I started having conversations for my podcast in December 2021. The last episode I released in 2022 was number 74.  Considering I started off with an "Episode ½" on 31st December, that's a total of 75 episodes over the last year.  

What have I enjoyed about having a podcast?  The best part is the conversations.  First of all, this is a way for me to do what my doctor instructed me to do.  Last year in November/December, I was in a pretty dark place from a mental health standpoint... darker than normal.  My doctor said that one of the things I should do is to have a meaningful conversation every day with someone who is NOT my wife.  Now, in the last few months, I've been awfully lax in getting my daily meaningful conversation in.  (If anyone wants to help with that, I'll take volunteers.)  That said, every time I record a conversation for the podcast, that totally counts. Second, it turns out that people are awfully interesting if you let them talk about something they are passionate about.  Just taking a moment to listen to people and ask appropriate questions is pretty cool.  Third, sometimes I feel like this is a useful endeavor for the community. I really miss Gem City Podcast and the fine work they did. I especially looked forward to the Wednesday episodes featuring a local musician or band. Now that they're gone, there's an empty space in the Dayton area for someone to talk to local musicians about their work. I've been making an attempt at filling that space, and hope that eventually, listeners will come to look forward to my conversations with Dayton artists the way I looked forward to Izzy Rock's conversations.

Of course, there are parts of the process I don't like.  Sometimes, the tools I use fail. I recorded a great conversation with Paul Monnin of Age Nowhere, and somehow the sound ended up completely distorted and garbled. If you listen really hard, you can figure out what is being said, but it sounds awful and grating, and I wouldn't foist that upon anyone. Also, editing the podcast... that's not so much fun. One might not realize how many times things like "uh", "um", "like", and "you know" are said during conversations, but there is a level at which using those terms over and over becomes distracting, so I tend to prune them out of conversations.  That's incredibly time-consuming.  After editing, I usually do another listen in order to glean ideas to write the Show Notes.  There was a time when I would consistently use time stamps in the Show Notes to mark highlights of the conversation.. that's even MORE time-consuming, so I haven't done that in awhile.  Hey, as a podcast listener, is that something you'd like to see more often?  I don't even really know whether putting in that extra work is adding value or not.  I've thought about hiring someone to handle that work for me, but I'm pretty sure I can't fairly pay the going rate for that work at the moment, so I'll keep on doing it myself.  At least that's another skill I can put on a resumé, right?

Of the 75 episodes, 30 of them include women.  That should be 50 percent of the episodes, and I didn't quite get there, so I'll try to do better in 2023.

Here are what I think are the most notable episodes of the last year:

The longest episode

The longest episode is also the most recent episode, number 74, featuring Juliet Fromholt and Taylor Ruckle. We're talking about our favorite albums from 2022, and the duration is one hour and forty-five minutes.

The most popular episode

More people listened to my Episode 7 conversation with Tod Weidner than any of my other episodes. It's clear that he means a great deal to the music community here in Dayton.  This one went up way back in February 2022, so it's about time I have him back to nerd out on songwriting and music some more.

The most important episode

You might think differently, but for me, the most important episode is number 30, with Brian "Z" Zisook. He is the cofounder and Senior Vice President of Operations at Audiomack. He's a professional journalist who now is now an executive helping to run a music streaming service. 

In his own words: This isn't a company created by and of silicon valley based tech bros... this company was founded by and employs a lot of creatives who come from backgrounds in the fine arts... these are people who understand the plight of the aspiring creative...

This episode is important for musicians who release music.  If you are one of these people, you should pay attention to how truly passionate Z is about music and the people who make it. He wants to see us succeed. He and the team over at Audiomack are building their platform in ways that allow listeners to directly support us financially. That's not the case with the other streaming services, where we are only a source of content. Z wants people to hear us. Educating us on how the business works and helping us to improve are also very important to him, and he is often handing out useful advice for free on his Twitter account.

This episode is important for music listeners.  The folks at Audiomack work on their algorithm to ensure that it serves you the music YOU want to hear, as opposed to giving heavy priority to whatever the most popular major-label song of the moment is due to labels having a stake in the service. Audiomack World is an excellent source of discovery, consistently providing editorial recommendations from actual real humans. If you are a listener who values the people who create the music you listen to, recognize it as hard work, and believe that one should generally be paid for one's work, Audiomack has a way for you to directly support an artist you believe in, if you choose to do so.

This episode also contains a direct message from me to my fellow musicians in Dayton.  Sure, I don't think anyone really paid attention to it, but I meant it at the time and I still mean it.  If you would like to know what that is, well, listen to this one.

