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 3RD QTR WEDNESDAY CHECK-IN - "PRELUDE" 1ST DRAFT - "MUSIC OF THE SPHERES"

PRELUDE

Music of the Spheres. . . well. I had to call it something. Music has always been a part of my life and is something that I used as a conduit to another place. I hear that a lot and I get that; stuff about how one is "transported," or "forgets their problems," and it's a lot of bullshit. Maybe it is so for other people, but I'm not talking about that kind of transportation. I'm a musician and was born one. Something that I just knew, like a lot of stuff we just know, in an unconscious, visceral way, although when I knew it, I was too young to articulate all of that. It's an atavistic knowing, like an animal knows it must migrate along with its fellow beings. It can either be a blessing or a goddamned werewolf, or both, but it has to be answered and lived up to, even when life has other ideas. Even when you're mentally ill, like Bederich Smetana and so many other composers and players and you're not always sure you have anything like a half-assed grasp on reality, because you've seen and felt and done and experienced things that you know are true, even if the rest of the world remains either unconvinced, or worse yet, clueless, because it takes insight, guts, heart and the willingness to step off of that cliff, knowing that a convergence of faith and scientific knowledge will see you through, to do what is absolutely the right thing. Both morally and universally and I mean that both literally and figuratively. If you stick with me and have some patience, as I de-construct my tale, I promise you, it will be worth it.

The philosopher, Frederic Nietzsche once said, or is said to have said, or maybe thought it—I tend to get fuzzy on details, although the larger picture is accurate—that "Life without music would be a mistake". I absolutely believe that to be true, and not in an "oops" kind of way, but in a cataclysmic destroyer-of-worlds-Shiva kind of way. And it's not only because I yearn, cry and laugh when I hear music, but I also mourn, feel pain, rage, and dread. In short, the entire panoply of human emotions are writ large, in music, and I along with a majority of the human race get that. If you don't believe me, just listen to Beethoven's 3rd Symphony.

It is every emotion I just mentioned, plus a smattering of syncopation, that sounds suspiciously jazzy. When other artists in other disciplines are asked what they consider they highest form of art to be, it is natural that musicians say "music is the highest form of expression of the arts," but then, someone like Nic Cage comes along and says the very same thing. This from a man who can do and become literally anything on film. That is high praise for an art, indeed. I recognize and understand what he is saying, because I turn the analogy on it's head this way: Boxing is the highest form of sport and sportsmanship, because of its artistry and brutality; it is truly the Sweet Science.

In no other sport is there the complexity of thought, physicality, rhythm, discipline, harmony and timing. I have run into other musicians at boxing matches and it's noteworthy that at first we're surprised, embarrassed to be caught out, and then. . . not so much. Because we all recognize the same thing in the fighters. So, I understood Nic Cage when I first started watching his movies; my fascination with him lay not in his acting, but in his performance as an artist. I think at one time, we all shared that fascination with creating music and the inherent instincts or feelings that have been there from birth, not just as babies, but as a civilization, remain and will never become vestigial.

Tchaikovsky is one of the hardest of composers for me to listen to when I am in a depressed state. Black unto black, I could not listen at all to his 6th symphony for almost a year after my father died. The last movement of that piece, written not long before his death is completely without hope. What a horrible, horrible emotion to experience, and even more terrible for the fact that he was able to articulate it so thoroughly through his composing, and understood his own pain. It is monumental in it's suffering and truly beautiful, but if you're having a bad day, month, year, or decade, it's best to avoid his 6th Symphony; the beautiful third movement waltz in 5/4 time and all. Skip the whole thing and go zone out to that famous bubble-gum composer's greatest hits: Mozart. Ick.

But, if it took Tchaikovsky to break my heart, it took Mahler to steal it away and then, lose it in a way I could never retrieve it. Not because of the dark magic and nature of his music, but because he shows such a human side and such a hopeful one, in the face of withering and horrible circumstances. He, being a Bohemian composer, has the odd, folk-music way of playing what seems to be happy-go-lucky tunes in a Major key, while underlying all, is a minor underpinning. Mahler "got it" through his music, which is so human and heartfelt as to be terrifying, but not in his life, which is far different than Pyotr Tchaikovsky, and all the more tragic for his not knowing, or understanding how black his life would become.

