; I was twenty-seven at the time of my suicidal thoughts. Jimi Hendrix was BMD; I’m BMD. Jimi Hendrix loved music; I love music. These three things seem so simple, and I think that’s the point. I continually make things out to be more complex than they really are or have to be. Life is simple, and I need to try and remember that and live it for what it is. The Universal Language isn’t complex math problems to me. It’s the freedom of self-expression, and what better form than music: something everyone can relate to.

Session

DT: I think we need to be in the right state of mind for this session . . .

JP: Hack, cough, cough, hack, harrumph! So, um, what you are trying to say here is that Jimi is the music.

DT: Hahaha, what? Wow, I remember my first contact buzz.

JP: Whatever, play some Jimi and stop being such a buzz kill.

KEY TERMS:
BED-E-BYE, WHITE CASTLE, ADVANCE, PET PEEVE

Submitted on 9/22/09

Yellow

What lies before me is undoubtedly a daunting task, but I had decent sleep last night (I was only woken up about three or four times by crazy dreams involving me quoting movies that don’t exist; weird, I know) and feel that I am up to the challenge. Never before attempted on this blog, I am going for a world record (false) by connecting White Castle Chicken Rings (amazing, BTW), the fact that the world is said to be truly flat, advancement in corporate America, and my IQ of 164 (well, that number is highly debatable, but what else can you expect from an iPhone app) all in one entry.

My usual daily bed-e-bye routine (yes, I still call it that, pathetic, I know) consists of surfing through my iPhone apps to catch up on the news and to entertain me during breaks in football. Last night, I downloaded an IQ test and was completely astonished to find out that while I could only interpret two of the eight or so questions, I scored a 164. I’m a good guesser. Now, the previous night during this routine, the fast food craving instantly hit me as I was perusing the Street (that’s what I call the
Wall Street Journal
to make it hip) and the only thing I could think of was White Castle Chicken Rings. I skipped (OK, walked, but my excitement was still evident) down to my car and made my way across the river to the deliciousness awaiting me in circular form.

While waiting for my turn, to be as polite as possible to the intercom and thereby the employee speaking to me from it (pet peeve: people who get upset and yell at fast food employees; come on, you’re at an establishment that prides itself on serving you hot food in less than three minutes, what do you expect?) I noticed on their menu board that you can order in advance. I actually laughed aloud at the mere concept that we as a society are so fixated on going and going and going that we have to order fast food in advance. I’m still in awe of it right now.

I’m not passing judgment without consideration here, as I was once part of this mass of common thought that if you’re not moving up, you’re dying off. I was a loyal follower of corporate America’s philosophy of advancement at all costs for the betterment of you and the company. It’s definitely difficult to not get caught up in this whirlwind train of thought. I mean, who doesn’t want to better themselves, who doesn’t want to make the most of their life, who doesn’t want to make a lot of money, who doesn’t want to succeed? But at what price?

I know I fell victim to the belief that if I was not advancing, I was missing out on something better down the road. If I didn’t order my chicken rings in advance, I might be a minute late for my meeting, which would cause my boss to give my promotion to my team member who ordered food in. But a weird thing happened after my episode: I woke up. I’m not trapped in a dream bubble (I also got out of the Witt bubble a few years ago, I think) and am ignoring the idea that in order to succeed, you must always be advancing. I’m asking: why does it take top priority and why does it have to be right now? I feel like we’re missing out on something.

This approach troubles me when dealing with the medical staffs I’ve encountered since my diagnosis. The whole time I was being treated, it seemed like the priority was to get me to the next stage. Get me to their ideal comfort level or something. I felt we were always pushing to advance my treatment without taking account of what was really happening. And what if we were missing something because of what we knew to be true from past experiences and diagnoses? What’s wrong with slowing down for a second to try to become aware of what’s going on, to better understand it?

Why must we rush through life always trying to advance ourselves rather than being grateful for what we have? Who knows, we might even learn something. I mean, we knew it to be true 1600 years ago that the earth was flat. We knew it to be true 450 years ago that the earth was the center of the universe. We knew it to be true 145 years ago that slavery was acceptable in our society. We knew it to be true ninety-five years ago that women should not have the right to vote. We knew it to be true twenty years ago that I couldn’t share this with the world by a simple click of the mouse. What do we know to be true today? (Success on achieving the world record, I think, but I’ve got a call in with Guinness, checking on it now.)

Session

JP: You have this labeled as a mild elevated mood in the yellow category. I find that interesting, since I do not see much mania influence. Can you fill me in?

DT: Well, the way I see it, the only way someone can be craving White Castles is if they’re fucked up, so I figured my mania has to be playing some role in this one. Kind of like when you were DayWasted last Saturday and made me go get you a ten sack.

JP: I only ate like five.

KEY TERMS:
“GUITAR HERO,” CRAZY, WOODERSON, REVELATION

Submitted on 11/6/09

Yellow

With Christmas right around the corner, I have made a point of trying to start my shopping list. Please do not be too impressed with this as it simply involves looking at storefront windows as I walk down to Jimmy John’s in The Nasty to grab lunch (Country Club = Legit). The other day, I was making this weekly jaunt when I spotted a shirt in a window that caught me a little by surprise; not as surprising as learning that the video game “Guitar Hero” wasn’t the pulse of the world, but that’s another manic story for later. The shirt read:

“
Crazy Bi-Polar Bitch”

At first glance, I really didn’t notice the shirt; however, when I tried to look away from the storefront, the rhinestones on the lettering glimmered just so and caught my eye. I was taken aback at first by the shirt and was almost a little offended. I couldn’t comprehend how or when bipolar became trendy, although I
am
getting older and maybe losing touch with the youth. This slightly miffed feeling quickly left and I kind of laughed to myself. Not to say my Porter Hospital psych ward stay was funny, but there is some humor to be found in the fact that the only rule there was not to cross the purple line in the carpet, and I had to be repeatedly reminded of this rule. I couldn’t keep away from it. It was like trying to eat just one Lay’s potato chip. Good luck.

I can remember when I first came home, the word “crazy” struck a nerve in me. I had no problem with anyone knowing or learning that I had had a manic episode and had been diagnosed with BMD, but whenever the word crazy popped into a conversation, I became incredibly defensive. This was ironic because until the episode, I had prided myself on being the crazy one. I enjoyed being the guy everyone believed was crazy because I naturally aligned crazy with fun. I believed that being called crazy was a compliment and something I could be proud of.

Once I moved back home after the episode, the word crazy took on a whole new meaning in my life. Now, I got upset whenever an instance arose--when, say, Stubby would introduce me like this:

“
This is my oldest, Derek, you know his brothers, Devon and Denver; and
he’s
the crazy one.”

There was no harm meant by this, and prior to my episode, I would have loved this introduction. I would have thought that if you believed my brothers were a good time, you figured you would have a blast hanging around with me. However, after a hallucination that Wooderson from
Dazed and Confused
was talking to me during the movie as a symbolic messenger of truth, being called crazy hit a sensitive spot.

I allowed this to go on for a bit and can recall one day after such an introduction, telling Dad that I wasn’t crazy and asking him to stop saying that. I thought once I got this off my chest, I would feel a ton better. I was wrong. I had forgotten that I’m not in this alone by any stretch of the imagination.