The interesting stranger who I'd love to have a beer with episode

An excellent multi-national band called Jenny and the Mexicats were going to stop at Levitt Pavilion here in Dayton for a concert. I really wanted to see this show, but I was going to be out of town. I volunteer at Levitt Pavilion, and thought that I might be able to help to promote the show a little bit.  When I contacted the band, bassist Icho Van responded, and our conversation in English is Episode 52.

Icho has an interesting life story. He's a hard worker, doing the tasks that would normally be handled by a band's manager. He's out there living his dreams, playing music he believes in, touring the world, and finding delicious things to eat everywhere. His band has had the privilege of playing an NPR Tiny Desk show. Despite all of his success, he's quite normal. Icho is easy to talk to, friendly, and cool.  (Part of this might be because he plays bass.)  I'd love to grab a beer with him, and maybe watch a game where his beloved Buffalo Bills are playing.

El episodio con el desconocido con quién me gustaría tomar una chela

Una banda excelente llamada Jenny and the Mexicats tenía planeada dar un concierto aquí en Dayton, Ohio.  En su gira, iban a tocar en el Levitt Pavilion, y la entrada fue gratis. Quería mucho asistir a este concierto, pero tenía que viajar fuera de la ciudad. Sirvo de vez en cuando como voluntario en Levitt Pavilion, y pensé que por lo menos podía ayudar con promocionar el concierto un poco.  Cuando escribí al grupo, fue el bajista Icho Van quién me dio respuesta, y nuestra charla en español se halla en Episodio 51.

Icho tiene una historia bien interesante. Trabaja muy duro.  Hace las tareas que normalmente haría el gerente de una banda. Este señor está viviendo sus sueños, tocando una música feliz y energética, haciendo giras alrededor del mundo, y decubriendo bastantes comidas muy sabrosas. Tiene mucho éxito, y un nivel de fama, sobre todo en México. No obstante, es completamente normal. Icho es amable, muy buena en conversación, y uno se siente muy a gusto con él. (Sin lugar a dudas, una razón por eso es que toca el bajo.) Me encantaría tomar una o dos cervezas juntos, y quizás mirar un partido de fútbol.

The episode that changed my life

Even though Episode 9 aired in February, the conversation actually took place in December 2021.  My guest was Becca Wonka, a delightful and effervescent French musician who lives in Los Angeles. We talked for nearly three hours.  Yes, only one of those three hours was actually recorded for the podcast.  We hit it off.  The conversation meandered back and forth from French to English.  If you listen to the episode, I estimate that 70% of it is in French, but I put time markers in the show notes so you can skip around to the parts you are likely to understand. 

This is probably not a surprise to you, but it is extremely difficult to make a living as an independent musician.  It's not impossible, but there's a long path and a lot of work to get there. I am not remotely close to profitable as a musician yet.  When Becca and I had this conversation, I had recently left my corporate job.  Shortly after our conversation, her lovely husband introduced me to his industry, the business of adaptation. To shorten what would otherwise be a long story, that's now my gig that actually pays.  I owe a debt to Nico as a mentor that I will never be able to repay.  I owe the same debt to Becca for recognizing that this line of work is something that I can do, and for recommending me to her husband.

A great deal of the mental health progress I have made over the past year is attributable to being much MUCH less stressed out by work.  By no means am I "cured" or "well" - and I likely never will be - but I am in a better place now, and even occasionally feel slightly optimistic.

La conversation qui a changé ma vie

Bien qu'episode 9 est sortie en février 2022, la conversation entre Becca Wonka et moi avait lieu en Décembre 2021. Elle est française, d'origine nantaise, et habite maintenant à Los Angeles. Becca a une passion profonde pour la musique, et elle parle avec joie et enthousiasme. On a bavardé pendant trois heures, dont une heure est enregistré pour le podcast. Si vous en écoutiez, vous allez trouver aux "show notes"que j'ai mis quelques indices pour dire quand on a parlé en français et quand on a parlé en anglais.

J'imagine que vous savez déjà que c'est extrèmement difficile gagner la vie comme musicien independent aux Etats-Unis. C'est pas impossible, mais on doit bosser beaucoup et il faut être très patient. Je ne gagne pas encore ma vie comme musicien. Quand j'ai bavardé avec Becca, je venais de quitter un boulot d'entreprise. Quelques jours après qu'on a parlé, le mari de Becca m'a parlé pour m'inviter à apprendre le business d'adaptation. Actuellement, c'est ça ce que je fais pour ètre payé. Je dois un dette envers Nico que jamais je pourrais lui payer, et c'est pareil avec Becca pour comprendre que je puisse faire ce type de travaille et me recommander à son mari.

