#AMWRITING #BLOGGING – WHEN LIFE IS A BIT CRAZIER THAN THURBER'S “THE NIGHT THE BED FELL”

courtesy:www.forbes.com       

I started this off naming one of James Thurber's funniest stories, because it rings so true for my own life, which has been an endless series of confusion, pratfalls and just plain idiocies. I could jump in just any old place, and come up with some stupidity or other; either mine or someone who is close to me. Being homeless for eleven months just helped to enrich that craziness.

So, not very long ago, on the 15^th anniversary of my mother's death, I discovered through my own pulmonary doctor, that my own copd, which had taken her life, will not take mine. The last symptom, the scar tissue that inhibits exhalations seems to be gone, according to my pulmonary specialist. When I discovered that I had copd, I made it my mission to try and help others – as well as myself – and began going through Clinical Trials; I have been in one trial or another since 2012. To say that this is startling news, really throws shade on how important this is. In the past, the most people could hope for, was that their copd could be arrested, and if the patient had quit smoking – which I did in 2010 – there should be no worsening, although that is not always the case.

My mother had a genetic predisposition to copd, just as she did to essential tremor – although, alas, she was never diagnosed or treated for essential tremor. I just know it from consultation with my own neurologist and discussion with my aunt, who is a terrific observer of such things. Both of these traits show up on the same genetic strand of DNA. And I know this how? By reading my own medical chart. These are primarily the only true medical weaknesses we possess, lest you count the pure bat-shit insanity and pure cussedness on both sides of my family.

Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, most people who quit smoking don't get worse, but by the time my mom quit smoking it was very late in the game; she had 13% lung function. I had 43% lung function when I started my Clinical Trials, but within 2 years, it had gone up to 90%, however, I still had those damnable scars that made exhalations and true exertions very hard on me.

courtesy:youtube.com    

Well, it had dawned on me somewhere after I did Japan – read “Mr. Bean Does Japan”, after I lost my blind cane - that I didn't have that “elephant sitting on my chest” feeling at all. Me essential tremor was being a mess, but I'm generally a mess and don't pay that any mind; it won't kill me. And then, last Monday, I had a thought (and no, it didn't get lonely and leave), but I needed a hill to try out my thought.

courtesy:pinterest.com     

I had to go to my bank, which is up a small hill facing Nebraska Avenue. I went and got the rent, and then went back down the hill. Then, I ran as fast as I could – I was a runner in high school – back up the hill, and capered and danced around, chortling to myself and just having a fine time. I did this for about 20 minutes, without ever getting out of breath.

I told my “pretend adopted son” Alex about this episode and he said, “You just know someone saw you and said, there goes another Nebraska Avenue loon!” So, we had a good laugh about that.

On Wednesday night however, I pulled an even bigger stunt. I'm a restless sleeper. I always have been and it was a latent sign of my essential tremor. At least, I never sat up in bed and jacked my better 2/3s in the eye, as is the case with my mom, when she gave my dad a black eye. When he said “Ow! What did you do that for?” She was all huffy with her response: “Just be glad you're a fish! You can write on Sundays!” I'm sure untold generations will be pondering the profundity of that meaning. My dad said sleeping with me when I was tiny was like sleeping with a bulldozer. My poor dad.

Anyway, somehow, I'd gotten turned around and was sleeping with me head, where my feet should be. I woke up at some point, thirsty and was looking for my water bottle. I saw it, and reached for it-wtf????

I fell out of the bed, and landed on my head and shoulders with my feet up in the air. I lay there and laughed like a loon for about 20 minutes, feet still in the air, before I recovered enough to pull myself up and get back in the bed, with my water bottle. It is a good thing that I'm still so limber and agile, because there are times I don't have one brain cell in my head.

#ROW80 – SUNDAY CHECK IN – SMARTPHONES AND BICYCLES

Last week I got a call from my favorite 1^st violinist, ever. I kinda have to back this up a bit, to last August. I had been unable to play viola for several years, as I have essential tremor. It is an inherited condition and my mother had it. Like just about every neurological condition that is not present from birth, it took a while to sort it all out and figure out how to treat it.

In the meantime, I got to learn how not to be frustrated with buttoning things, trying to cook and eat neatly, comb my hair, or deal with putting on make up. The condition itself can manifest much like Parkinson's Disease although the etiologies for the two are completely different and the treatments are different. Besides these ever-constant tremors, I also got the “bonus symptoms” of drooling at times and loss of smell, which around here, is not so bad.

God Bless the Parkinson Foundation. They not only pay for my world-class neurologist, they are actively seeking cures for these elusive, highly misunderstood and secretive disorders.

At any rate, after I began treatment, the tremors were eased, although they never truly cease. Emotion, and stress will make them worse, and lack of sleep is a killer. It's nothing for me to snooze away 12 or 14 hours, although I really hate that and I don't always feel refreshed for it. Eight solid hours is good, but if I go six or less hours for several nights, I really feel it, and the tremors become unholy. They're not going to kill me; nothing I have is. I have a bunch of annoyances that just need managing. Most people my age do.

However, one of the things I missed and missed terribly was playing and last August, I scrunched up the courage to reach back out into the musical community and see if there wasn't still a place for me somewhere. I decided to check out the Tampa Bay Symphony as it had been the first really good group that I played with when I moved down here to Florida. I looked at their website and discovered that they were still going strong. Dr. Jack Heller, who had founded the orchestra twenty-eight years ago, had retired and the present Conductor, Mark Sforzini, has been a Tampa Bay area mainstay and most excellent musician and proponent of sharing music and bringing it to others for years.

