Let's say I vanish.  How long would it take before anyone noticed?  That's a little personal mental game that I have been playing for decades now.  Here are three editions.

*** 

I'm not here
This isn't happening

Not only is Colin's bass line here absolutely perfect, this song should be held up as a shining example of "how to use an Ondes Martenot."

Late fall 1999.  I've been in France nearly three weeks.  My first trip out of the country, and I went alone.  By this time in the trip, I have made many new friends (several of whom remain friends to this day), had unforgettable experiences, and was nearly out of funds. I was also at this point alone in Arles... maybe that place has a general deleterious effect on mental health. The enthusiastic and amazed "I'm not here/this isn't happening" feelings from earlier in the trip had fallen away, and the loneliness began to clothe itself in those same words.  I strolled alongside the Rhône one night, giving serious consideration to hopping over the barrier into the black water below and letting it take me to the Mediterranean.  This thought appeared over and over: not a single human being has any idea where I am right now.  If I jump, how long before anyone finds out who I was or where I was from?  Would anyone even bother to ask?

***

China 2009. I am in a city with millions of people. It is the weekend. I am alone.  I am alone, but I am conspicuous.  I tower over the vast majority of the surrounding humans, and I am much darker than them.  People stare.  People ask to have their photos taken with me.  I can't communicate, as I don't speak Cantonese.  It is hot and the humidity is stifling.  The subway is sparkling clean, air conditioned, and has signs that sometimes resemble English.  Despite being a very foreign person in what to me is a very foreign land, at no point do I feel unsafe... uneasy, yes... unsafe, no.  Surely there is crime somewhere, but I don't see any.  Surely there is abject poverty, but in the tiny pieces of the city I pass through, I don't see any.  The thought is back: not a single human being has any idea where I am right now.  What happens if I have an accident?  What happens if I disappear?  It is Saturday, and I don't have to go back to the office until Monday.  Surely someone would notice on Monday that I didn't arrive at work.  What happens then?  Do they call the hotel?  I don't have a mobile phone that functions in this country, so it is impossible to call me.  Would anyone even bother to search?  Are morgues here even set up to accommodate someone of my height?

***

Chris.

Summer 2003.  I have driven West on I-10 from El Paso to Tucson.  I have passed a border patrol checkpoint not all that close to the border that made no sense at all to someone who grew up in the Midwest.  I have passed saguaro cactus that I have only seen in cartoons and on television.  I have made this trip to attend a convention.  I don't have any friends here.  I spend the weekend alone.  To this day, I don't remember any of the content from the convention, I don't remember any of the meals I might have consumed, I don't remember any of the sights or sounds of Tucson.  I remember only the sweltering desert heat and the overwhelming loneliness.  My friends and family are nearly two thousand miles east and north.  Here comes that thought: not a single human being has any idea where I am right now.  If I melt into the desert, how long before anyone even realizes that I'm missing?  Will anyone even notice?

***

I play this game less frequently these days because, well, we're in a pandemic and I have turned into a hermit.  Now that we are a one car household, the most readily available form of transportation for me is my legs.  If I take the car, my wife would notice.  If she gets home with the car and I'm not here, she would notice.  Some games outlive their utility.

Normally I schedule my blog post topics a few weeks out, and even write them as far in advance as I can... but that didn't work out recently.  My mental health issues - which I have written about before - are giving me quite the pummeling recently, and my ability to be focused and remotely organized is suffering.  Here are some current random thoughts.

•  I'm watching baseball tonight.  My favorite baseball team is in the National League Championship Series for the first time in a long time.  The last time they actually won a World Series was my senior year of high school.  Yes, I'm that old.  The responsibility for my love of just about every single possible sport belongs squarely to my late father, though, with the exception of Ohio State, I was never a fan of his favorite teams.  (This is a good thing, because he was a lifelong Browns fan, and that's a thing that brought him no small amount of anguish over the years.)  Baseball has a special place in my heart, and is my favorite sport to watch in person.\

• Not sleeping well is causing me to be in a near-constant state of exhaustion, which is surely leading me to an early death.  Last night, I turned in at a very reasonable hour, and actually fell asleep... only to wake up after a couple of hours.  By the time I managed to look at the clock, it was around 1:40, but my wife says she noticed me being awake and disturbed around 12:30.  I was awake most of the rest of the night, which was no good, because I had a morning online training session for my corporate job (indie rock does not pay the bills), and I kind of needed to be able to think clearly and focus for that.  No bueno.  If there is any bright side here, I managed to write a song between the hours of 3 and 4 in the morning, and I don't hate it yet.