Married to the beautiful Alma, he forebore her infidelities, and was to have said, just 2 weeks before his death, from myocarditis, at age 51, "Ah, Alma, we will live forever!" In his 1st symphony, he has a funeral march, that is of an animal, buried by animals, they periodically break out into the hellishness of a gypsy-klezmer group gone completely off the rails, before once again regaining their composure and fall back into their dirge-like procession, as they bear the corpse to it's final repose. The music seems to ask at the end, "Can I not linger, just a while longer? I'm having such a good time. . .” These are my impressions, my feelings; that's another great thing about music. Although we're hard-wired to accept basic fundamentals as fact, say, Major versus minor keys, music is entirely subjective. Musicology bedamned; I am sure Musicologists imparted some greater meaning to that passage, but I hear a simple plea to hang around for a bit more of the fun.

I got more out of Music History for time and place, than I did in Music Theory for ear-training (I have perfect pitch, and thus, am lazy, so I did a lot of coasting in music school) and why humans are drawn to certain tones; we all “agree” on the basic language. Interesting enough and if this be true, and I believe it to be so, what else is drawn to these tones; these chords. Because I do not for one second believe that we are the only sentient beings in the universe. You see, the universe has a tone, a note, a key, if you will. A note that we all contribute to. Some say it's E flat, some say F or F sharp. I think it's all of those and more, because the universe is ever-changing and is not an entropic thing. In a way it's like the "you'll change history if you go back in time and step on a butterfly," but not really, Because we change courses everyday, just as we change our note. It is a sonic, universal symphony.

Victor Hugo referred to it in his masterpiece “Hunchback of Notre Dame”, in his description of Easter or Pentecost in Paris in the fifteenth century:

“. . . beneath the rising sun of Easter or of Pentecost--climb upon some elevated point, whence you command the entire capital; and be present at the wakening of the chimes. Behold, at a signal given from heaven, for it is the sun which gives it, all those churches quiver simultaneously. First come scattered strokes, running from one church to another, as when musicians give warning that they are about to begin. Then, all at once, behold!--for it seems at times, as though the ear also possessed a sight of its own,--behold, rising from each bell tower, something like a column of sound, a cloud of harmony. First, the vibration of each bell mounts straight upwards, pure and, so to speak, isolated from the others, into the splendid morning sky; then, little by little, as they swell they melt together, mingle, are lost in each other, and amalgamate in a magnificent concert. It is no longer anything but a mass of sonorous vibrations incessantly sent forth from the numerous belfries; floats, undulates, bounds, whirls over the city, and prolongs far beyond the horizon the deafening circle of its oscillations.

Nevertheless, this sea of harmony is not a chaos; great and profound as it is, it has not lost its transparency; you behold the windings of each group of notes which escapes from the belfries. You can follow the dialogue, by turns grave and shrill, of the treble and the bass; you can see the octaves leap from one tower to another; you watch them spring forth, winged, light, and whistling, from the silver bell, to fall, broken and limping from the bell of wood; you admire in their midst the rich gamut which incessantly ascends and re-ascends the seven bells of Saint-Eustache; you see light and rapid notes running across it, executing three or four luminous zigzags, and vanishing like flashes of lightning. Yonder is the Abbey of Saint-Martin, a shrill, cracked singer; here the gruff and gloomy voice of the Bastille; at the other end, the great tower of the Louvre, with its bass. The royal chime of the palace scatters on all sides, and without relaxation, resplendent trills, upon which fall, at regular intervals, the heavy strokes from the belfry of Notre-Dame, which makes them sparkle like the anvil under the hammer. At intervals you behold the passage of sounds of all forms which come from the triple peal of Saint-Germaine des Prés. Then, again, from time to time, this mass of sublime noises opens and gives passage to the beats of the Ave Maria, which bursts forth and sparkles like an aigrette of stars. Below, in the very depths of the concert, you confusedly distinguish the interior chanting of the churches, which exhales through the vibrating pores of their vaulted roofs.”

