Worry.

Not every pimple on your ass is cancerous. Too harsh? Just to make clear, it's not my intention to be callous and devoid of compassion, but rather to acknowledge that our society has somehow birthed a bevy of whiny fusspots and fretful worrywarts. And, admittedly, I, too, can succumb to the lunacy, carked and spooked by fabricated apprehension. “What if...” is a most common inquiry, anticipating misfortune from the onset. It's as if people go from the youthful “oh boy!” excitement for all things new to banking on a blitzkrieg. What do we know about worry? We know that the fixation is agonizing and seemingly endless. And, when we are not the actual worriers, we can provide excellent advice to anxious others, offering that worry is, in fact, a needless emotion, wasting time and energy without having any impact on the events about which we are overly and ineffectually concerned. Some priggish word wonks might even offer that the word, worry, descended from the Old English wyrgen, which meant “to strangle,” and, later evolved in Middle English to worien, which meant “to grasp by the throat with teeth and lacerate.” [American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language 4th edition, (Houghton Mifflin Company, 2000)]. Although kindred of snooty logophiles would very well discern the etyma as powerful prognostication of an unenlightened era, others would most likely walk away, stare blankly, or find a heavy object which to thump the snot's head.

With all seriousness, has anyone, through worry, ever altered the outcome of a situation? Or, have they just altered their own health, enduring heartburn, insomnia, headaches, and the occasional coronary? The hours squandered scrutinizing the endless unfortunate possibilities of a situation are hours one cannot get back. And yet, it is both consuming and common. Nowadays, people feel anxiety about incidentals as frequently as people through famine epochs felt hungry. In all honesty, it's kind of embarrassing.

One of the problems with worry was birthed from the psychological concept of, “Getting in touch with your feelings.” In the 1970’s and 80’s, the idea of an authentic self took over with therapists across the land, which is all good and fine. But humanistic psychology morphed and altered into a stew of cognitive-behavioral/constructivist/psychodynamic/schema therapy, so that “I feel” statements and “I messages” have hijacked communication and thought processes. Since we’re getting Gestalten with it, let me just say that it is an intuitive function to form a schism of expressed and suppressed feelings. It is as natural as blocking a punch or blinking an eye; it’s the body’s spontaneous reaction to protect itself. Not every emotional response requires dissection and analysis and repetitive examination. This does not mean one should be neglectful of detrimental changes in and of his or her body. I am, from more personal experience than I care to have, an advocate of regular physical exams, as well as prompt attention for possible problems. Typically, women wait too long to have lumps in their breasts examined. Also, men avoid routine rectal exams because the exams are rectal. While these reactions are completely understandable, the consequences of prolonged avoidance will be much more humiliating and quite possibly, devastating. Regarding worrying about others and outside events, it is kindly to be concerned and compassionate, unless it escalates to causing an aneurysm. Then, not so good. Constant anxiety, even if there is a bad run of plights, only compounds the situation into an all-out pisser. Sometimes, rather than brood over a bugaboo, it is a better choice to take your car in for an oil change, eat Thai food, and nap. This was not my light bulb moment, but rather the wisdom of a friend who thought my spinning head might be overcome from centrifugal force and shatter. I have to admit: spending thirty minutes doing something nice for my car, followed by Spring Rolls, Pad Thai, and rice pudding, effectively slowed the G-force, allowing me to sleep soundly for a couple hours, even if the borborygmi frightened my animals.

We have a tendency to worry about the wrong things. Before my latest surgery (a complex sinus/nasal undertaking to correct a septum deviated into an “S” shape, a missing sinus wall, multiple humongo turbinates, and numerous bone fragments embedded in tissue, all of which contributed to brutal monthly sinus infections), I was concerned about my appearance changing and my voice being altered, neither of which occurred. What I should have been thinking about was how to shower without having drips of blood stream from my nostrils. Ultimately, I figured it out. It turned out to be the first time I have ever showered with two strings dangling from my nose; yes, the age-old boxing solution was utilized. I showered with tampons stuck up my nares, a lovely moment exhibiting my sexiest side. As I stood naked and wet with the strings swaying, I thought to myself, 'Well then, I hope I don't die suddenly. Being found in a situation such as this would certainly be unsettling and also leave a legendary aspect to my lifetime that I would prefer not to have.' The absurd situation made me immediately reminisce about the time I passed out while alone in my apartment. That in itself was ill-starred; however, combined with eating leftover Chinese food at my kitchen table and wearing only a thong... bad, dreadfully bad. Fortunately, I awoke on my own without subjecting others to the state of affairs. Once again, I had not worried about such a thing happening, but evidently, misgivings would have assisted me to take appropriate precautions.