• I might write a series of musings on love at some point, much like I did this year with a series on dreams.  I tend to develop a certain amount of affection for anyone with whom I have ever had a particularly meaning conversation, and for the people I have known the longest, that tends to run deeper.  Of course, there are people who one loves because one decides to, and people who one no longer loves because one decides not to, but for me, most of all that isn't very voluntary.  I've been thinking about this more recently because some of my classmates from way way back in my youth have been dealing with assorted types of life adversity, and one of the decent things about social media is the ability for us to know some of these things.  I've recently been feeling a mix of being heartbroken for them while also in awe of their resilient spirit and perseverance.   

What?

The album title is Anxious Inventions & Fictions, which is a lyric taken from the piano ballad "Insomnia".  The album art looks something like this:

Megan Fiely, "Insomnia", 24" X 24", acrylic on canvas, 2020.

This album exists in two versions. 

First, there is a ten song digital version.  Do you remember my crowdfunding campaign in order to press vinyl from earlier this year?  That did not get funded, so the ten song digital version is what the album would have been on vinyl.  In order to duplicate the vinyl experience, after the fifth song finishes playing, press pause on your device, get up and walk around the room for thirty seconds to simulate flipping the record over, and then continue. 

Second, there is a twelve song deluxe version on compact disc.  This contains two additional songs, an alternate mix of the opening track "Your Anthem", and a different track order, for a custom listening experience. The CD also comes with a twelve page booklet, containing lyrics, liner notes, and art.  For both versions, the album is sequenced carefully, and the listener is meant to listen to all of the songs in order.

Who?

Mike Bankhead.  That's the name/logo on the cover.  I wrote and arranged the songs for the most part.  I say "for the most part", because TINO wrote lyrics and is featured on one song (you might remember a blog post about him), and Greg Owens co-wrote another song (you might remember a blog post about him as well).  Also, two songs feature string arrangements by the outrageously talented Blair Breitreiter.  But wait, there is more...

Here is a list of the wonderful folks who lent their time and talents to this album:

Eli Alban
Dustin Booher 
Blair Breitreiter 
Thad Brittain  
Chris Corn 
Ken Hall
Valentino Halton
Patrick Himes 
Brian Hoeflich
Chad Middleton
Kent Montgomery
David Payne 
Nathan Peters 
Tim Pritchard 
Tod Weidner 
Heather York

This album sounds good, mostly because of this list of humans.  For those of you who are not familiar with independent music in Dayton, you'll just have to trust me when I say that some of the finest musicians in our area are represented here.  

Also, a tip of the hat to Megan Fiely for the beautiful painting, and to Spencer Williams for the photography, layout, and design.

When?

There are some different answers to this question.  Let's start with making the album.  Tracking and mixing took place between February 2019 and February 2020.  That's a year of hard work, not just my own efforts, but also the people listed above, and specifically Patrick Himes as the recording and mixing engineer and David Payne as assistant engineer.

You can order this album on September 4th.  That happens to be Bandcamp Friday, when Bandcamp forgoes their customary cut of artist sales.  That means that all of the funds spent on Anxious Inventions & Fictions on that specific date go to me, and contribute to my ability to continue making art for you to enjoy.  If perchance you don't know where to find me on Bandcamp, here's the link for you to bookmark:

https://mikebankhead.bandcamp.com/

The official release date for this album is September 12th.  That is the day that you will be able to listen to it on the Bandcamp page I just mentioned.  That's also the day for which a safe, socially distanced, outdoors release celebration is planned.