It has actually been closer to 15 years since I've played in a symphonic environment. I've been a "free-range" violist and thus, I had to re-learn a few niceties, something our principal Cellist was happy to do when I was imitating a panzer division during the Shostakovich's 5th Symphony for Big Orchestra. We laughed after the rehearsal; it takes a while to realize that "piano" really means "piano" not "just a little less louder" like when I toured with Styx.

There were no openings for violists, and I was disappointed at first, but I noticed that they were performing Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in C minor on their first concert and I took this as a sign, because Beethoven has been a part of my life since I can't remember when, and not only for his music, but for his own tenacity during times in his life that were not easy. I could identify with him and so, I contacted the Tampa Bay Symphony and heard back from them a few days later, with an application, the audition music and choice of times to play.

Ugh. I feel about auditions the same way I feel about having the shits, throwing up and dying, but orchestras use them and they are the way of gauging an artist's nervousness, because they sure as HELL do not gauge really whether or not you can play worth a damn! That is not entirely true. A good panel can listen through all of the stress and nervousness and wrong notes and train wrecks and get some idea of what they have to work with, provided they don't have you taken out back and shot for attempting to impersonate a string player.

Every facet of my life has been seen through the prism of this man's own approach to life and his search for excellence. I, as did he, had our own falls from grace, but what, in the end does that really matter. Beethoven's absolute and unswerving integrity shone through his music and his search for perfection. If you can't attain it, you can at least strive for it; none of us are perfect.

I practiced each of the excerpts until I could play through them flawlessly in my house, knowing that this was not going to happen during the audition, and sure enough it didn't. The other factor that arose, was the wonderful “tremor factor” went into high gear because I was so nervous. However, Mark Sforzini our Music Director, heard something he liked, or else he felt bad for me, because I was shaking so badly, I could barely keep my bow on the string, because he stopped me before the audition ended and conferred with the other two committee members there, and they asked if I would join the symphony.

A huge sigh of relief. I said “yes”, of course and I was on my way. Since I am unable to drive to and from rehearsals, I had to figure out how I was going to leap my next hurdle. I found the bus schedules from Tampa to St. Pete and going there is no issue; coming home would be, as the buses stop running at 7 pm, and our rehearsals don't end until 9:30 pm. So, at the first rehearsal, a cellist and her husband drove me home, but it was hard for them to keep doing that, because she's brand new to the area and this area I live in is rough; I couldn't blame her.

Not everyone is as used to seeing the thuggery or gangsta culture out here as I am. It is possible to live among it and not get killed. Julie understands that and so do I. Our mutual cellist friend is actually from Hungary and was not used to seeing all this.

However, there was this 1^st violinist, named Julie who lives not far from me and was more than happy to have a ride-along each week, in exchange for gas money and free entertainment as a raconteur and it's worked out really well, for both of us. She's such a sunny, happy and funny individual and a superb player. She is also a 3rd-degree Black-Belt in Tae Kwon Do and she and her boyfriend own a Dojo in Ybor City, not far from where I live. She just earned her 3rd-degree this past year, when they went to an International convention in Vancouver.

So, as we've gotten to know one another, we've had lots of interesting talks, ranging in everything from music to mortality. She met Jim a few times, and was almost heart-breakingly empathetic to his pain and she was right; it was hard to watch, and I don't think that he was telling me or his doctors everything. Maybe all people do that when it is coming close to the end. I fully believe my mother was much sicker than she was letting when she died. At any rate, the best we can do as family members is be by their sides; that's what they really want.

Julie was one of the first people I talked to after Jim's death, and like me, she too, felt it was a release, not that there isn't a sense of loss, of course. We talk back and forth. I had to get a new phone, as Metro PCS was changing satellites, or cleaning them or something. Well, this has unveiled an unbelievably new low in idiocy, even for me.

All of these apps, features, gizmos, whats-ises and doo-dads. Yet, a phone call still sounds like it's being phoned in from the era of two tin cans and a string.

I've butt-dialed people who are then treated to 10 minutes of ambient noise: scratchy and boomy speakers from da 'hood, dogs barking, and random yelling. It took me me four damned weeks to get logged into Chrome or Google and now, I wish to hell I hadn't. Random things pop up on this damn phone; pet astrology, recipes, sports trivia, news from every outlet under the sun, along with games with names like “Lookithat!”, “Tanki”, “InsideOut Thought”, “Cooking Dash 2016” (there are like a JILLION cooking games, why?), and “Dragon Friends”, all of which have appeared unannounced, unasked for, and after brief fumblage, unwanted.

I was at Rose Radiology for a routine Mammogram, and my phone hollered at me, and some guy wearing a Viking Helmet started bellowing at me in Norse. I almost jumped out of my chair. I said to the room at large, as I was sitting next to this cute-as-a-button, little old lady, with a snow-white cap of downy hair, in a wheelchair, and who was at least 112, “I don't know why I got this phone, it's over here living its own life. I have no clue what it's doing and when I try to dial a number, it's the wrong number. Am I the only idiot with this problem?” She just giggled and raised her hand. “Me too. It's so silly! Mine wants me to buy Butt Enhancers!” She showed me the ad. Sure enough. I made my pal for the day. After I got rid of Viking guy, something else popped up; the weather for the tri-state area in New York. I have my own zip code programmed into this booger. Oh well.