Granted, as I have stated previously in my life and most likely will forevermore: I am emotionally stunted in many, many ways. Growing up in a family of Marines is entirely different than growing up in a military family. Case in point, say you’re having a dumbass contest to see who can handle the spiciest food. Military families eat jalapeno peppers with a few haberneros thrown in as a dare. Marines will immediately suck down Bhut Jolokia peppers (recognized as the hottest pepper in the world, just beneath law enforcement grade pepper spray on the Scoville scale), and they will do this without pause to exhibit their superiority, even if it means blowing out their duodenums. There exists a level of recklessness, under the guise of honor, within Marine families. Even as civilians, pain is never exposed, weakness never exhibited, and all family members act as stoic war hawks, ready to confront any adversary. The less others know of one's vulnerabilities, which are very few, mind you, the less likely to be assaulted and have boundaries encroached. The Jarhead way of life is transferred to children, so that scrapes, cuts, and bruises are incidental and deserve no recognition. If anything, minor abrasions command a “Ooh-rah!” before moving on.

So then, during the medical madness which has become a huge chunk of my existence, what “feelings” do I have? After having three surgeries in 5 ½ months, as well as dealing with that persnickety lil' thing called MS, if I am rarely willing to discuss possibilities, if I'm not in need of a solid cry, if I refuse to explore and belabor the emotions involved, are there concealed reasons behind it, something going on other than my upbringing? Yes and no. I truly am not of the mindset to become upset about something I cannot control. Also, I believe I have a responsibility to be the strong one, to continue purporting sangfroid as I have for some time now. I explained to my psychologist (yes, I have one) that I may open up to some people, but if I sense they are becoming uncomfortable, I revert to staidness. She inquired as to if it was better for me to be distressed than others. “Absolutely,” I affirmed. She paused and then said, “Excuse me. I have to cover my eyes. Your halo is blinding.” She has a sarcastic panache that I find oh so irresistible in my mental healthcare professionals. It wasn’t until later while talking with a friend that I disclosed the primary aching woe which was of concern to me: I worried about being alone the remainder of my life. Though I have the most amazing group of friends, I am single. As we all know, hugs from friends are entirely different than being held by someone. Through all of these doctor visits and procedures and hurry-up-and-wait outcomes, I have gone to an empty bed every night. I miss having a significant other; it worries me that perhaps I’ll never have one again. After long days of poking, prodding, and medical verbiage, I sometimes wish for someone to hold me, to wrap around me and say, “C’mon, try to sleep. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” My friend was elated to hear me exhibit mortal characteristics, almost impressed and proud by my warp from automaton. It was yet another slight fissure in the wall that bulwarks my humanness. Every narrow chink that allowed light and vision has always been applauded by my friends, shared among them as a milestone achieved, despite the jumbo gap between me and the emotional development paradigm. But, who of us doesn’t some of the time long to be held and comforted by another? Who of us, even self-reliant, solitary individuals, content without frequent companionship, doesn't end a troublesome day with a sigh, yearning another to be lying beside to wish a peaceful sleep and sweet dreams? The tenderness of a beloved offers ease unmatched by friends and family members. Before dew drowns thine eyes, I shall concede that even this lone wolf has an immense vat of latent sap. The worry I feel is not dying alone, but rather living the remainder of my life without experiencing love one more time. Ugh. I'm a bit nauseated after that divulgence.

