Godammit, I’m Mad!

Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading The Story of the Lesbian Stick.

~

* Heartfelt atheist blessings to all you people who come here and especially you special ones who have given me so much. xo

I’ve learned that doctors are trying to develop a predictive tool that could warn of a patient’s risk of suicide.

“We can identify those individuals with highest risk for potential suicide, but we can’t identify those who will commit suicide in the near future. In part, this is because the duration between the suicidal thought and attempt is usually only about 10 minutes,” said Dr. Igor Galynker, MD, PhD.

Suicide risk factors include psychiatric disorders, chronic physical illness, suicidal ideation, a history of suicide attempts, and poor social supports.

Galynker contends that the suicidal act itself is not a thinking process. Rather, it is an affective state.

In their clinical work, Galynker’s team has identified repeated themes. These include fear of entrapment and distorted and confused thinking. They also identified a distinct psychopathologic state or syndrome related to panic and psychosis.

Galynker and his coauthors describe the state as being “marked by ‘ruminative flooding’ (a confusing, uncontrollable and overwhelming profusion of negative thoughts) coupled with an acute ‘frantic hopelessness,’ in which not only is there a fatalistic conviction that life cannot improve, but also an oppressive sense of entrapment and imminent doom.”

All of this builds to an intolerable, confused state in which patients feel that suicidal action is the only conceivable route of escape.

I don’t know how effectively anyone can use this information but I know it is helpful to me. It may help you too, if you have lost a loved one to suicide.

While I was stuck in a dark well of misery, I blamed Max’s girlfriend for his decision to end his life. Even though he explained in a message he left that he couldn’t stand the chronic pain of his injuries and the complications that developed.

I blamed her and wanted her to suffer. I wrote about her here and demonized her without mercy.

Not too long ago, I realized how badly I had wronged her. I asked if she could forgive me.

Max loved her and felt their love was a kind of miracle. She loved him back and got this tattoo as a symbol of their love.

She loved him but couldn’t save him, just as I couldn’t save him. He would not be saved.

The other day, I confided to her that I don’t understand those mothers who go on after their child’s suicide and proceed to live a life as if it was just some chapter in their past. I cited Gloria Vanderbilt, whose son jumped out a window, right in front of her.

She agreed and suggested that Gloria Vanderbilt had simply managed to stay distracted.  I said, “What, for sixty years?!” and she answered, “Yes.”

I think this is a piece of wisdom I couldn’t have found on my own.

I wish I could change so many things but of course I can’t. One thing I can do is apologize to Simone, and I’m doing it publicly.  I’m sorry for hurting you. We are in this together, after all.  xo

Goodbye to Dad

Two walkers, December 2009

High School graduation, June 2011

Max and Pico

Playing guitars

and finally this photo by Antanas Sutkus. I can’t describe how much I love it. It is so exquisitely tender! It sums up everything for me. I want to kiss the little child and to reassure her. But I know she is me.

I’m reading a book about addiction that Max read last year. He told me I might like it. I also remember him writing to his girlfriend that the book caused him to review his childhood, which he always thought was “pretty normal.”

The book, by Gabor Maté, a physician and psychiatrist, is extremely compassionate toward the addict. In fact, he explains at great length why the addict never really had a chance: Improper bonding during infancy harms the infant’s brain and sets him up for addiction.

Maté recounts study after study to underscore his thesis. When rats are removed from their mother for only one hour a day, their brains show damage. In human babies, this faulty bonding fucks everything up. The child is forever doomed to suffering and attempts to extinguish the suffering.

I can’t read too much of this book. Someone needs to do a study on my brain, to show how much harm the book has done.

Maté ends the long chapter about the origins of the addict’s malformed brain by assuring us that he’s not saying it’s hopeless! People can be healed, he says, through the indomitable Spirit that lives within all of us.

Meanwhile, I am compelled to look back in time and question everything. I remember loving my baby at first sight. I remember adoring his every expression, every gesture, every hair on his head. I remember nursing him for 14 months. I remember friends coming over  just to  admire him. I remember dressing him in his little outfits, reading to him, cuddling him, singing to him.

But I was a depressed mother. Depressed mothers ruin the brain as well. I forgot to say that. The baby picks up on the mother’s depression and is irreparably fucked.

I wish I could talk to Max about this. I want to know if he blames me. Or rather, if he forgives me.

His addiction must have been a nightmare for him. So much worse then the nightmare it was for us. It was such a long struggle. I never really felt it was my fault, until now.

My own mother hated me and told me so, but I didn’t want to become a drug addict. There was no comfort anywhere, from anyone, when I was a child. I have my problems but I never wanted to stick a needle in my arm. If everyone with an imperfect or depressed mother needs to escape their pain through opiates, who’s left?

I’m caught in this argument.  Depressed people don’t all become addicts. But my son did, and it’s my fault.

I wish it was nobody’s fault. I wish it was a wrong turn that led to more wrong turns. I wish he had been able to overcome his addiction and the pain that caused it. I wish I could comfort him and convince him that he was loved and he was perfect, addicted or not.

Mothers and children, what are your thoughts?

I was fucking around with my google account when I scrolled through all the options and came to the word “more.” This brought me to a page with the question below: “What do you love?”

I instinctively (and somewhat drunkenly) typed the word baby, and voila! A whole world of baby-related searches appeared, including this one:

Hahahahaha! Isn’t this awseome? Now I can find babies nearby! Don’t tell their mommies that I’m coming to get them!