For those of you who only listen to music via streaming services, you will find Anxious Inventions & Fictions available there on September 15th.

Where?

The album was recorded and mixed at Reel Love Recording Company in Dayton, Ohio.  Blair handled some additional recording of string arrangements at Bohemian Trash Studios in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  The album was mastered at True East Mastering in Nashville, Tennessee.

The socially distanced release celebration will happen at Yellow Cab Tavern on 4th Street in downtown Dayton.  Please note that the owners and staff at Yellow Cab care deeply about the health of our community, and require all visitors to wear a mask.  If you do not wear a mask, they will kindly ask you to leave.  Yellow Cab also has social distancing guidelines in place.  If you wish to know more about the precautions they are taking and how you can cooperate, please give them a call.  

Why?

There are those who think that music doesn't need a reason, because "l'art pour l'art", right?  I haven't thought about that particular worldview all that much.  I certainly have my reasons for making art.  

Songwriting is how I deal with stress and anxiety and depression.  Songwriting helps me to work through all sorts of emotional turmoil, and the catharsis that it provides is probably a net benefit to my mental health.  Songwriting is a way for me to say what I want or need to say, especially when nobody is listening.  Not all of those songs get recorded as demos at home, and even fewer of them make it all the way to the studio... but some of them do, and this is what  happens when they do.

I still believe in the idea of the album as an art form. That's not popular these days, as music is seen as a resource, a commodity, a value-less product, both by the companies who use it to make profit, and by the vast majority of music listeners.  I don't make pop music, so of course, I'm not making music for these people.  I make music first of all for me, because it's something I'm driven to do... and all of you other musicians out there, I see you nodding along.  Of course, I wish to share my art... well, the subset of it that I get around to thinking is of enough quality to warrant sharing... but if I write something I don't personally like, you won't be hearing it.  I won't write in a genre or in a certain way because it's popular, because I'm trying to get rich, or because I think it's what someone wants to hear.  You'll only be getting authenticity from me, thank you very much.

The above said, music is also a means of communication.  Thoughts, feelings, ideas, the concrete, the abstract, and just about everyone wishes to be heard, yes?  Maybe music is kind of a cry for help?  Tell you what, as soon as I get a therapist, I'll be sure to discuss this with them.

How?

You know, ever since I was a teenager, if I see that particular word all on it's own, I can't help but sing it.  I mean, I sing it inside my own head where nobody is listening, but it has to be sung.  How, you said you never would leave me alone....

So, how did this happen?  Lots of hard work.  I'm not exactly a gifted musician or songwriter, but I work at it, and I have some perfectionist tendencies, which means lots of editing and re-writing. A great deal of singing practice.  A great deal of singing the same parts over and over again, until Patrick would tell me that it's no longer pitchy.  All sorts of patience from Patrick Himes and the musicians who agreed to play for me.  Even more patience from my wife when I would be in the studio for long hours and obsess over details in mixes at home.

How? Time. Pain. Self-Doubt. Frustration. Tears. Stress. Study. Thought. Experimentation. Explanation. Sleeplessness. 

Anxious Inventions & Fictions is my best work.  That's what I think, anyway.  I hope you think so, too.

The dream I have had most often, since I was young in fact, involves a horrifically violent death in a car.  I even wrote a poem about it once, way back on 24th November 1997.  Here it is:

Most Recurring Dream

Silent
Under the shroud of night
Wearing a cloak of blood
Shards of glass scattered about
Trapped in this mechanical tomb
One arm twisted against the window
The other folded into my smashed chest
My final breath a gasp of pain
But not of surprise
Eyes open staring ahead lifelessly
I am wrapped tightly by these blankets of steel
The final sound was metal on metal
Broken at last

Yes, I know that's not exactly pleasant, but what can you do?  The brain comes up with what it comes up with.  Also, of course, driving (or riding) in cars is extremely unsafe, and worse when there are impaired drivers about, which there often are.

It's about that time where I link to a song that is relevant to dreams... how about this one?