Because humans worry incessantly and are confounded as to how to make it stop, we often engage in diversionary activities. Lacking skills and tools to properly temper the anxiety and render it powerless, we embrace distractions, flipping red herrings through our own paths and pretending that they just came about, like magic. If we're crocked or stoned or pie-eyed, maybe we won't think about the bad thing; there's no doubt our luck is about to change if we hit casinos and racetracks and furiously rub loose coins on scratch cards, because damn if we're not due to get money for nothing and chicks for free; the emptiness we feel from the unknowing must be able to be filled if we gobble constantly, quadrupling our portion sizes and suckling down fats, oils, and sweets enough to scoff the food pyramid's apex into bloated blubber; perhaps we should spend money we don't have on things we don't need sidetracking our mind malaise with a shopping mall zombie shuffle. I've tried a couple few of these in my lifetime, all of them confidence games played upon ourselves, straying swindles devised to rid our gnawing anxiety even with the chance that opting this will run riot and pathologize our panic. I reckon one of humanity's most endearing traits is the ability to dupe itself any day, anytime.

So then, what to do, what to do? Maybe, just as those with uncontrollable rage often are encouraged and/or mandated by the court system to take anger management courses, those individuals with acute anxiety should be required to take part in worry management classes. Might work, right? Until that becomes a common option for out of control killjoys, all we are left with is the universal advice passed through the ages since the time of Plato: trust your gut. Listen to the “still, small voice within,” which does not continue to “the still, small voice within that shouts and whines and sobs to everyone in earshot's scope.” Sometimes when you’re bleeding, it doesn’t hurt, and sometimes when you’re hurting, there is no blood. Be honest, but without contrivance, without projecting cataclysm. The omnipresent maxim to pick your battles could easily be extended to choose your weeps. What I’m saying is: people, really, c'mon, show some restraint. If you can’t get through a day without continually worrying about your neighbor’s sick parakeet and whether your co-worker gave your boss a memo and the global warming effect, take a sedative; if you are worried about the divorce of the Gosselins or Kim Kardashian's badunkadunk or the vapid swellheads from “The Hills” or any other nonebrity offal, take the entire bottle of sedatives washed down with a fifth of vodka. Seriously, this world is too much for you.


A clarifying addendum: The author pointedly expressed that one should not worry about Kim Kardashian's budunkadunk, not that it shouldn't be viewed and/or glorified.

Road.

Over the course of twenty years, I have traveled to every state in the continental U.S. Up until this last trip, I had avoided Delaware. This omission had not initially been purposeful; however, as time passed and states were journeyed through, the ostracism became somewhat amusing, cultivating into ridicule toward a state that did nothing to deserve it. Except for being itself, that which is Delaware. My first road trip companion and I had a large map push-pinned to a wall upon which we would carefully and proudly track our journeys with a black Sharpie marker. First to New Orleans, then southwest, then northwest--- driving with rarely a destination, only a direction. It was thrilling to be on the road in a beat-up car with little money and few possessions. In the age before cell phones (ghastly, I know), we had to rely upon passersby if anything bad happened. Somehow, it always worked out without us appearing on a milk carton. I would prefer to claim that we weren't stupid girls, but that was not always the case. If one was moronic, the other offered no astute insight, instead going along without reservation to the land of Imbecilica, chortling accomplices to any end.

A fairly accurate description of me is: “homebody with wanderlust.” My home--- once settled, once content--- is my sanctuary, a sacred shelter which protects me and allows me to decompress. Its comfort is restorative, its stability is life-sustaining, and its Wolf Cave is inspiriting to fecundity. Still, at times, I start pacing, I get snarky, I have an edge to my behavior, my movements, my speech. At that time, I know I need to get the hell out of my surroundings as well as my head; I need to go somewhere different, see and hear something different, talk to someone different, experience something different. Diversity and variety assist with sanity. Maintaining my creative madness without making me batshit requires a farrago, sparks of real life to rouse the right side of my brain.

