“Look For The Helpers”

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“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” ~ Fred Rogers

I’ve always had a difficult time understanding and relating to people.  In my younger years, since I lived a rather sheltered life, that feeling was primarily with the society I was a part of.  As I expanded my experiences, traveling to other countries and opening my eyes and ears to the world at large, I started feeling a bit more in sync and became more successful at keeping an open mind.

However, there are some things that people do I will never understand, and I don’t think I’m supposed to.  In my own lifetime, there’s 9/11, Columbine, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, Sandy Hook, Fort Hood, Norway, Aurora, the Sikh temple, Joseph Kony, and widespread child sexual abuse by the last people one would have thought could commit such a thing.  That’s just a small list of atrocities which I could pull from memory.  Add to that the tragically large number of personal stories I’ve been told of abuse and neglect…..well, it’s been more than enough for me to lose faith in humanity from time to time.

The Sandy Hook tragedy was especially difficult for me personally, and it was during the reporting of that horrifying event, while experiencing extreme despair, I happened across the quote above.  After reading that, the tears came forth with even more ferocity, but from a different place.  Instead of crying in anguish, I was crying out of love and hope.  I suddenly saw not just the horror that was done, but the incredible love and caring that was shown by those who swooped in and took action.  I wept with the knowledge that there are every day heroes out there who will give of themselves selflessly without a second thought.  I finally saw the “helpers”.

It seems that one little quote has caused a fundamental shift in the way I now see the world.  As the tragic events of today became known, I found myself spending much more time seeing the helpers.  The police, volunteers, runners, strangers – all rushing in to care for the injured with little concern for their own safety.  The evil person or people who perpetuated this horror is/are far outnumbered by the good ones.

It’s a relief to finally be proud to be a human being.

Death

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While there were many times in my youth I pined for it, I can recall only four times in my life where I’ve actually faced death.

I was 15 the first time.  In a fit of anguished jealousy, I turned to alcohol as a pain-numbing solution.  Alas, I had neither the wisdom nor knowledge of what a pint of mixed hard alcohol could do to a human body when consumed in a short period of time.  Most my memories from that evening are vague at best, except one.  I’ll never forget hearing a friend screaming my name.  Now there are many types of screams, but the scream of someone who thought you were dead (which can happen when one stops breathing) is not soon forgotten.  Even the magic eraser of time can’t wipe that scream from memory.  That evening ended with a recorded blood-alcohol-level of 0.25 and the beginning of a two-week’s stay in a mental hospital.  I probably shouldn’t have told the doctors I wanted to die, but I certainly shouldn’t have consumed that dangerously nasty concoction.  Good news – to this day I can’t suffer even the mere scent of gin and I learned the wonders of group therapy.

The second time was three years later, again aided by my ‘ole pal booze.  After a night of hard partying, the inner anguish became external and I decided it was time to call my new employer (it was actually my supposed to be my first day), report a death in the family, then plop my ass in the middle of highway 29 and wait for the next passing car to make all the pain go away.  Some folks dragged my crazy ass off the road and called the local sheriff who took me downtown for a chit-chat.  Still highly inebriated, the honesty flowed easily and my suicidal self shone brightly.  That resulted in a three-night’s stay at yet another mental hospital.  It would have been shorter, but I decided to party on a Friday night and it was Memorial Day weekend, so the folks who could certify I returned to my senses wouldn’t be back to work until Tuesday.

Number three was just a few years ago.  Like any good country song, my gal left me, my best friend died and my job went to shit (it’s all recorded right here in this blog).  I can honestly say I had never been as suicidal as I was that year.  I spent an inordinate amount of time planning my death, which probably saved me.  Those who know me understand I’m a passionate problem-solver, though my methods are somewhat unorthodox.  I quickly throw out ideas, think them over, toss what doesn’t work and tweak what does.  I started with plans to shoot myself, but as I worked that idea through, I realized someone would have to clean up the mess, and I couldn’t bring that upon the first responders and my family (research showed there are no magical “death fairies” who sweep in with Flubber that makes it all go away – that’s generally left to the deceased’s loved ones).  I moved on to hanging (same problem), however eventually settled on what’s called an exit bag.  It really was a brilliant plan, complete with my naked self in a body bag (for the first responders), resulting in an expedient, painless, clean death.  As brilliant as that plan was on a technical level, there were certain snags I simply couldn’t plan around such as the pain & anguish I’d be transferring to those who cared about me.  That should have resulted in a third trip to the Ha Ha Hotel, which I did seriously consider, however with some help from friends, family and therapy, I worked through it.