That song is great.  Of course, that's not the album with the cover art that most closely matches the particular horrific dream I describe above.  (That would be Do the Collapse, which is probably my personal favorite GBV album.)

Sometimes I wonder if it's a symptom of my depressed state that a dream this macabre would keep turning up again and again.  

Hey, here’s another new theme for a series of blog entries.  This is the first Songwriting Story, in which I open the curtain and let you peek into my songwriting process.  Now, I won’t do this for every song, as some artistic ambiguity is sometimes something desirable, but on occasion I’ll share some information about how a song came to be.  Today we start with “North of Sixteen”, which is track 7 on Echo in the Crevices. 

This is a song I wrote a dozen times, several dozen times.  I had words, I would discard the words. I had music, I would discard the music.  I wrote this song over and over again, year after year, and eventually, this particular iteration stuck.  I tried to write a bass line cool enough to obscure the sadness of the lyrics… indeed, this is my favorite bass line on the album.  Do people even pay attention to the lyrics anyway? 

March 1995.  My junior year of high school.  I was 17. Like many high schoolers my age, I had a part-time job… I worked at a grocery store.  The store wasn’t in my hometown, so many of the teenagers who worked there attended different high schools in the area.  At that age, you spend a great deal of time with your coworkers… four or five days a week, a few hours a day… longer on weekends… it’s natural that you develop some camaraderie and bond with them.  As I recall, I got along well with all of the other high schoolers who worked with me… the public school kids, the private school kids… we all spent plenty of time socializing at work. 

Susan went to a high school in a neighboring town.  Cheerleader. Honor Roll. Student Council. Exemplary. Intelligent. Talkative. Friendly. Sixteen. She was part of a group of coworkers who I was especially fond of… we’d take the 15 minute work breaks together when we could… there would be laughing and stories and jokes… sometimes about school, sometimes about life.  I think one of the interesting things for all of us was the chance to interact with a bunch of peers that you wouldn’t see the next day at school. Below is a picture of her that I found online. Mind you, this is not necessarily the way I remember her, at least not this particular dress… but the smile is exactly the way I remember her.  She always had that smile. 

For safety reasons, one of the male employees would walk the female employees to their car if the shift ended at night.  We all did this for all of the young (and not so young) ladies that we worked with, but I seemed to end up walking out with Susan somewhat regularly… in fact, it was often enough that if she arrived at work after I did, she would try to park next to me, or at least tell me that she tried to park next to me.  She would tell me “I parked next to you again, guess you have to walk me out”. 

You came to me on a cool March night like any other 

I don’t remember what day of the week it was.  I remember it was March, and it was before the suicide, and I was at work.  I was, specifically, outside at work. See this particular grocery store had a carport where the customer’s groceries would get sent through a conveyor.  We young guys liked to work in the carport loading groceries into cars, because we got tips that way. This particular day, it was my turn to be outside. It was late enough to be kind of dark outside, this was before daylight saving time started back up.  Susan came to the store with her folks… they were going shopping. She walked over to where I was standing outside to chat. 

Your laugh for me was just a mask to hide the maelstrom 

At the time, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.  Ah, the power and clarity of hindsight. We had a nice conversation.  She smiled the same smile as always, and laughed at my occasional awful joke (usually of the self-deprecating variety).  I asked if she had to take care of anything work-related, and she said she might run into the store for a few moments, but that she had come specifically to see me.  I remember being quite flattered, because teenage boys feel flattered when intelligent, pretty young ladies say nice things to them. We talked about an upcoming Cranberries show that I was planning to attend… the show would be in April.  She expressed interest in joining my group. When I balked at that - not knowing how exactly to set that up - she made an offhand comment about maybe not seeing me ever again. Again, I didn’t attach any significance to this… until… you know. 

