Waiting For That Rocket

To continue with the theme from awhile ago, let’s talk some more about seeing things you remember as a young person through the eyes of an adult – and a little more life experience. This one, at least, is a little more light-hearted.

When I was in college, my favorite TV show – hands down – was the West Wing. I longed to be Josh Lyman. I definitely didn’t want to be the person in charge (the President or Leo), but boy did I want to be the person who made it happen. Hence, Josh. Aaron Sorkin’s writing was fantastic. Every episode was tension wrought. Whether that tension centered around international incidents or Donna’s love life varied, but the tension was always there. Optimism laced the script throughout the seasons (even seasons 5 and 6, the ones after Sorkin left the show). The characters leading the fictional United States wanted the best for the country. They wanted the best for every citizen. They wanted to stick it to the Republicans (when I was 20 that held a lot of appeal for me).

I was, unequivocally, what I call a “West Wing Democrat”. And I know I wasn’t the only kid who got involved, or wanted to get involved, with politics because of that show. An entire generation of kids was inspired to go to Washington, D.C., and work for our Representatives (or home to work on campaigns) so that we could be the next Josh Lyman or Toby Ziegler or C.J. Cregg.

Among the many problems though, is that my generation (and especially the ones that came after) is a generation with a real immediate gratification complex. We want to be hired into the Senior Staff of the White House or Senate and nobody really told us just how much work goes into getting to that level.

Flash forward from 20 to 22. I’ve just graduated from college and am, naturally, looking for a job in politics. I go to work for the Maine Democratic Party. Better, it’s through part of Howard Dean’s 50-State Plan. So here I am, ready to make a huge difference. I’m going to affect change. I’m going to be the hope that’s seen in the world. Of course, no one told me that campaigns are incredibly hard work. And that when you’re just starting out you’re not writing policy or speeches, you’re going door-to-door fighting with people who want nothing to do with what you’re selling. Following six of the most miserable months of my professional career, and one particularly devastating loss,  I got the hell out of there.

Turns out that was the best decision I’ve ever made.

I’d tasted politics, and found out that – much like seafood – I didn’t like it. At all. My memories of The West Wing stayed strong, though. Strong enough that, fast forward another few years, when The West Wing started streaming on Netflix come Christmas 2012, I thought it the most magical gift ever given to me. I could now watch West Wing at my leisure. I could watch ten episodes in a row and not have to worry about getting up to change DVDs. I could watch twenty episodes and not have to worry about accidentally damaging the DVDs by leaving them out of their packaging.

I curled up, iPad close to hand, down comforter pulled up to my chin, head propped on pillows and fleece throws.

I turned it on.

My nostalgia assuaged, the quality of the show remains strong. Aaron Sorkin’s writing stands the test of time and, unfortunately, many of the issues Sorkin and his team address throughout remain pertinent today.* Without a doubt, Martin Sheen, John Spencer (may he RIP), Allison Janney, Bradley Whitford – the entire cast, really – put in such incredible performances. They are smart, they are empathetic. Even when you hate them, you love them. It’s one of those rare shows that deserved every single one of the awards it won.

That being said, instead of voraciously watching all 150+ episodes I’ve cycled through the first season and some of the second, but don’t go too much farther than that. I don’t care that much about politics anymore. From anything written on this blog, or that I’ve put online, know that it’s not that I don’t care about issues or my community anymore. It’s that I don’t want to look at the ugly underbelly. In Season 1, Episode 4 Leo says, “There are two things you never want to let people see how you make them: laws and sausages.”

I hate seeing and hearing the extremely partisan, extremely bitter fighting that happens in Augusta and Washington, D.C. It’s incredibly rare these days that any bills that really matter pass quietly. What seems to have been forgotten along the way is that, much like kids take their behavioral cues from their parents, the public take their behavioral cues from their representatives. This isn’t a chicken or egg thing – if our representatives modeled civil behavior and discourse then maybe, just maybe, there would be less vitriol across the board.

In civility’s absence though, I find myself – like a lot of my generation – avoiding government and politics. I can improve and contribute to the community just fine while not embroiling myself in the ickyness (technical term) of politics. So that’s what I’ll do. And I’ll continue to watch and re-watch seasons one and two of The West Wing and remember, with fondness, being an idealistic twenty year old. Someone who used to think that working in the system was the best way to change the system. Now I’m just going to ignore the system and hope that those of us on the ground are able to make the kind of difference we’d all like to see in the world.

*Although, as I noted on either Twitter or Facebook as I was re-watching, it’s kind of awesome to re-watch some of the episodes and have some of the issues resolved. For example, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell plays a prominent role in an early episode.