Anyway, when I first got the phone, I thought I was looking at the camera function, but I was really calling Julie. She thought that was hilarious. She had her own horror stories to tell about smart phones and just about the apps in general, but somehow we got onto the subject of Jim's bicycles.

I may have mentioned in my last post that he had no hobbies, which is not entirely correct. When he was in better health, he did have hobbies, one of which was “going to be” fixing bicycles. This would have been great, but we never got around to the fixing part. We were just at the collecting stage. For a long time, we had five or six bicycles in the living room, and not much else. They all needed some type of help; a seat, maybe a tire, or some brakes.

A buncha bikes in Amsterdam

But, for months, we had to claw our way through this jungle-gym of metal, rubber, oily and poky things in order to get to the rest of the house. Jim's criteria for buying bicycles was a bit odd. He bought one from a guy, 'cause the guy needed help. In a pig's eye. The guy was a drunk and probably stole it from somewhere; I suspect that's the case with a couple of those bikes. He bought one that was blue, because I like blue. He was going to fix it up for me to ride. Hello! I'm legally blind! I have no depth perception and my eyes don't track. I'm pretty sure that bike-riding is not in my future. He was going to ride the red one, with his bad hip and blown-out knees. I'm laughing as I type this.

This was to be used for the equivalent of raising the dead to walk again. I love dreamers, being one myself.

Oh, it should be mentioned as well, that his entire “bicycle fix-it” kit was a tire patch kit. He had a formidable set of tools for drywall and heavier construction-type jobs, but really nothing very good for bikes. So, after a few months of climbing over all of these bicycles, I persuaded him to move them to the back of the house. Why not the back yard, you say? Because we would have been buying them back from the McDrunkleys that would have stolen them from us the previous night.

We'd both probably fall for, "Well, we found this" and buy it back. Jim did have the softest heart. He'd give the McDrunkley 15.00 for it and say, "We'll fix 'er up and sell it for 60.00." Yeah, well, all the bikes went to bike heaven, or that big scrap yard in the sky.

Once they were in the back of the house, they proceeded to multiply or something, much in the manner of wire coat-hangers. They just turned into this huge ball of metal, that was becoming more and more impenetrable by the minute and I do believe had we been able to fix them, we really couldn't have made one entire WHOLE bicycle out of this mess. I do have to tell you that Jim had fixed two of them and gave them to some children a few doors down. They came to pay their respects to Mr. Jim after he passed; it was sweet.

Well, as I was telling Julie this story about the bicycles, she was laughing harder and harder, because she recognized herself in this whole thing, as do I. She has a sewing project that is in her mother's house. She says “it's been there so long, it has become PART of the house”. Yup. I got one of those, only it's hook rugs. Back when I smoked, my mother, God rest her soul, sent me this hook rug kit.

This would look so great in the living room. She didn't send me this one.

This is beyond stupid. I can't sew, I can't knit, I can't do anything even remotely like this, but this was going to make me quit smoking cigarettes. Her rationale was, “when you feel like a smoke, do some of your hook rug”. Okay, if I feel like a smoke, why am I gonna do something I can already tell I'm gonna loathe? But, to make her feel good, I said, “yeah, Ma, I'm a workin' on that ole hook rug”. It's actually in a storage shed, or has been thrown out. Were it around, it would be about 35 years old by now. But I did quit smoking; it will be 5 years in September. Anyway, Julie is an awesome friend to have and she and I have had some meltdowns laughing. This conversation was one of those times!

My mom sent me something like this, only the lions weren't smiling. These lions are on Prozac.

PLAYING THE VIOLIN AND HOW TO AVOID IT – REDUX

courtesy of: Copyscape.com

What a riveting start to a post. A list of the post you are about to read and the places you can currently read it. All are legitimate, with the exception of "Otto Benjamin Violins, blah blah." Unless you are fluent in Cowface and Dingbat the site is unreadable, but this is how my friends, Andi Roo and Aaron Brinker brought to my attention the fact that my deathless prose had been gasp! stolen.

(IT SHOULD BE NOTED, IN THE INTEREST OF OPEN AND FAIR DISCLOSURE, THAT THE READER WILL NEVER FIND OUT HOW TO AVOID PLAYING THE VIOLIN BY READING THIS POST)

I first unleashed this little gem on an unsuspecting world back in early August of 2012, and it went on to become one of my most “popular” pieces, right up there with my “nameless guy who fell down in the Falcons' Superdome and was horrified” and “E. T. Phone Home” posts. This piece also has the erm, distinction along with a couple of other nameless pieces of being stolen and sold on a now-defunct “for-content” website. How ironical, I jestically say, as I've never earned dime one for my blatherings. There's a reason for this. I get PAID (or I used to) to play music and not for writing verbiage. Maybe I should be paid to not write verbiage; I haven't a clue as to whether I'm any good or not as a writer, I just know that from the age of fifteen, I wrote, and understood English at a post-doctoral level.

Einstein wrote his “General Theory of Relativity” and I read an English translation of it. I cannot say whether it was riveting or boring; it got the point across, but it lacked something of the elegance of his little E = MC² equation by pages and pages and so on and so forth. I think my writing is a lot like that. It's kind of hilarious to me that someone “stole” my piece and sold it, when I wouldn't have the balls to try and peddle my own jun -, er, work, yet, in solidarity to my writerly friends, and I owe them much and they depend on their writing for a living, I went the whole route of writing the “publisher” and kindly requesting they remove my piece. I kept it light and airy and the piece was removed within 24 hours. The website disappeared shortly thereafter.