To allow yourself to be in a state of complete unexpectedness takes balls. The excitement of that which is unfamiliar, senses renewed and enhanced by sights and sounds never experienced, it feels almost like an hazardous indulgence. Road trips are not for everyone, to be sure. Those who are high-maintenance should best stay home or consult a travel agent for their extravagant hooey. On road trips, vanity is, at best, a slapdash longing; luxury is laughable; itineraries are for namby-pambies. The correct answer to, “What do you feel like eating?” is: “Food.” And to the question, “Where do you want to stay?” the only answer is: “The car is fine. Or, if we're feeling outlandish, a place with a bed and a shower.” Without any idea of what may occur, one tends to rely upon the adrenaline rush itself. But, that, too, will become spent, and then dependence is upon the traveling companion to remain steady, as he or she is the only consistency available. That is why one has to be highly selective when choosing a compatriot. Will the person have temper tantrums? Then, no. Will the person be boring? Then, no. Though I have many friends with whom an evening is an absolute delight, they would never make the short list of road trip collaborator. Because John and I have spent many hours together, long stretches of time without the need for entertaining one another or being solicitous, we felt confident that we could not only stand one another for nine days, but also enhance the experience.

In Cleveland, John and I had the first of personal space challenges. The bathroom was tiny and its exhaust fan was less than effective. To emerge from the shower, apply deodorant and lotion, dress, and swaddle long, wet hair, was annoying and sticky. With a turban comprised of an itty-bitty towel, I opened the bathroom door and announced, “John, here's the deal. You will probably see me in my bra at some point during this journey. I will not subject you to full nudity, but I need to not ruin my showering event by embodying all that is humid. Therefore, I may appear from the bathroom displaying unmentionables. I refuse to bathe and then be moistly.” He nodded with empathetic understanding.

We both reveled in the opportunities for stories, dialects, and absurdity. Whether it was the aristocratic family from Beloit, cod curds, the psychopathic havoc of Lyle Dingman, Sicilian mobsters killing pet cats, exploding biscuits, or ass pain, we hyperbolized every incident and encounter until we could barely contain our hilarity. As we delighted in our waggery, we mutually honked clarion calls, inciting each other to take it one step further, and then clapping and roaring when it achieved preposterous. Ah, such gloating scribes! Though our inventive ad-lib narratives kept us occupied and smiling, we both needed a day without seeing everything at 80 or more miles per hour. The first stop at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum was a fun diversion, but we both needed our legs to stride and our eyes to veer. We decided to stay just outside of Boston and spend the following day wandering the Common and the Public Garden. Finding a motel proved to be challenging with every affordable place booked solid for no apparent reason. And, to make matters more stupid, all the motels we called apparently had the same receptionist. All conversations were close versions of this: “Are you on Mass Pike? If you're on Mass Pike, I can get you here. Where are you on Mass Pike? What direction are you headed on Mass Pike? From Mass Pike, I can get you anywhere. Take Mass Pike and head east. Exit at the second exit. You see that exit on Mass Pike? We're behind the Friendly's Restaurant. You can see Friendly's from Mass Pike.” This was spoken brusquely and with a distinctive, pronounced East coast accent, and the individual seemed exasperated that I wasn't of the “Mass Pike” elite, knowing precisely to what she was referring as if I wasn't an out-of-towner. “Mass Pike” continued to appear in banter for the remainder of the trek, easily upstaging other quips and capers.

The road has magical allure. On the road, there are no obligations and there is no accountability. It is a quick taste of absolute nomadic ambrosia. One of the thoughts that John and I both had independently was, 'No one other than my traveling companion knows where I am right now. No one knows what I'm doing; no one knows how to find me. I am experiencing freedom.' And, with freedom, one has time to come to terms with the many events that are transforming and life-altering. In addition to igniting imagination, the road allows time and focus to process. Mostly, we are denied that opportunity by daily life. The “big things” aren't broken down, sorted through, and resolved; they lay untouched and neglected in our minds until they start to decay. As they rot, other unresolved issues begin to fester until our internal cacophony causes us to act out with anger, confusion, and irritability toward others. Too often, the death of someone close or a severe illness or the dissolution of a relationship has its brief moment and is then tossed aside because, well, hey, life goes on. Grief and remorse and suffering are never given proper examination and reflection to reach resolution and then metamorphose into a past experience rather than a continual inner ache. This cyphering becomes angst, and we are unable to pick apart our own cryptogram and end our own torment. And that is why people are screwed up in their heads and mean.