*****

No matter how long you've been listening to my podcast - whether a year, a month, a week, or a day - thank you very much for choosing to spend some time listening to me talk to interesting people. I sincerely hope that you have enjoyed sitting in on my conversations, and warmly invite you to keep on listening.  If you have something you are passionate about and would like to talk about it, contact me, and you could totally be a guest. 

In 2023, I'm planning to release a new music project that I poured so much of myself into, and when I start promoting it, I'll have podcast conversations with the wonderful and talented people who collaborated on this project with me. I can't wait for you to meet them and all of the other individuals who I'll be speaking with.

I left my corporate job earlier this month.  I had been employed at the same place for 17 years, which is a not-insignificant portion of my life.  In the culture here, it is difficult to not be defined by what you do, rather than who you are... and that is true of how others see us as well as how we might see ourselves.  For the first few days after leaving employment, I struggled a bit to determine what exactly I am supposed to do with myself now.

I've written about my struggles with anxiety and depression before. It's not like I'm hiding it, and it's an ongoing fight, and the corporate job was not contributing to my healing, so I figured that the best choice for my health at the moment was to step away.  There is some irony that health is a concern here, since not being employed by a corporation means I am losing my health insurance.  (For my friends who do not live in the United States, one's health care in this country is often tied to one's employment.)  

There was some fantastic life experiences over those 17 years.  Quite a bit of travel was involved for awhile, and my job took me to Mexico, El Salvador, England a few times, India many times, Sri Lanka many times, China, Hong Kong, and Sweden. How horizon-broadening it was to experience so many different cities, cultures, and cuisines!  I was able to interact with colleagues from all over the United States and from all over the world. Long after the memories of the stress and the bitter times fade, I'll keep pleasant memories of lovely people. I thought I might share just a couple of those here.

That's me with the team I was sent to train on my first ever trip to Sri Lanka.  It's a beautiful island, with lovely beaches (if that's your thing), urban hustle and bustle (if that's your thing), dense jungle (if that's your thing), and great food.

Here are some of the folks who were in El Salvador while I was there.  

This is what a day of training would look like in Bangalore.

Ok, onward.  What's next?  Is that what you're wondering?

Well, that's what I'm wondering as well.  For the moment, I'm going to keep taking my medication and try to find a therapist with whom I am comfortable.  It might be some time before I'm ready to get back into corporate work.  

I'm still writing songs.  As I've written before, songwriting is cathartic for me. I also have a few recording projects in various stages of completion.  If you'd like to support me, my online store is here, I have a page over on Ko-Fi (even though I don't exactly know how it works yet), and of course, my music is on whatever tool you use to stream music.  

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.   

I suffer from terrible insomnia.  Unless I am really jet lagged or physically worn out, getting to sleep is a struggle.  Simply, I can't turn my brain off.  I think about this, about that, about things that matter, about things that really don't matter, over and over and over and over.  When I am eventually able to sleep, my brain keeps right on churning. Enter dreams.

You might think this topic is just an excuse to reference songs about dreams... and well, you wouldn't be 100% wrong...

Let's keep this first installment musical.  Sometimes, I dream lyrics.  Here are some that I wrote down after waking up at a crazy early hour:

wrap me up in the rabble of the crowd that's had enough

I have no idea what that means.  I am certain there were other words around these, but when I woke up in that not-quite-coherent state, these are the only ones I could focus on enough to actually write down.  Good enough to keep, yes.  Good enough to write around, maybe.  Maybe another dream will bring me more lyrics to finish out this idea.

Sometimes I dream complete songs.  I mean, completely written and arranged.  Intro, verse, chorus, bridge, chord progressions, cool bass lines.  The conscious version of me who is typing this blog entry right now wonders how many of these are just popular songs that we all know, but recycled.  There is a part of me that thinks there might actually be something in there though.  Sadly, I generally never remember enough of the music upon waking to do anything with it... I say "generally", because there is an exception.  It's a song that is now called "Never Let Go".  I'll hold back additional commentary on that for a future blog post.

When I think about this further, I think that I might actually write better songs in my sleep than I do when I'm awake.  Yeah, that sounds like a pithy hyperbole, but I am afraid it may be true.  That part of me that is overly self-critical, the part of me that never thinks anything is ever good enough, the part of me that writes with chord charts handy... those parts aren't there when I'm sleeping.  Maybe the music I hear in my dreams is where my true creativity is?

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.