I'll bet he was fun in a string quartet!

I owe what little writing talent I possess to my parents who were very well-read, and downright scholarly in their own ways. My mother held two degrees, and my father, never having graduated from high school, lied his way into the Air Force, went to the Flight Academy and flew B-29s for roughly three years in the Korean action, until he mustered out on a medical discharge, after two crash-landings. That's two whole more flights than I ever want to have endured, WITHOUT the crashing. He continued to fly, privately, as did my mother; I think they were both a pair of loons. I loathe flying. 

 

 He was the epitome of cool; he brought me home from the hospital and was my primary caregiver until I started kindergarten. He and my mom were great together, until they weren't, due to her own mental illness, but she was a star, too. My folks had the hearts of lions.

He then attended college; went year-round and graduated 3^rd in his class. Maybe there were only four students, but he was pretty bright. He did all this while caring for me, as my mom was working three jobs. To keep me quiet, he played a combination of Glenn Miller, Beethoven, Richard Strauss, Tchaikovsky, Tommy Dorsey and Debussy on the Hi-Fi, but not all at once, so he could do his homework. I was a preemie and tended to be fussy. Music was the perfect panacea and the only thing I ever loved deeply and passionately. I love working with computers, but that is more about problem-solving and it kind of sucks as performance art; no one is going to pay for an evening of watching me code, or resolve a system issue caused by the r.schmitt trojan virus. Boring stuff.

My Ma was no slouch in the brains department, either. While working on her second degree, a B.S. in Psychology, she was programming in Fortran, a machine language hardly anyone uses. I found her books, after her death. Since she was taking no classes, she was either plotting a takeover of the world, or writing games for her own enjoyment. I would bet the former.

I went to college on scholarship, and was a lazy student, due to having perfect pitch. But, I have since learned that without music in my life, my life had lost it's anchor. To make this short and sweet, I was diagnosed with essential tremor, after having exhibited symptoms for years and harboring latent symptoms for decades. I finally had to stop playing altogether. This is a condition much like Parkinson's Disease, without the heavy medications; call it “Parkinson's Lite” if you like, but it can be every bit as horrible as Parkinson's, with core tremors and psychosis. I have all the inherent symptoms; tremors, drooling, no sense of smell, I stagger, occasionally and stutter when excited. It also has deep psychological components and at times those were ruinous. But, I found an awesome, awesome neurologist, who found a good medication that mitigates the core tremor and has allowed me to resume my mostly abnormal, life.

Me, the sole offspring of the two pilots above, on the left, with a touring buddy and my partner in crime, "Wolf", a superb viola made only ten years after the death of Beethoven in 1827. I'm happy, because I'm NOT playing the violin!

In fact, I have started playing AGAIN, and have auditioned and am playing in the Tampa Bay Symphony, a group I started with 20 years ago, when I first moved to Tampa. So, I'm currently practicing up a storm, and participating in some clinical trials that I hope helps people farther on down the road. The Parkinson's Foundation has been very, very good to me and I am fortunate indeed to have found them. But that is not what this post is about. It's about playing the violin. Now, that I'm back in the harness, I have to say once again, it is to be avoided; at all costs.

Ring ring!

Me: "Hello!"

Manager: "Hey, Mary. Are you doing anything the week of November 20th to the 25th?"

Me: "Well, let me check my calendar." Sound of pages flapping in the breeze. "Hmm, nothing but the “Merry Parade of Turkeys” and “Turkeys, We Got Your Turkeys Right Here with Skitch Henderson Sound Alikes." At this time, I am living in Charlotte, North Carolina. I am also still playing in Tampa and pretty much driving all over the south. I am also exclusively playing the viola.

Manager: "So, you have open time?"

Me: "Yes." To my everlasting regret, I said, "Yes."

Manager: "Great! I need a violinist for..."

I didn't hear the rest. I was in shock. I told people for years that I didn't play the violin. I never played the violin. I hadn't played the violin since I was sixteen, and here I was at 45. I play AT the violin. I still don't play the violin. I hate the screechy little suckers. They're all under your chin being little and screamy. What the hell is that? I just hate it. The only reason I started to "play" the sons of bitches is because I got sucker punched and caught unawares. I didn't even own a violin for years. I refused to buy one. I rented one for years and a student model at that. I figured since I didn't play the bastard, I wasn't going to be pretentious about it and get some big, souped-up Lamborghini violin or something. I have a Lamborghini viola. I rented a violin with steel tuners, tin strings, and tape on the finger board which I never, ever, ever allowed any of my students to use. That pussy Suziki shit with tape is beyond horrible. If you can't use hand-framing and play by ear, like the God Galamian intended, burn that hunk of wood. You don't deserve to call yourself a non-fretted string player.

courtesy of: collectibleviolins.com

Aargh! No, it's not "Talk Like a Pirate Day!" Those tapes! When you shift positions, the intervals change! It's impossible to develop your "ear" assuming you have one to begin with, if you're using tape as a "guideline" Fluidity counts. Not everyone is meant to play non-fretted instruments; those folks need to stick to "Guitar Hero!"