Didn’t hear what you meant to say 

She talked about feeling sick… like a cold was coming on.  I told her to keep her chin up and repeated the old adage about chicken soup.  She said that was probably a good idea. Looking back, this conversation was her way of saying goodbye… but it was also a cry for help.  I would like to think that I would notice that something was wrong if we were to have a similar conversation today. I would like to think that I’ve learned a bit more about reading people and empathy.  This is not to say that I wasn’t empathetic then, but I was 17, I was surely not emotionally equipped to do what I have always thought should have been done. Anyway, when she had to run into the store, she gave me a hug… she came out a few minutes later with her parents, and I ended up loading groceries into their car.  As they were pulling away, she turned and waved to me from the back, and I shouted “chicken soup!” in the general direction of the car. She flashed that smile in response. This was the last time I saw Susan alive. 

Bathed in exhaust / closed your eyes and went to sleep 

I found what I think is an archive of a newspaper article online… 1995 was so long ago that there isn’t much on the Internet about these kinds of things from that time period.  It’s not like I need any of the personal details, I remember all of those, and don’t think I could ever forget. It’s haunting. No, I wanted to look up some of the facts… find something official.  The article I found is here. This is an excerpt: 

The vibrant and popular Fenter, an honor roll student herself, placed frozen shrimp on the counter to thaw, fed her cat Dusty and walked into the garage. She then climbed into her car, turned the ignition and read a suicide prevention pamphlet she received at school. Three hours later, Barbara Fenter pulled into the driveway, opened the garage door and smoke billowed out. She found her daughter slumped in the driver's seat, dead of carbon monoxide poisoning - the pamphlet by her side. On her bed, next to a list of "final things to do," Susan left a suicide note. 

Since I didn’t go to the same high school as Susan, I didn’t hear the news during my day.  I found out when I got to work. I was actually up in the upstairs break area, early for my shift, and about to start.  My dad found me (he worked in management there at the time) and asked me “did you hear about Susan?”, but he had THAT look on his face… the one that speaks of no good.  If you read the article I linked to, you’ll notice that there was another suicide of a student in her school earlier in the week, and that story had gotten plenty of local media coverage, so it was on everyone’s mind, and when dad asked me that question with that look on his face, that conversation Susan and I had came flooding back and I KNEW.  I knew. I said “suicide”? Dad nodded and left the room. It’s hard to describe what that felt like… punch in the gut, kick to the ribs… something like that. My first reaction was angry. Anger at her for not asking for help, then quickly anger at myself for not realizing that she asked for help and also said goodbye. I punched a wall. My hand hurt for a few days afterwards. 

Somber day at work.  Grocery store where much of the staff was kids.  Everyone knew. It was on the news. Work was so perfunctory.  The customers noticed. The really regular customers knew she had worked with us.  Several of my coworkers spent most of their shift in tears.  I can’t describe how work itself felt for my coworkers, but for me, work felt completely pointless.  I wanted to scream with rage, I wanted to break things, I wanted to cry… but no, I went ahead and bagged those groceries and mopped those floors and faced those shelves and was polite to the customers.  As I talked to my coworkers, it became clear that Susan had carefully planned this. For instance, she had called someone earlier in the week to cover her weekend shift. She didn’t plan on being alive when the weekend came around.  Several of my coworkers had similar stories about getting visits… and when we compared our stories, the thing they all had in common was that air of finality. 

The article I mentioned previously has a sample from her journal. 

"My life is just one big nightmare. I can't get over how stupid I am," Susan wrote five months before the suicide. "Maybe I'm book smart, but I sure can't handle the things I feel inside....I think I'm going to die of a broken heart....No one can understand how I'm feeling...I can't deal with this anymore, with this pain and hurting I feel." 

That’s not the Susan I knew.  Ok, that is the Susan I knew, I just didn’t pay enough attention.  We were teenagers, we were all broken and messed up in our own ways.  Some of us still are.  I always thought that she had stuff figured out.  It happens that she apparently thought the same of the rest of us. 

I wrote “North of Sixteen” so many times… so many words, so many names.  This song you hear today is the one that made it, a testament to the profound and crushing guilt I have felt for more than 24 years now.  What could I have done? What should I have done? What if? This song comes from a dark and painful place.  Lyrically, it is as honest as anything I’ve ever written. Musically, it’s in a minor key… that’s appropriate. 

Never could you find your way north of sixteen.