On road trips, we need not be hurried to compartmentalize, stash away, and recover from before our next shift at work or our weekend with the kids or what have you. In my situation, before leaving I had a follow-up appointment with the physician who did my abdominal surgery. She informed me that because of the MS, my guts were becoming defunct. Those normal nerve signals that go from the organs to the spine to the brain and back again that say, “Um, pardon me, Person. You should really go to the bathroom soon,” in my body, somehow had a break in connection so that, basically, both my intestinal system and my urinary system had become paralyzed, no longer able to let me know I needed to relieve myself or to void on their own. Splendid. This news made me want and need to leave town, not to escape, but rather to process. I knew that the latest progression of the disease was not something that I could or should hastily accept and then within a couple of days be ready to face the world with a quick and ready “bah dum dum ching!” This progression was not just pain or lack of coordination, symptoms I had become accustomed to; this advancement was an insidious aspect of the disease, one that I had assumed would happen when I became bedridden and suffered from nearly complete paralysis. I had purposely skipped over the chapters in the MS books dealing with this, not only because I figured it was a long way off, but also because of its unpleasantness. The discomfiture and mortification were harsh, even for me, someone who does not embarrass easily. It's difficult to be a naughty, bawdy hellcat when you have voiding issues. Even though I had yet to suffer an incontinent mishap, my self-confidence was squashed, thinking that now, with these new developments, I lacked any sultry oomph. Carnal debauchery seemed dubious at best, hopeless at worst. Not that there was a throng of suitors and wooers in zany pursuit of me, but still... it could happen.

Thus, with my octogenarian bowel regime of Citrucel, Colase, mineral oil, and Miralax, and specific guidelines to John that we needed to stop every hour or two so as not to have pee flow up to my kidneys or down to my pants, we departed. In addition to both John and I needing adventure, escapades, and an unconventional and bizarre medley of people, places and things, I needed the road's magic--- its guidance to grapple with issues, its protection when jostling with fate, and its restorative powers--- besting reality by transcending its restrictions of clocks, obligations, appointments, chores, and pressures. It was time to clear the crazy and accept fortuitous events, whether blest or curst, whether happy or wretched. 'Tis life, best lived on an impromptu journey via motorcar.

Next: Asylum.

Trip.

We left with only the intention of going. That lack of expectation filled us with hope. Though I have been on many road trips, I was aware that this could be my last. That is not a macabre thought, but rather an objective assessment of my body's ability to handle duress. Though thoroughly exhilarating, road trips require endurance, patience, less healthy food, fewer hours of sleep, a youthful back, and a steel ass. My mental preparation was not necessary; my mind saw and heard only magic with the mere mention of nine days without an itinerary. As I packed, though, the precursory items to an even short time away from home made my mental sails suddenly windless. What once was some clothes, a toothbrush, and a carton of cigarettes, now was the metered clicking of a multitude of pills, dropped with precision into boxes with miniature partition walls for morning, lunchtime, late afternoon, and evening. Pink tablets, white and maroon capsules, all-white caplets, beige, peach, pale yellow--- dropped into their specified slots without contemplation yet with heavy sighs. There were other medicinal items necessary to my physical functionality--- enough so that I stopped packing, thought about having a cigarette, and instead laid down flat on my back, arms beside me, eyes vacantly staring into the whirling ceiling fan. 'I am not old,' I thought, 'I am worse than old. I am sick,' and that made a mockery of my childlike wonder and excited heart. Before finishing packing, I had to sleep hopeful for dreams of road trips long past.

It was John's first road trip and I feared being the sole source of letdown in our 3500 mile trek. It was a conundrum: should I wear my game face the entire way never indicating pain and illness, never allowing him to see that I may not be up to the task, or should I allow myself to be seen with some weakness, some frailty, a need for rest and recuperation? John is one of my closest friends and has been a pillar of support and compassion for a couple of years now. Still, I didn't want to be the singular cause of any disappointment, the reason he may tell his other friends, “It was okay, not as great as I expected but okay.” That would crush me, or more precisely, my ego, as well as my reputation as the finest traveling companion ever. But then, who was I trying to impress: John or myself? What was I trying to prove exactly and to whom? I grinningly ate up others shaking their heads upon hearing that I had the balls out nerve and stupidity to go on a road trip only two weeks after major surgery. It made me feel like Old Deb, the girl who flipped off authority and good sense with a quick finger and a sexy smile. With the accent and audacity of the Black Knight from Monty Python, I said aloud, “It's just a flesh wound,” and resumed packing.