So, I'd rent these god-awful violins with tin strings and "play" in these violin sections, in the hopes that people would get the hint and quit hiring me to "play" the goddamned violin. I'd play loud. Real loud and shrieky, when the music asked for piano. I'd ask my managers shit like, "why the hell are you hiring me to play the violin? Did every other violinist in Tampa die/migrate/go on vacation?" They still hired me. I tried drinking my way through rehearsals and that didn't work, because everyone else was out smoking blunts during the breaks; they couldn't tell stoned from drunk.

People thought I was a good violin player; I guess because I didn't give a damn and was reckless; I was the Nic Cage of violinists raging around on my rented violins. I started ending up in first violin sections, so it got exponentially suckier. You know what really, really sucks? Playing Mozart on the violin. I hate Mozart. I hate Mozart, MORE than I hate the violin, if such a thing were possible. Because Mozart's a pussy. He gets right up to an idea and says “never mind” and plays mezzo-forte, before limping off into the 600^th pianissimo iteration of the same shit he wrote over and over and over and over. Yes sir, there is Hell in a barrel right there. Eighteen ledger lines above the staff and I'm playing "guess the note." I can't even read that shit. It's in soprano clef. I normally read the viola clef. Okay, I read soprano clef just fine, but when you're up towards the direction of the sun, weirdness starts to happen, physically. Purple becomes yellow. CRYSTAL-BLUE PERSUASION! Mountains walk. Cats do algebra. The horn section is being played by The California Raisins. I look down, unsurprised to find that the stage has turned to lava, when I hit some of those harmonics. My stand partner's hair catches fire. God knows my ears are still ringing.

I was laughing about it though, when I thought about all the variations and different types of gigs and positions I've held. I played with Styx and I can't remember how this came up, but it is also the same with a Johnny Mathis tune; one of his “Brazilian” set. "Sail Away" which is so lovely, is an absolute bitch to play. It consists of 64th notes, practically in its entirety. Denis Deyoung's father was part of the OSS in WWII and was one of the first to reach Paris, with the Allies. You can hear the Chopin and Debussy in Styx's music. An interesting little bit of trivia along with the silly today. There, aren't you edified?

Styx's music is challenging and we had a lot of fun playing it. But, one of the things that does happen with playing that type of music, is you lose the edge on your heftier musical "chops" as we call them. We were touring pretty extensively at the time with Styx and "Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto" -ing all over the place and having a hell of a lot of fun. In the midst of this tour, we had a layover and and my trio, myself, a violinist and cellist, picked up this "fun" gig and none of us were exactly slouches. Being the, uh, "professionals" that we were supposed to be, we show up for this luncheon or whatever the hell it was to provide "background" music and proceed to play trios, for a couple of hours. I just grabbed a bunch of my trio music and off we went.

Beethoven is my muse; he's always been in my life. I auditioned on his 5th Symphony and won it. I am a rock-and-roll violist!

Now, it is axiomatic that the fewer instruments you have, the more difficult the music is going to be, especially if you are going to play, oh say, Beethoven. If we were going to play, Johnny Mercer, we might have stood a chance, or maybe, some Beatles transcriptions, but Beethoven? It was... interesting. I have played all of his String Quartets. They rock. His Trio in C Minor rocks. It also requires lots and lots and lots of practice. Playing Styx's "Mr. Roboto" for 18 weeks straight does not constitute practicing Beethoven's trio. We all learned a valuable lesson that day; leave the Beethoven at home, if you haven't looked at it in the last, say, week or so. Thank god the Luncheon guests were drunk.

DEPRESSION - SOME PEOPLE JUST DON'T "GET IT"

Israel Robledo

(Reprinted from ParkinsonsOutreach.wordpress.com)

"Having seen the news articles today about Robin Williams’ Parkinson’s Disease diagnosis, this post from May 2013 is intended to share that not all that hear the news will understand the serious nature of what those of us whom deal with depression and Parkinson’s Disease have to endure. As a result of the untimely death of Robin Williams, we have been afforded an opportunity to raise awareness to a higher level and educate others to the greatest extent possible.

Some people don't have a clue what living with depression is about and just don't "get it". These are the most difficult type of people to convince that depression is real because these are the same people that don't "get it". It took me a while to realize this when, a few years ago, I asked a co-worker what she did to cope with states of depression or "down" days. She responded that she never got depressed. So much of my time had been spent on trying to figure out what I was doing wrong in dealing with depression, and all the while I had not realized that not everyone was affected by depression.

I have come to the conclusion that depression for me is not something to be embarrassed about. A mental illness is an illness nonetheless, and it is something that needs to be dealt with, attention brought to it, and encouraging people whose lives are affected to seek help to make their lives more bearable, which leads to a better quality of life. I've said that I've dealt with the symptoms of depression for more than half of my life. I tried convincing myself that it was something that all people went through. I tried counseling, that for me was a waste of time and money when I kept being told that I shouldn't feel that way and that there was more to look forward to in life. I tried different combinations of medications (prescribed by a family physician) for depression that seemed to make the condition worse.

The break-through for me, came from having dealt with depression in spite of having a Parkinson's Disease diagnosis, and being depressed as a result of having Parkinson's Disease. For many years, Parkinson's Disease has been known as a movement disorder. It has only been brought about in the last few years that it also has non-motor symptoms associated with it that had been dismissed sometimes flippantly as "it's all in your head", or "you're too young to have Parkinson's Disease, so you must be making these symptoms up'. As most of the people that you meet whom live with Parkinson's Disease, and those also affected by depression, what causes the symptoms may be part of the neurological system that includes the brain, but it is definitely not something that we sit around and conjure up just to make our lives miserable.