Then two years ago, my fourth experience with mortality presented itself (also documented in this blog for the world to see).  Just as I was recovering from the deepest, darkest depression of my life, I got sick.  PAINFULLY sick.  It was the most pain I’ve ever experienced. So painful, even my female friends who went through childbirth took pity on me.  From my pancreas to my intestines, it felt like there were gremlins inside me trying to claw their way out.  Let’s just say I have a pretty good idea what some of those poor saps in the movie Aliens felt.  I’d break out in a sweat which would literally pour from my skin and I’d constantly vomit, long after there was nothing left to vomit.  I recall one particular taxi ride to the ER where the poor cabbie had to stop at least four times so I could retch by the side of the road (I gave him a big tip).  After more than a dozen trips to the ER, multiple admissions to the hospital, two CAT scans and more tests than I can remember, they never did figure out what was wrong with me.  It didn’t go away until I begged my primary care physician to take me off Effexor, which was supposed to help with my depression but had long became ineffective (as had happened with other anti-depressant prescriptions).  So my theory on why my health took a turn for the worse was a combination of the Effexor, depression and stress.  Mind and body are not separate, folks.

 

After all that, I don’t really fear death any more.  Like it or lump it, I’m eventually going to die and there ain’t fuck-all I can do to stop it.  The best I can do is avoid things that will hasten it and make whatever time I have left worthwhile.

You should too.

Grown Up

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I’ve recently been pondering this and what it means.

From my perspective, as both a young’n as well as an old fart, conventional wisdom says that ”grown up” means one must shed the whimsy of childhood and regale one’s self to a somber, serious contemplation of life.

My views on that definition are best summed up by quote made famous by Adam Savage, “I reject your reality and substitute my own.”  Better yet, I’ll use my own words: “Fuck that bullshit.”

I find that so-called “wisdom” pedantic, tragically pessimistic and designed to unfairly demean the inexperienced (what some would call “the young”).  It creates a type of “us vs. them” mentality that has become so pervasive in the world and one I feel is rarely conducive to understanding.

Look, as a self-classified “old fart” I fully understand the impulsive thought that those younger than I are “dumb as shit” and “don’t get it”, but that’s not fair.  While that is true of someone who has the experience but continues to make poor choices, that’s NOT true of those without that experience.

When I have that thought, I always make a concerted effort to reflect on my younger years, the choices I made and the knowledge I had at the time.  I was highly idealistic and determined to change the world by brute force.  I’ve since learned the world just doesn’t work that way.  There’s a level of give-and-take required to achieve such noble goals, and they are noble and worthwhile.  Does that make the younger version of myself stupid?  Maybe naive, but certainly not stupid!  I didn’t have the experience to know how to properly attain those ideals or, in some cases, create ideals that were realistically achievable.  I simply didn’t know!

I suspect many so-called “grown ups” tend to forget their youth, instead measuring the inexperienced by their own (considerably more experienced) bar.  I’ll repeat myself because it bears repeating, that is not fair.

I must also say the converse is also true.  It’s not fair for the young to offhandedly dismiss the old as bitter, ignorant and completely clueless to the life they live.  While some combination of that may be true on various levels, there’s much to be said for simply having lived longer on this big blue planet.  In that regard, credit must be given for living a life that hasn’t resulted in becoming a complete loser (unless, of course, the person in question IS a complete loser since being older doesn’t trump a continuous string of poor choices).

Still, I tend to lay responsibility of this quandary with the elders.  We have the experience which should have brought the wisdom that resulted in a certain level of understanding.  It’s our job to approach the (seemingly) poor choices of youth with a level of balance in hopes they don’t make the same mistakes we did.  We need to approach these scenarios with the knowledge they may not listen, and that’s fine (did WE always listen to our elders?). I don’t think I’m alone in saying some of the most important lessons learned were the result of some of the poorest, ill-informed choices.  Sooner-or-later, I did learn.  The best us old farts can hope for is that we were heard on a subconscious level and that the road taken will eventually lead to another life lesson learned.  This assumes that our points are true and valid, and since we’re human, that’s far from assured.

So what is MY definition of “grown up”?  I don’t have one since I find that term rooted in ignorance, requiring the complete shedding of whimsy, which I reject.  Life is a continuous string of experience and the more we experience, the more we learn.  We should always be growing up.  There is no finish line where we can rejoice, claiming “I’m all grown up now!”

One of the biggest lessons I have learned, and continue to learn, is that regardless of age, never forget where I came from while keeping in mind I have a long way to go.