Part of the giddy fun of starting a lengthy car trip is the inevitable notion of being unprepared. One does her best to ensure basics are taken care of, such as providing a caretaker for the animals. I adore my pets and it would be highly irresponsible and tragic to let them starve while I was gone. And then there are things such as rear struts. Since I am automotively challenged, I am unsure what struts actually do. I understand starters, brakes, steering... but, struts? Clueless. How important can they be? And, if they aren't functioning properly, what does that mean? A starter doesn't work, no starting. Brakes don't work, no braking. Struts don't work... then, we cannot strut? I'm okay with that since I much prefer to shimmy. Thus, we began our long journey slightly disappointed that we wouldn't be allowed to strut, yet confident that from the many silly walk variations, we would still be mobile.

John and I were, in fact, virtually all systems go for our excursion, much more so than I have ever been. Technology helps. We were both armed with laptops, cell phones, chargers, digital cameras, and debit cards. Fabulous. Additionally, John had a hand-held device that stored a little more than a kajillion songs. I am old school, packing numerous compact discs into a clear storage bin allowing easy access for the moments when I just had to hear one specific song. Combined, we brought enough music for a yearlong, worldwide voyage, but, you see, this was necessary because, as stated, sometimes you need THAT song. Like Boy Scouts, we were prepared, even if only primed for flashes of euphonious euphoria. We also had clothes and personal hygiene products--- always thinking of others are we--- and some caffeinated beverages and happy snacky treats. Luckily for us, it is always snack time on a road trip. Within the first few miles of the engine running, I exclaimed, “I ate that Ho Ho in two bites!” This was said haughtily and loudly while John goggled at me and then stared at his Zebra Cake, which was nearly untouched, flickers of crumbs stuck to his stubble from a polite bite, no more than a nibble. I believe I may have even raised my hands in fists from the steering wheel to exhibit my prideful satisfaction. So then, beyond those items, we needed little else. Oh, but wait... we are both writers. Thus, at the ready were journals, notebooks, scratch pads, writing instruments, and boundless flickering ideas soon to lose their turbidity. And, what, one may wonder, was the first recorded dynamical boom of genius? Why, of course, “I ate that Ho Ho in two bites!”

… Sometimes brilliance need not initially be swift to ultimately have impact. This was the immediate focus of our supplication while speeding eastward on I-90.

Next up: "Road."

Dependence.

Here’s a conundrum: we are encouraged to rely upon others yet be independent, to be self-sufficient yet depend upon our friends. Troublesome, yes? We admire ambitious go-getters, uncontrolled fireballs who make it on their own after walking on hot coals and not being taken by “the man”, fighting the system and the power. Because anything you can do, oh hell yeah, doing it better. Rock on, free bird.

We also have a high opinion of those who wonder where all the flowers have gone, and being in possession of a hammer, they get up early and hammer in the morning, cooperating and selflessly working toward common good, the betterment of the village, sacrificing for others so that generations to come experience freedom and hope because this land was made for you and me, for gosh sake.

I reckon we’re screwed in this riddle.