My movement disorders specialist, by virtue of having listened to the issues that I was dealing with, aside from the motor symptoms of Parkinson's Disease, recommended as part of my treatment regimen, an anti-depressive, that thankfully allowed for relief from the symptoms of depression. I see it as finally being able to step on solid ground, with a fighting chance of having a good quality of life, and knowing that things can get better.


What frightens me is that there are many people living with the symptoms of depression that don't know where to turn for help. If this post helps someone to realize that living with depression is not something to be embarrassed about and that it is possible to get relief from the symptoms, then sharing my journey will not have been in vain."

I linked back to Israel's original post and posted it here, because it cannot be stated enough: Depression Kills. Pure and simple, and when coupled with a diagnosis of some type of movement disorder (my particular brand of hell is called essential tremor, e. t. or "Parkinson's Lite" all the symptoms, only half the meds) the effect is all the more devastating for the simple fact that where you once had one battle that sucked, you now have two, and they REALLY suck. Probably the thing that bothers me the least is the fact that I am legally blind; no biggie.

But, as to depression and movement disorder, you are talking about two things that are just overwhelmingly hard to deal with. As Israel so rightly points out, you spend years of hearing idiot doctors say "it's all in your head" or supposedly well-meaning friends tell you to "pull yourself up by your bootstraps". In my case, this advice led to some near-homicidal behavior on my part, because I know it's all horseshit. The doctor was one of these guys who had one foot out the door on his way to retirement, and when he tried to blame my condition and my description of my symptoms on my bipolar diagnosis (which was new) I looked at him and said, "But, I had these symptoms BEFORE I was diagnosed!" to which he had no answers and no more straws at which to clutch. The primary concern for him, was that I was on Medicaid, and I would have to wait another entire year for Medicare, although I already had my full Disability, in a record 5 months time. 

To my one jackass roomie, who tried to tell my other roomie in the homeless shelter that she needed to "pull herself up by her bootstraps", it took two men to keep me from throwing her off the porch. So reminiscent of what I had heard from my own mother, although she herself suffered from depression and tried to commit suicide when I was seven years old, it brought a white-hot rage at the unfairness of such a statement. My poor mother, caught in the grips of a suicidal depression and a bleakness that was unfathomable at times, naturally took it out on me, the only child. But, her childhood was far worse. One of the wisest decisions I ever made was to NEVER have children and I can enjoy my friends' kids and now, grandkids.

But, this is about a man who was loved and adored by millions. What I find so striking and in hindsight, seems so apparent, but isn't it always, is this: Robin Williams comedy always had a tinge of the desperate to me. He WANTED and NEEDED to be liked so badly, and tried so hard. What seemed so effortless to some, seemed frantic to me and this is no criticism; it is an observation. God knows, I've had my share of neediness, and it's not worth a shit. I got waaay over that with husband number three, the God-Forsaken William Nunnally, philanderer extraordinaire. What a poseur and phony. 

But I am mentally ill; make no mistake about it. I tell everyone. I have seen God in an ice cube, licked the windows and tried to sleep in the fridge, during a psychotic break, after no sleep, because my Daddy died in his sleep. The fact that he died in 1987 and the psychotic break occurred in 2012, some 25 years earlier, makes no damn sense whatsoever, but there you are. I lost time, and spent a March I don't remember (Mental Awareness Month!) in the hospital. When I came to, the first thing the doctor asked me what I was trying to do. I wasn't entirely sure, but it wasn't trying to kill myself. I was trying to keep from NOT dying. . . or something. He lifted the Baker Act, which he declared the shortest in history, and turned me loose three days later.

I manage the SHIT out of my disease and my e. t., but I can pull the crazy card, when needed, since I live in an area where Batshit Street and Dumb Avenue intersect. We had the great good fortune of having the stupid guy who was a pain in the ass in the Family Dollar Store, become a pain in the ass to one whole city block, two blocks south, a week or so ago. Somehow, word got out that "he had guns or something, and a girl or something" and this part of town, being this part of town, the next thing you know, the Tampa Police Department show up, with what looked like fifty SWAT teams, and evacuated all of the block on 18th Avenue. So, no one could go to church, or the diner, or whatever the hell they do on Sunday mornings. 

Anyway, seven and a half hours later, they figured out with infra-red, or something; maybe a crystal ball, that there was only one individual in the house, so three or ten of the SWAT teams kicked the door in and cleared the rooms. They found the culprit, hiding in a back bedroom, curled up under one of the beds. I guess his Hogwart's Cloak of Invisibility had worn off, or the warranty was no good. Honestly, did this igmo think that once the TPD hauls out the heavy artillery, they're just gonna go away?