I sure as HELL am no Victor Hugo, but then, I'm no Jascha Heifetz and I got along just swell on the viola; maybe I can pull off the same trick in telling my story. I used to scuba-dive off the coast of California in Monterey. Too young and stupid to know better, I and a cohort dove off the pier and went towards the edge of the Continental Shelf. The Continental Shelf is defined as "a submerged border of a continent that slopes gradually and extends to a point of steeper descent to the ocean bottom". The gradual sloping part varies, however, and we knew the particular spot where the drop was precipitous and sharp. The Pacific Ocean is cold and we were both wearing full wet suits.

After clawing our way through the kelp beds and swimming off shore for a while, the water rapidly deepened, as the drop-off of the shelf came up swiftly. The water there is inky black, and seems almost viscous. We slowed as we approached and held our breaths. As I recall, we were down about 60 or 70 feet; this would not be a decompression dive. When we stuck our heads out over the shelf and took a peek, the water, no, the space, was so much blacker; stygian, more viscous-like; almost gelatinous, inky and beyond cold. So very cold, that the contrast between the warmth of my wet suit and the upwelling water was instantly felt, but the thing I remember most as we hung our heads out over this. . . thing that seemed almost alive, and, that we later found out was the sea bed, that went from 60 or 70 feet to over 2000 feet or more, was the sound it made.

The Continental Shelf makes a sound, much like the sound you hear when you put your ear up to a garden hose and listen, when the water isn't running. It's a hollow, spooky sound. It thrums and changes and seems to echo and it's all around you. You can feel it in your bones, your ears; your heart. It is deep; probably too deep a note for the human ear to discern, were one on land, but here, you are submerged in it. Not in the heart of it, but more near the top. I remember thinking that to be at the heart of this great sound would be eerie indeed, and I might not survive such an encounter. It was terrible and gorgeous in its significance and weight. It too, has its own note and changes in pitch and frequency, I am sure, with the changing of the tides, seasons and pollution and man-made structures that come and go over the centuries. Now, apply that to the universe. That, my friends, is the "Music of the Spheres".

This is the first draft of the prologue to my novel I wrote for #NaNoWriMo in 2013. Any constructive criticism would be much appreciated, since I have never done anything like this before. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

SOULLESS "COVER REVEAL" by CRYSTAL COLLIER!

I love doing these cover reveals and interviews for my favorite authors and all-around wonderful friends that I've met in the two-plus years that I have been blogging. As a rule, you all are a generous bunch and fun to be around and last April, when we were doing the A-to-Z Challenge, I had the great good fortune to run into several new and zany friends! As is my wont, I offered my website as a place for you and this is a standing rule, to do cover reveals, host interviews with your characters, allow me to ask you questions; in short, anything that will help you sell an extra book or three. I enjoy doing this and I always find new things to read. So! With that in mind, today, we're hosting the COVER REVEAL of Crystal Collier's new book, "Soulless". This looks like a marvelous book and Crystal is a marvelous lady, who loves cheese. We bonded immediately when I found this out during an A-to-Z chat. Anyway, with no further verbiage, here is Ms. Collier's COVER REVEAL!

Have you met the Soulless and Passionate? In the world of 1770 where supernatural beings mix with humanity, Alexia is playing a deadly game.

SOULLESS, Book 2 in the Maiden of Time trilogy

Alexia manipulated time to save the man of her dreams, and lost her best friend to red-eyed wraiths. Still grieving, she struggles to reconcile her loss with what was gained: her impending marriage. But when her wedding is destroyed by the Soulless—who then steal the only protection her people have—she's forced to unleash her true power.

And risk losing everything.

What people are saying about this series: 

"With a completely unique plot that keeps you guessing and interested, it brings you close to the characters, sympathizing with them and understanding their trials and tribulations." --SC, Amazon reviewer

"It's clean, classy and supernaturally packed with suspense, longing, intrigue and magic." --Jill Jennings, TX

"SWOON." --Sherlyn, Mermaid with a Book Reviewer

Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, three littles, and “friend†(a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her blog and Facebook, or follow her on Twitter.

COMING October 13, 2014

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