The Medicine Of Sand And Heart
Now that they have Roto-Rootered my heart, I must be on medications to reduce my cholesterol. (Ideally, you’d do that via diet alone, but my cholesterol levels were record-high despite my diet not being all that bad – my body loves to manufacture tiny globules of artery-clogging stickiness.)
They have switched my medication from Crestor (a pill) to a packet called Welchor, which supposedly is heavy-duty stuff that helps to reduce the risk of diabetes. And Welchor is fascinating, because it’s a suspension.
Essentially, you open a packet and dump some white powder into eight ounces of fluid – they suggest water, or diet soda. And mix it well. And drink it.
And it is entertainingly disgusting.
Thing is, Welchor is almost tasteless – a hint of lemon flavoring, but that’s it. The problem is, it lurks in the drink, hovering in it like a flavored octopus, never dissolving but hanging menacingly in the liquid. And you drink the fluid, and you think, “Oh, that’s not bad,” and then a pile of silt forms at the back of your throat and chokes you.
No shit. Silt. This fine sand that clings to the back of your tongue. A pile of it.
Now me, I take this as evidence that it’s working – I imagine Welchor as like an cleanup chemical dumped on an oil-stricken beach, and when it gets into my veins it’ll stick to fat globules in the same way it stuck to my mouth, and destroy them. But as far as making this palatable, it’s hard, because unlike other medicines taste is not the problem. It’s pure, plaster-dust mouthfeel, and I don’t think there’s a liquid that will solve that problem because it’s a suspension.
I’m going to experiment further, but the packet doesn’t suggest hot drinks, so I suspect that dropping this in tea will make it worse. Maybe the smoothies. But that adds smoothie preparation time, because Gini sure doesn’t want this shit.
Two Stories With The Same Ending
“The problem is, there’s one of two stories here,” I said. “And I don’t know which one I’m in.”
Gini kept a respectful distance, close enough to hug if I needed it, far enough that I could speak.
“In the one story,” I continued, “All of this pain and frustration and heartache I’m going through is the low point in the third act. And if that’s the case, it’s like Clarion, where I had a complete breakdown in Week Five, yet in Week Six I wrote the first story that I ever sold to Asimov’s. So maybe this wretched failure is just me breaking through to something greater.
“But the other story – which is equally possible – is far sadder. That’s the story where the old mediocre guy keeps trying over and over again, and never realizes when he should quit. And that’s the one where he spends the next twenty years flailing, chasing a dream that he’s totally ill-equipped for, wasting all of this time and effort on something that he’s not very good at and yet is too obsessive to let go of. And then all those evenings devoted to the craft become sad, wasted, a mountain of lost time.
“I don’t know what story I’m in,” I concluded, spreading my hands. “And it’s killing me.”
Gini looked at me seriously, weighing the options, debating how to present the truth.
“I don’t know which story you’re in, either,” she finally admitted. “But I know your story always ends with the wife who loves you more than anything.”
And I melt.
Awkward Conversations With George Zimmerman
Okay, so George Zimmerman is now being asked for grip-n-grins, where well-wishers at a gun show line up for his autograph.
Thing is, I get tongue-tied talking to celebrities in general. I have a fundamental dislike of saying something cliched, and usually all I have to say to a musician or a writer or a comedian is “Hi, I’m a fan of yours, just like the other seventy people behind me.” I may venture, “I really love this song of yours,” but usually, I just clam up and tell them my name if they ask.
Then I wish I had something really interesting to tell them. Like the Farscape convention. That time, I got to say “My wife and I came to see you guys for our honeymoon!” to the entire cast of Farscape, and oh, how the laughs did flow. Virginia Hey recognized us two years later, waving to us from a staircase, going, “It’s the newlyweds!” And I felt all beamy because hey, that was something new.
But most of the time, I schlump along.
…what the fuck would I say to George Zimmerman?
What kind of fandom does George Zimmerman have?
I suppose “I loved the way you shot that kid” might be a common sentiment, but that sounds so harsh when you say it out loud. “You looked so debonaire on the stand” might be a valid approach. Perhaps an enthusiastic “You got away with it!”
I mean, seriously, even assuming you wanted an autograph of Zimmerman (and, bizarrely enough, his dog), I’m finding it hard-pressed to know what to say as you get to the head of the line. “You shot a kid who probably would have turned out to be a criminal, and I’m a big fan of proactive murder” seems the best bet. Or maybe “It was him or you, except he didn’t have a gun and you did, and even then he was pounding the crap out of you, so hooray for demonstrating how a gun provides a dangerous sense of invulnerability!”
Yet even if you believe it was in legitimate self-defense, rejoicing in the death of another human being by wanting proof you met the man seems bizarre. Then again, maybe not. I know a lot of people who’d want an autograph from the man who shot Bin Laden, and they’d stand in a much longer line. And the conversations in that line would be just as crazy.