I bring this up, because I am in a Clinical Trial and occasionally I have to leave at around 6:15 am and catch the bus, to go downtown to get another bus to go to Armenia Avenue, where the Clinic is. It's usually calm and quiet, but a few mornings ago, I was standing there in my armor, with my cane and backpack, dark glasses on. Here comes Otis, or Ice, or whoever, after being up all night, pants dragging around his ass, and he starts in "Dey bitches took all mah money and cigs, now I don't usually ask, but" -- I hold my hand up. "Stop right there. I am not giving you any money and I don't smoke." So, Otis/Ice/whoever starts again. I hold up my hand and repeat myself, a little stronger this time. Take number three, "Dey bitches--" I explode "WHAT FUCKIN' PART OF I'M NOT GIVIN' YOU ANY FUCKIN' MONEY AND I DON'T FUCKIN' SMOKE, YOU FUCKIN' FUCK!?" Dude left the scene like his ass was on fire. I do not hesitate and if they want to get physical, I can do that to. Living on the streets and mental illness will do that to you.

Aside from that, I have to say that we are here for each other. I have a network of friends online, and in real life who suffer debilitating depression. I have been depressed this summer, but it's situational and personal, and mainly the reason I have not been writing. Like Stephen Frye, the sun will come out again, that I know. It's not over for me at all and my health is good. My life is not at all what I imagined it would be, but it's a rich and full life. I'm not a failure, and people respect me and what I "do" although sometimes I'm not even sure I know what I do. I still fix computers from home and help my neighbors. I even have an audition coming up, which I never expected. Trying to play with e. t. is a bit challenging. I have to play when I'm on those meds.

But, for someone like Robin Williams, who was so very gifted and so loved to have taken his life is such a goddamned shame and unconscionable. People still treat mental illness as if it were something shameful and it's not. It's a cold, hard reality and it's a lying bitch. If you listen to her long enough, you'll buy into her lies. I choose not to, because I scream, shout, yell it from the rooftops and from the mountains: I am MENTALLY ILL! But it's not who I am.

I want to give a very special thank you to the Parkinson's Foundation and to the Byrd Center at USF. They are one of the Parkinson's Centers of Excellence and they have provided me with the most AWESOME neurologist in the world and the finest of treatment, which my Medicare does NOT COVER AT ALL. Although I have e. t., it is said 1 in 4 people with e. t., go on to develop Parkinson's Disease. This is not a death sentence. It is a life sentence. We live every day in this moment; it is all we have. Don't waste it!

#ROW80 3RDTQR - POST4 – A LIFE OF MYSTERY...

(I don't usually as this, but there is a neat payoff at the end; John Williams' Suite to CE3K. No skipping allowed.) Well, it being Tuesday, which is a really prosaic day, here I am with my usual bag of what ifs, what the hells, confuse-a-whats and general mysteries. I saw my neurologists yesterday, and no, I repeat, NO Parkinson's Disease! Yay! Between my awesome Doctor and I, we think we have what is a diagnosis, but we really aren't even too sure about what, just no PD. How many times has anyone with a neurological whatsis heard this story. Raise hands. 1...2...3...4,5...175...283... You get the drift.

Okay, I said "hands." Not "wings".... or "fangs" And if this is some side-effect of a drug that includes sightings of the dead and cloven hooves, I ain't takin' that either.

I think what I've gotten out of this is that I have something that acts every bit as douchey as Parkinson's Disease, but as I started reading up on my list of medications, I quickly realized that those damned meds PD would kill me a hell of a lot quicker if I don't have PD, so, the beans in my bean say “no” for now “Eeny Meeny, Jelly Beanie, the spirits are about to speak...” says Bullwinkle the Moose. For now, I want them to remain friendly. As the ETs trample through my bedroom twice a week, it's best to remain on their good side. Actually, they stand and stare at me in awe, as I slumber. The little ones get impatient and wake me up. This is a no-shit story and has been going on for months. Now, they're bringing friends, but only when SETI@home isn't running. SAT (practically important!) and Cambridge Cosmology can be running, but not SETI@home. Odd that.

This is the "family." They've been bringing friends. They luminesce and actually give the room a soft glow. They don't huddle up as they used to. One sat in my blogging chair during the last visit. I know I sound like a complete loon. Hey, I'm just the messenger. Or am I? I left out a plate of tangerine pieces in a perfect circle. They went undisturbed for a few nights. One morning, I awoke and the pieces were all disarranged.

Anyway, a little more batshit uncertainty won't make a bit of difference in this house. Reading up on ET vs. PD, we find these differences:

I put red checks beside the symptoms that mimic PD as well as ET, My left side being my stronger side, for some reason has tremors worse on that side, so go figure. I quit drinking, and am on psych meds, so will not be drinking anytime soon. We shall see if the Primidone helps. I have heard that in some cases, levodopa can do more harm to a person who DOES not have PD. I also have almost no symptoms in my legs at all. And I'm as strong as an ox, even with tremors. 

This list shows primary symptoms, and of course, I have had secondary symptoms for years. Working with the brain and the emotional fallout from anything that upsets the brain and physical equilibrium is very much like “Maxwell's Demon.” Impossible to find a tipping point and impossible to find that one blessedly simple thing that will calm, or at least lessen the symptoms.

So, we are trying popanalol, which is a sedative, but we're trying it in an interesting way; ¼ tab a week, at bedtime, then ½ a tab at week, at bedtime, ¾ tab for a week, 1 a week, 1 and ½ for a week, to the full dose of 2 tabs at bedtime. I have been told this will slow me down (ick) and may not work at all, as the Topamax I am currently taking should lessen my tremors if it were truly ET, but it makes them worse, so now we're playing “Wizards 101” here.