The last time I went to Sri Lanka was 2014.  This was, like all of my visits to that lovely island, a work trip… long days in the office, then more work from the hotel later at night once the United States had woken up and gotten to work and started sending emails.  I worked hard. Too hard, it turns out. I came home… kept working… drinking a couple of liters of coffee a day, fighting the jet lag, trying to keep up with things, and not sleeping enough… then one day, it would appear that my mind and/or body decided that it couldn’t do this anymore. 

I remember having felt strange for a couple of days, but no more than strange.  On one particular day however, “strange” went to a completely different place. Chest pain.  The shakes. Racing heartbeat. I broke out in a sweat. I felt dizzy. I was convinced that I was having a heart attack, and asked my wife to drive me to the hospital.  We hadn’t even gotten a mile down the road when it got worse… shortness of breath… left arm pain… more chest pain… the feeling of impending doom… more shakes. I implored her to pull over, and we called 911.  I made sure to tell her that I love her, you know, because I was surely going to die. The ambulance shows up, I get on the bed with the wheels, I get loaded in, and away we go. The medic gives me nitroglycerin in pill form, immediately starts an IV, and then runs an EKG.  We’re not even to the hospital yet when he tells me that I definitely did NOT have a heart attack. He says that since he’s not a doctor, he can’t give me an “official” diagnosis, but he says that what I have had is a panic attack caused by stress. I ask him how I would be able to tell the difference… he says that I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, and calling 911 was the right thing to do. 

Overnight in the hospital.  Lots of tests.  IV in each arm… and I hate hate hate needles.  Lots of EKG. One of those CAT scans where they put dye in you that makes you feel like you have wet yourself, then wheel you into a machine head first.  A stress test, where you run on the treadmill. It turns out that I’m fine. Sure, I definitely need to lose weight, but my blood pressure is great. Blood sugar is fine.  Cholesterol levels are fine. Everything’s fine. Welcome to having anxiety. 

Starting from that day, panic attacks are a part of my life now.  They were most intense the first couple of months after the diagnosis.  It is most unsettling if I am driving. Usually these days when I get a panic attack, I am at home by myself, but I recently had one in a rather public setting with a lot of people watching, and that wasn’t any fun.  I guess this is part of my new normal… or maybe, this is something that I’ve always been dealing with, and now I’m old enough that my mind/body can’t suppress it anymore? 

After this - and I don’t remember when exactly, but it happened at some point - the suicidal thoughts returned.  I say “returned”, because I’ve had them before, but it’s not something I generally talk about. Maybe that’s genetic, as I know my dad had them too.  Anyway, here’s a secret… my first speeding ticket, back when I was 19… that was a suicide attempt gone wrong. I was having a particularly angsty time as a late teen.  I had recently lost someone who I was very close to. Work was particularly frustrating. I remember feeling that I couldn’t deal with it anymore. To get home from where I was working at the time, I had to make about a 25 minute drive, and much of it was on one of those two lane roads that cuts through the country bits connecting the Dayton suburbs.  I decided I was going to get going up to around 90 mph, take off my seatbelt, and jerk the wheel left as soon as I saw a car that looked big enough to make the destruction instantaneous. I never made it quite to 90, and I never got the seatbelt off, because I got pulled over for speeding. Of course, being a young black man, at that point, I was 100% frightened of the police officer, and all of the suicidal ideation went away, and the self-preservation kicked in.  I mean, death is supposed to be a release from pain, and getting shot is painful, so that’s pretty much all I thought about. 

The medication.  The first go-round didn’t work.  The doctor upped the dosage. The higher dosage made the room spin around for about an hour, starting ten minutes or so after I swallow the pill.  I stopped taking that. The insomnia got worse... something I had dealt with before, but it was back and worse than ever before.  When I did manage to sleep, I would wake up drenched, having sweated profusely through horrific nightmares... body wet, hair wet, clothes wet, sheets wet, pillow wet.  Ick.