Here’s another nice google suggestion:

I could also “Explore Babies in 3D” or “Find Patents about Babies.”

Well, that’s my fun activity for a Saturday night. I recommend trying it. And no, since I’m not ten years old I’m not going to try it with “penis,” unless I have more to drink.

I am a big fag hag and always have been. I’ll bet it’s politically incorrect to use the term but I think my gay friends are okay with it.  There’s nothing I love more than a gay man who will talk about fashion or just talk shit with me.

I’ve been assured that gay men are not ALL witty and stylish, well-read and opinionated. I’ll have to take this on faith. In my experience, gay men are fun to be around because they are expressive. I feel completely comfortable in the company of gay men.  I may even be a gay man trapped in a woman’s body.

Except for my indifference to Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand, I’m a great big fag. I love to look at men’s clothes and I don’t mine wearing them if they fit nicely. I’m interested in the arts and I appreciated the theatrical in nearly every context. I don’t seek out gay men because they “make me feel safe.” They make me feel stimulated and free to be the bitch I am.

I wish more men were gay! I’m always ready to talk about hunky unattainable models and Dior Homme jeans. My gay friends don’t want to bother me with sports talk or even car talk. I like learning about grinder and I like hearing guys whine about their imaginary weight gain. I can appreciate their attractiveness without sexualizing it. I LOVE being called Doll. It’s all good.

If you’re like me and you enjoy a gay sensibility, you will love http://chateauthombeau.blogspot.com/ , http://fiercerthanyou.com and http://swallowglitter.blogspot.com/ to name just three dazzling websites.

Now. Who wants to chastise me for my terminology or stereotyping or what have you?

In the morning, my youngest Wolf will be going off to college. I am braced for Empty Nest Syndrome.

Being me, I googled Empty Nest Syndrome. All the images are depressing. The moms all look like the women in ads for antidepressants. Then there are a bunch of standard bird nests, sadder looking than the moms. There is even a website called emptynestmoms or something. There are also support groups. Ha.

I read a new agey thing with a nice mystical angle but in the end, it pronounced:

“There is no more empty nest syndrome, unless you have issues.”

Oh no! What?!? Fuck. But wait:

“It is, and has always been about, discovery and recovery … and best of all realizing you can have fun and create your own reality.”

God.

I just want to start all over again, to when each child was a baby. Everything seemed so easy. I could be a better mother and bake cookies. I would never yell.

I’m so proud of my boy and I know he’ll go on to change the world. But I wish I could stay in bed for around six months rather than contemplate my Empty Nest. You can bet I won’t be creating my own reality, unless that involves the reality of imaginary children who will let me cuddle them and never leave.

An article in the New York Times offers an affectionate tribute to Amy Winhouse’s style, giving her credit for creating a unique look based on several Bad-Girl templates.

The article reminded me of how many girls still try to imitate Bettie Page. There are millions of clones out there with dyed black bangs and deep red lipstick, all going for the same trampy  rockabilly look. With all due respect, it’s a look I’m really sick of.  I think it should be saved for Halloween or costume parties.

The article also led me to the work of Karlheinz Weinberger, a Swiss photographer whose pictures of sleazy hooligans and teenage delinquents made him famous among artists and intelligentsia. Looking at his work, I finally undertand the aesthetic that Gnarlitude Jen and her ilk are so infatuated with.

Biker paraphernalia, big messy hair, tough sullen expressions, it’s all there in Weinberger’s old photos. It’s a look that I personally affected when I was around twelve years old, trying to copy the tough Mexican gang girls who represented rebellion. By fourteen, though, I was over it.

Today, the only way to be a style rebel would be to dress inconspicuously.

Still, I’m happy to remember Amy as an original force in style as well as music. Her mixture of  50s and 60s influences, punk, pin-up, tough, girlie, retro and rapper, added up to something fresh, defiant and irresistible.

God bless her, and all bad girls everywhere.

Recently I attended the wedding of one of Max’s oldest friends, who was also a member of his band.  It was a joy to see this wonderful young man celebrating his love for his adoring bride, his obvious soulmate.

The wedding was also an opportunity for me to see old friends, and to see some of Max’s school pals who were now grown ups.  There were babies and toddlers everywhere and I got to hold a placid baby girl wearing a pink tutu.

We couldn’t help but notice a family with three or four young children, all completely bald.  I assumed that one of the kids had lost his hair from chemotherapy and the others had shaven their heads in solidarity. You hear about this practice more and more, and I respect the sacrifice and devotion involved.

After several funny speeches, the bride and groom danced to a recording of a silly song about bees or something.  It looked like a dance you learn in preschool, with funny hand-motions. It was adorable. During their dance, one of the bald kids joined in, weaving between them and spinning around happily in her own world.

It was such a poignant bittersweet image: The glowing couple embarking on a new life together, the little child with cancer, whose fate was uncertain.

When I was drunk enough, I danced with my husband, who wouldn’t let me lead. Then I danced with some women who just wanted to shake it up regardless of the too-fast beat and our painful high heels. When we finally said goodbye to the groom, we learned that the bald kids had head-lice, not cancer.

Ha! See how things change depending on your perspective? It’s a good reminder that all experience is filtered through interpretation.  From now on, I hope I can remember that a tragic worldview could be a lapse of judgement or a tendency to see cancer instead of head-lice. I can’t think of a proverb to illustrate this insight.

Anyone up to it? It has to include the word head-lice.