How To Be A Good Depressive Citizen
Author Libba Bray has a wonderful post on what it’s like to have depression – a post that, sadly, follows the Grand And Stilted Tradition Of Authors Admitting Their Depression.
They have to speak of depression a certain way, lest they be labelled a Bad Depressive Citizen.
Now, the gold standard for a writer suffering from depression is to Not Say Anything. Spend all that sadness with your mouth firmly shut. Then, after months of hard-pent silence, as you are emerging from the depression and find yourself in a place that you can properly control yourself, you write a Very Articulate Post detailing your pain…
…but do it from a distance. Write about it in a sad, somber tone. Do not evince an ounce of self-pity. Hold this odious disease at a distance. End it with a triumphant note that yes, you too can fight back!
Because God help you if you write your depressive post when you’re actually depressed, and uncertain if you’re going to make it. That worries people. You don’t want to write about yourself in a way that gets your audience concerned about you, because then you’ll just have told a bunch of people that maybe you’re not okay. And what will they do then? How will they rest until you’re in a stable place?
That’s rude. Button that shit up, depressive person.
And as a public figure, you can’t share your actual fears either. Maybe you’re melting down because you’re afraid you’re a lousy musician. But if, as a depressive, you slip up and post “I AM A SHITTY MUSICIAN AND I SUCK,” then everyone knows what you are: you’re an attention whore. You’re asking for people to suck up to you! All you want is positive feedback? What a drama queen (or king) you are!
(Even if you don’t want positive feedback, you know the positive feedback will bounce off your shields, you just wanted to stop swallowing this terror back all the time and give it a voice so it’s somewhere outside of your fucking skull for once.)
And shit, if you’re lucky enough to have had some success, that public outcry? It’s ungrateful. Hey, your band got signed – that’s farther than I ever got, what kind of asshole are you for dismissing my lack of accomplishments? Christ, what a whiny bitch you are.
And then someone who was a fan of yours feels completely dismissed because you’ve just told them that everything you did thus far was crappy and thus they, in turn, must be crappy for liking you, and how dare you tell them that? God, what a jerk you are for pissing on your fans.
And then someone says, “Wow, X is having a meltdown,” and people tune in to watch the trainwreck that is you, and you get a reputation as someone unstable. People start to edge away. You fucked up, man, you just let the mask slip, and now people see the quivering Jell-O underneath – and some people are repulsed by your slippery innards, and others see a feast of despair to chow the fuck down on.
A couple of outbursts like that can change your whole life.
And God forbid your despair involves other people. If you post about your worry that you’re a terrible parent, congratulations! You just hauled your kid into the shining spotlight of a talk show, and that show is entitled, “Is X Actually A Horrible Parent?” Your parenting styles are going to be discussed, debated, with people actually having real investment in this, and some people are going to come to the conclusion – whether this is fair or not – that you are an awful fucking parent. In some cases, all the evidence they’ll have is that you’ve raised the question. But that’ll be enough.
And that reputation will follow your ass around, my friend. People will question your stability. They’ll have Heard Things. They’ll wonder how you’re doing now, with the understanding that you could break at any moment, that you’re crazy deep down, that you didn’t have the maturity to mash that ugly shit down like you fucking well should have.
Now, I’m not kidding, or being in the least sarcastic, when I say that Libba has written a wonderful post. That is part of what it’s like to be depressed, and she expresses it well, and eloquently. It helps, and I am glad she wrote it.
But notice how carefully she speaks. She doesn’t say what, if anything, she is depressed about – and she’s a good enough writer that that omission is clearly on purpose.
Because she knows how to be a good depressive citizen.
Depression is messy, and ugly, and sticky. You don’t take it out in public until it’s thoroughly sanitized, freeze-dried, and vacuum-packed – or you make yourself a reputation that you don’t want. It is okay to be depressed, even valorous, so long as you never actually demonstrate depression.
Right now, dressed in the blog-equivalent of a crisp business suit, some depressive is blogging as the Good Citizen, tears wiped off of blotched cheeks, a stiff upper lip, toeing the party line that we can all get through this if we just keep swimming. She is an inspiration.
You do not discuss your depression until you can be an inspiration, or you are just fucking crazy.
Nobody likes crazy.
And there are very good reasons why maybe going off on one of your social networks during a depressive breakdown is a bad idea. Living your life via the equivalent of emotional crowdfunding is almost guaranteed to be ruined. And hauling your friends and family into the spotlight against their will to be discussed among strangers is a toxic fucking thing. And depression lies, so a lot of the things you say will be so utterly foolish and untrue that one day you’ll regret writing it down, simply because some idiot took you at face value, and some other idiot now thinks you’re an idiot for believing that guff in the first place.
So it’s not necessarily a bad thing to only discuss depression when you can hold it at a distance and analyze it.