However, in all fairness, this is the best combination. All other solutions include beta blockers, which I dare not take, as I have CHF and asthma; this will also slow my heart rate. I quit smoking 3 years ago. My health is generally very good, so I am not concerned. I just get to be a petrie dish for a while. Yay me!

So, on the what-passes-for-normal front here on Nebraska, 33602, the new laundromat is open, so we no longer have to pool our resources and cab our laundry with 3 or 4 people to the other laundry. That was getting old and stupid. Besides, now I don't have to see those people who witnessed me getting my head stuck between the dryer door and the wall. I know I looked like el retardo, but hey, I was fittin' in, big time! Now that Ray is on a year's probation and has a restraining order from this part of the 'hood, well, we did our jobs. He won't last a year; he's too hooked on crack and meth to keep himself straight. One surprise piss test and he has to serve his full sentence. He's an habitual criminal anyway; whatever the FBI thought they were going to get from him, they were wrong, he's a horrible CI (Crime Informant) and it didn't take them long to figure that out and put all of his criminal charges back on the table. That's when we went to work and helped Mr. Wallace (no relation) so he could testify in court.

Ray Martineau

In a 'hood known for douchebags, here is the king of them all. He got mad at 6 of us one night because we couldn't cobble up 40 cents between us. Well it was OUR 40 cents to choose to use as we saw fit and I wasn't giving Ray a dime. No one else was, either. 

Ray knows what I did, with the Indigogo project but I let it be known that if I or any of my loved ones or friends, or our pets got hit by lightning, hangnails, or were hit by cars, the cops would be at Ray's door. It's the “Godfather” defense; and works well.

The second one is so much better, you see her face and she has such a beautiful face!

Unfortunately, you hear more of my caterwauling. 

I have some horrible new cat videos to share, with my horrible singing with my horrible ET voice. It only makes sense that I have ET which I dub thee, Essential Tremor, henceforth. ET, I finally figured out who those critters are that are stampeding through my bedroom at night. They're blood kin, my family. Welcome, from another ET!

#ROW80 1ST QTR POST 18 – PARKINSON’S DISEASE OR NON-PARKINSON’S DISEASE, OR WHATEVER NOMENCLATURE YOU WANT TO GIVE IT, IS FLAT OUT A BITCH

I’ve been keeping my chin up about this. I’ve been on the sunny side of the street and I’ve been being nice to everyone who deserves being nice to, but oh, sweet Jesus, if you haven’t been nice, I have been the wrath of God and then some. My already vituperative, waspish and extremely verbally-crossing-over-to-the physical side has been sorely tempted. I’ve worked damned hard to not give in. Yeah, I know I'm bipolar. Yeah, I know I have Asperger. I piss most people off, so what. 

I am just so damned tired of being on the verge of crying. Not once in a while. Not just at the sad parts. All the damned time. What the hell is this? I don’t really think that the fact that 3 Blind Mice were running around London during the Restoration is cause for tears, but there you have it. And if I do start crying, Holy Mother of God! My tremors and all of that other bullshit gets worse! What the Hell?

I'm not gonna cry over a bunch of damned blind mice 

Is this some new facet of PD blah blah blah of which I’m unaware, like with the twitching underside of just my tongue, which I still get, or is this part of some other weird condition? I suspect it’s my PD blah blah blah, because I had this briefly when I first manifested overt PD blah blah blah symptoms. But still, how ridic, you know? I like the laughing part better.

Last night I almost busted my spleen over this cat who was working as an Elmo character. I guess he got cranky towards the end of his shift, because he started running around telling people he "worked for John Gotti." The jokers on The Smoking Gun said “today’s episode of Sesame Street is brought to you by the letters “W,” “T,” and “F.” That’s way better than blubbering over 3 Blind Mice.

Who knew Elmo was a made guy in the Gambino family?

Honestly, this PD blah blah blah is like the joke from God. I can understand the losing shit and putting the paper towels in the refrigerator and following myself on my blog, and flinging food around the kitchen. The legal blindness just makes it extra-special. I insist on trying to wear make-up because I look like a walking, talking onion with out it, so I put it on and tend to wander around with some interesting effects. Actually, I put it on between tremors and have always worn it lightly.

My hair is what it’s always been, a mess, so no changes there. Clothes, the same. But for god’s sake the one thing I can’t do is take stuff out of the oven, or put it in if it’s hot. I burnt myself twice in one week on the synovial side of my hand. The carpal side hollered as if it had been burnt. I can deal with all of that, and the weird twitches, tics, pain, ear hooting, sundowning and all of the other crap. I can deal with all of it, but one thing.

I cannot deal with the crying. If it's this pseudobulbar affect I've heard affects people with PD blah blah blah, I'm going to have to learn to deal with it. some how. I hate crying; I couldn’t when I was a kid, because my mother wouldn’t let me. It was a sign of weakness. So, here I am, fighting this stupid fucked-up autonomic response to I know not what and I won’t let myself do it. No wonder I’m bipolar. No wonder I never played well with others. 

No wonder I have no self-esteem and just feel horrible. I realize that that is probably not true, but our minds work with our rotten little demons and tell us this shit and make us feel more unworthy, if such a thing is possible. Trying to work through this is hard. It’s almost a year since I was Baker Acted. I know anniversaries cast their own spells and I’m wondering if a little visit back to the Laughing Academy isn’t in order. But I hate the thought of doing all of that and JC hasn’t been well, either. So, we shall see. I feel better just talking about this; sometimes, that’s all it takes.