Then I started having trouble concentrating.  Those that know me probably know I have perfectionist tendencies… I hate being wrong.  I’d rather say nothing than say something that is wrong. One of my personal points of pride in the past has been being efficient and effective at work, showing attention to detail, and getting things right.  Well, I started making mistakes… silly ones, when I should know better. Often, nobody would notice. Sometimes, someone would notice. I noticed them all, and each one ate at me… I would get more frustrated with myself.  Some days, I just couldn’t function. I would just lay in bed all day. I wouldn’t eat. (By the way, not eating for a few days is a very effective weight loss strategy, though most nutritionists would probably not recommend this.)  I got more irritable. Sometimes I would cry for no reason. More often, I just felt numb… everything was “meh”... no good, no bad, no up, no down, just IS. I’m sure I was a pain for my wife to deal with. I couldn’t remember things that I had read or seen… and again, those that know me probably know that I tend to remember just about everything I read, especially if I read it more than once.  Since all of this was beginning to impact my ability to do my job, I figured I should be more thorough about getting professional help. 

When I did this, my wife told me that she knew I was depressed even back when we were dating, many years ago.  That was an interesting revelation. Maybe I don’t even know what “normal” or “well-adjusted” is supposed to be.   

The therapy.  I went to therapy.  I didn’t like that. I should probably try it again, but sitting in a room talking about my feelings is not my idea of a good time.  I have been told to try it again, by multiple people. Sure, I’ll try it again as soon as I am done procrastinating. 

New doctor.  New medication.  It gave me diarrhea.  I didn’t feel better. I kept taking the medication.  I kept checking in with the doctor. I kept having panic attacks, albeit less frequently.  More medication. Higher dosage. The diarrhea stops. I didn’t feel better, but the doctor says he sees improvement in my ability to focus and have a conversation.  This makes me realize that I was affected in ways that I surely didn’t even notice. I go on a work trip to North Carolina, where one day I go to the lobby of my hotel around 4 in the morning convinced I am dying again.  New hospital. Still no heart issue. Yet another panic attack, a particularly bad one… and particularly expensive, due to the ambulance ride and hospital visit and the United States. More medication. Check in with the doctor. Higher dosage.  The feelings of worthlessness.  This is my new normal. Medication daily, try to fight off the very dark thoughts, try to stay busy, try to get work done.

I’m broken.  This is something I have come to accept. More often than I care to admit, I just don't have "ganas"... somehow this feeling makes much more sense in Spanish than in English... see, "ganas" means "want to" or "feel like" when it is a noun.... yeah, "se fue las ganas" is something you could quote me as saying regularly, except for I don't often actually say it out loud.  Some might reason that having faith should make everything better, but faith doesn’t work like that. Alexa, insert that meme that says “that’s not how any of this works”.  For instance, imagine that a person has lupus.  This person may have all the faith in the world, but that isn’t going to make the lupus go away, or even treat it.  This person needs professional attention… and while faith might help them to endure the condition, it is not a cure.  I have come to understand that anxiety/depression works in a similar manner. It’s something that I need to manage with professional attention, and while having faith might help me to endure, it is not treatment, and it will not make the issue go away. 

You know what helps me feel a little better sometimes?  Music.  Now, I do not mean that music is a panacea, nor is it treatment.  Indeed, there have been multiple occasions where I have had tickets to a show already paid for, and couldn't bring myself to leave home, so I skipped the show and was just out the money.  (The musicians got paid though, so there is your silver lining.)  However, quite often, when I am sitting at the piano or playing the bass, I can feel some of the stress peel away.  Writing songs is especially cathartic. I am not exactly a gifted musician by any means, but I like to play, and I like to continue learning about theory and how/why music works.  Indeed, music is a great confluence of my inner drive to read and learn and absorb, mashed into an art form that I find to be pleasing. In addition to making sure that there isn’t any weaponry readily available in our home, being project-oriented around music helps to keep the suicidal ideation at bay.  First, making suicide plans just seems to be too much effort… and second, I have a bunch of songs I want to record, and being dead would make it much more difficult to get that done.  It would be inaccurate to say that music makes me “happy”, but sometimes it makes me feel just slightly less broken.