But this need to be a Good Depressive Citizen makes the journey that much more alone, sometimes. You can have thousands of people following you on the social network of your choice, and yet here you are alone in your apartment, trying desperately to keep this despair properly tamped down. You have to clutch your knees and choke back those cries of despair, because if you share this angst with the world, then you might get a label you can never take back.
And deep down, this need to be a Good Depressive Citizen fuels the fear that you’re really not lovable, or worthy, as you can’t share this shit-fountain of diarrhetic despair welling up inside of you with the world at large. You can only share it with the pre-screened handful of friends who understand you, who have demonstrated they know how to deal properly with this malfunctioning beast that is your brain, and maybe you’re not worthy of love maybe you’re just finding people who are stupid enough to take pity on you.
Then, after months of that, when medication and time and circumstance and habit have worn it down, you can write a dispassionate blog entry. On how hard it’s been. On abstract terrors. With a good, solid, “We’re all in this together.”
And you’re a Good Depressive. Someone people can point to as an example for others. Not one of those hair-tearing lunatics who can’t function, amiright?
So You're A Couple Going Poly: Some Quick Advice
A friend of mine wrote to me the other day that one of her husband’s buddies had been flirting heavily with him, and she was… kinda okay with the idea. As was he. As was, after some investigation, the buddy.
“So what next?” she asked. And here, in a nutshell, is my advice on what to do when you’re a couple, opening up to poly.
(NOTE: This is written to the female partner of a male-female married couple, because that’s how I wrote the email, but really, the advice applies for all genders and sexualities.)
When you’ve got an untouchable couple at the center of things, I think it’s best to really set expectations as to what you want out of things. After all, your obvious goal is to keep you and your partner intact as a unit. If it comes down to you or her, at this stage, it’s almost certainly going to be you. So why hurt this friend (and your husband!) unnecessarily by being unclear about what’s cool with you?
The problem is, you don’t really know what’s okay yet. You’re not poly yet. Maybe you’ve read some books, but polyamory is like parenting in that you can read every book and still get whomped by unexpected emotions. Right now, you’re theoretically okay with your husband sleeping with some third party, and maybe even falling in love, but hypotheses are not data.
And so you’re going to have that uncomfortable conversation of, “Here’s what I think I’m comfortable with you guys doing, but it might be less than this if it really triggers me, or maybe a lot more if it turns out I’m unexpected awesome.”
You have to talk, really. It’s just not as super-helpful as you’d think, because realistically this is jumping into a pool to see how it feels.
But I’d definitely talk to him, to see what your husband wants. Is it romantic snuggles and candlelight? Single swinging? FWB? Or just the right to explore and find out what the hell it is he wants? Maybe you don’t even need to be poly, you just need to be swingers – which is easier. Less attachments generated.
Then, if that’s cool, probably let him go on a date or two with the buddy. Make it clear that these are no-sex dates (though maybe some smooching is cool, if your husband can restrain himself to your comfort zone). I mean, your husband and his buddy might not hit it off – maybe s/he smells funny – and there’s no sense in generating a Big Important Conversation if this is going to end up in a thanks-but-no-thanks situation.
Yet if all goes well, then, yeah, talk to the buddy with all of you at a sit-down dinner. Say, “Hey, we’re new at this, I’m totally cool with you sexing up my husband, but here are my concerns.”
Now, maybe, yeah, that sort of intense conversation may weird the buddy out. But my take is that if talking to you about what you guys need as a couple weirds them out that they skedaddly, then they really were NOT the right choice for you.
Because that sort of three-way communication is gonna come up. You’re married. And even if you weren’t married, the fact is that your husband’s known you for longer, and (assuming that you’re happily married) would more likely to weight your opinion even if there were no other mitigating factors. It’s an uneven relationship – and sure, that may not be fair, but the buddy needs to know that your emotions are part of this mixture. If that’s a dealbreaker, then it’s only fair to the buddy to give them this opportunity to move on.
(Which isn’t to say that you should use this as an excuse to be a monster – the buddy’s feelings should always be taken into account. If you’re the kind of person who’s going to take all of your insecurities out on the buddy, using them as a flashpoint to blame them for everything that’s currently wrong in your relationship with your husband, then… you probably shouldn’t try poly. Poly’s about getting your needs met, but it’s not about getting all your needs met.)
And then they start dating, and you hunker down for drama. I know you want the no-dramaness, but there’s rarely a time when you open up poly in an established relationship that at least a little drama is not generated. Maybe it’s not big drama, but you only really discover what makes your relationship unique to the two of you when you find someone nibbling at its edges. You’re probably going to find a couple of things that you thought were unique to your husband and you, and whoops, he doesn’t think that. And if you’re typical you’re going to fluctuate between “Wow, how bizarre, I feel no jealousy at all” and “I’m alone now, how sad,” and a newfound appreciation of your husband’s qualities now that other people are appreciating them and “Am I good enough?”
All that’s cool. It happens. And when you do that, you’ll be waist-deep in the poly pool and well on your way.