As a child, I concluded that the only person who could take care of me was me. I had encountered some difficult family situations and that coupled with uprooting and relocating numerous times, gave me a sense of aloneness in the world. Without a shoulder to lean or cry upon, I strived for complete independence. I was willful, strong, determined, and purposeful. Promoted to store manager when I was twenty-one, I bought my first condo less than two years later. Kicking up my heels and swinging round a lamppost, I was on my way. I was never a rip-roaring giant head, hoarding my minimal wealth and dismissing others with scornful spit. Picking up bar tabs, sending checks to Greenpeace, and slipping Jacksons to friends in need were commonplace. It was fine for others to receive assistance from me, but ignominious for me to rely upon them. One of the synonyms for dependent is minion. Sweet. That’s how we feel, though, isn’t it? We feel as if we are subordinate to others, that perhaps we were on equal ground and now that we have asked for assistance, we have dropped a level and are beneath others. We feel helpless when we ask for help. And yet, if others ask us for help, we don’t think of them as weak, we don’t judge them to be powerless, obsequious followers. Why do we judge ourselves differently than others? We all have peaks and valleys; we just feel much more comfortable peaking. We never know how deep the valleys will be. We toddle along thinking that rainbows and a Starbucks are just over the ridge. When we see vultures circling over us and bleached bones poking up from the sand, we think, ‘Well, that can’t be good.’

Not too long ago, I encountered modifying factors. What might those be? I prefer the term to “circumstances.” The reason for that is because it sounds less vulnerable. We all have a contingency factor, right? Some kind of conditions that influence or determine the outcome, and quite frankly, most of the time, circumstances are unpleasant. It’s rare for one to hear, “Due to circumstances, she overwhelmingly succeeded in life!” Nope. She succeeded because of hard work and drive, because of fate or angels or prayers, because of daddy’s investments and mother’s connections. We hear, “Due to circumstances, she was broken down, wiped out, poor and nearly dead.” That’s not happy. Due to those snidely circumstances, I found myself experiencing a muckle of madness. Without my friends and family, right now I would be homeless. I’m a pretty scrappy gal, but I’m not sure how I would handle that. If I were to venture a guess, here’s what I think would happen: drugs, a lot of freakin’ drugs. I would be a toothless, emaciated skank in a very short period of time. This is not because I don’t have confidence in myself, that I don’t believe I can pull up them-there bootstraps. This is because everyone has a bottom, a place they hit hard and cannot climb out. I have learned through forty years that I can be sick, I can be poor, I can be challenged, I can be broken, but I cannot be alone. I cannot be without those I love who love me back. Despite my Pee-wee Herman quoting of being “a loner, Dottie, a rebel”, I cannot be without support and guidance and wisdom from others. At times, I rely upon others whether emotionally, physically, or financially. Does it make me weak? Somewhat, but is it a defect or is it fragility? Is it fault or vulnerability? For me, the difficulty comes from the essence of feeling unfree. But, that is my own doing, my own twisted thinking. The restraints I feel are in opposition to the liberation others are giving me by providing me independence by allowing me to depend upon them. That’s a labyrinthine, tortuous tangle.

So then, how do we resolve accepting assistance without internal self-flagellation? I pondered this for a short time which resulted in three ideas: 1) Wear soft shoes and pretend all of your friends are Cheyenne; 2) designate Miss Manners as your shoulder angel; 3) read books on Adlerian psychology and nursery rhymes at the same time. I’m going to expound on this so as not to give the impression that my intellectual faculties are deteriorating. First, if your companions are all Cheyenne, they would never judge a man until they had walked two moons in his moccasins. Eh? See? Very Polonius of me, yes? Next, if Judith Martin was sitting cross-legged with hands folded upon her knees, resting smugly on your shoulder (and, of course, she was very, very tiny), she would whisper in your ear to be nice, gracious, and express your thanks, then shut your pie-hole. I believe she’s edgier when she is miniaturized. Finally, keep in mind that the song lyrics are, “See saw sacradown, which is the way to London town? One boot up, and the other down, and this is the way to London town.” Simple, playful, nonsensical, just as traditional verse for children should be. The lyrics are not, “See saw Nero’s crown, narcissist or meltdown? Ego up or self-loathing drown, inferiority complex will jumble you ‘round.” When it comes to mindfucks, stand on the pivot bar.

In my defense, I mulled this quandary over right before fading into a hazy pseudo-nap in which the last thing I heard was, “The Final Countdown” by Europe and the last thing I did was eat mango sorbet too quickly which resulted in my blood vessels swelling from brain freeze. I think maybe I should just say, “Thank you,” and retire for the evening.

To my friends, thank you.