There is a battle being waged in my body and mind right now. I wish it was as simple as white blood cells battling infection. I wish it was something that could be helped, allayed, or – cod forbid – cured using something I could purchase for four dollars over the counter.

It’s intense to look at how far I’ve come and, in one overall insignificant event, feel the backslide to where I started.

For those who may be worried, I still have that pharmacological plank holding me at a 4. It’s this plank that has me fighting the battle. It’s this plank that has me writing about my mental and emotional state. It’s this plank that has me talking to friends. It’s this plank that has me saying, both internally, audibly, and using the written word, that I’m not okay right now. I’m not okay in this moment.

I guess there’s not too much more that can be said.

Other than this.

Whether with my friends or with myself, I’m so fucking over having to have this conversation.

While a bit excessively intellectually curious (I recently wrote to a friend, “I WANT TO KNOW ALL THE THINGS!”) I am far from being an academic. Frankly, I don’t have the attention span to be an academic. The thought of sitting down in a library for three months is dreamy. The thought of taking what I’d learned over that three months in order to write a hundred page paper fills me with fear. More accurately I already feel my attention wandering and my sentences running on and veering off and…well. I have ADD. That should be clear to anyone who’s read my writing or had a conversation with me or, hey, look, shiny!

Per usual, this is a long lead in.

I may not be an academic, I may not ever be an academic, but I have a good idea of how scholarly research and writing should be done. This instinct says that if you’re writing an academic paper – if you are proposing scientific theories – then the studies and articles that you use to support your hypothesis should be written by people other than you.

It’s like defining a word using the word itself.

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In a surprise to absolutely nobody (especially if you know me, read my tweets or read this blog regularly) I’m a giant, giant, giant nerd. I love to learn. I love to know things. Hence, for the past three days, I’ve been listening to a practically endless stream of podcasts/television shows.

These have hailed from the BBC, PBS and NPR. They’ve been on topics as varied as recreating legendary Viking swords to the fall of the Berlin Wall. The march of Christianity east and Islam west to the Bhaghavad Gita. The Holocaust, tattoos, and the Scopes Trial. Decyphering Mayan, fabled Incan battles, and Columbine. Say what you will about me, but you can never say that my interests aren’t varied.

Aside from learning about how the Vikings were making iron stronger than anything that would show up elsewhere in Europe for centuries. Aside from learning about how the Scopes Trial was originally intended to be a show trial to boost regional tourism. Aside from learning about how one of the most storied Incan battles – long thought to be between the Spanish and Incans – was actually an intertribal fight. It’s been interesting to listen to people who were present at an event recount events that happened in my lifetime. Events I remember as a child, but hearing the same tales now, as an adult.

Case in point.

There was a BBC Witness episode that centered around the Columbine, CO, shooting in 1999. I so clearly and distinctly remember that as a fifteen year old. I remember watching the news that night after putting the girl I babysat to bed. I remember crying at a version of “I Will Remember You” by Sarah McLachlan that had news clips playing throughout. I remember Bonny Eagle had months of emergency closures from kids calling in bomb or gun threats. I remember not being scared per se (let’s hear it for going to an all-girls high school), but being scared nonetheless. But these memories are all through the eyes of a teenager.

I’ll admit it. I haven’t given it too much thought since. I think about it and I remember it when anniversaries roll around. When another tragic school shooting happens. But it’s always thinking about it in terms of what 15 year-old Kate remembers, not what does 29 year old Kate think of the big picture of that particular tragedy.

That changed somewhat today.

The first interview was with the principal of Columbine. He discussed hearing the first gun shots and instantly thinking of his wife and kids. He talked of a pivotal moment when he saw a couple of his students walking out of the gym and realized that he had to be the one to protect them. He pulled them to safety. The second interview was with a reporter who was on the scene. He shared a tale of the crowd of worried parents’ aversion to using the words “death”, “dead”, and “killed”. The Witness producers wrapped with the principal telling of the end of that horrible day.

Once the police had cleared the school of danger, the children had been bused to a nearby school to reunite with their parents. There were tears, there were hugs, and – at the end – there remained 12 sets of parents whose children never got off that bus.

As I listened to this – in my backroom at work – while organizing knit hats and as a twenty-nine year old – I was on the verge of tears. For the past fourteen years I’ve thought about things in terms of what it would mean to me to watch my peers gunned down. To see my friends scared, literally, for their lives. To not know where or why the attack is coming from. This afternoon, I found myself thinking of what it would mean to be a parent (or aunt/caregiver/mentor/whatever) and not know where my charge is. To be a teacher or administrator and not be able to keep my students safe. To be a bystander and not be able to do anything to help.

When the idea for this post came to me, I wasn’t thinking I would be writing a eulogy to Columbine. I thought I would talk only about seeing childhood events through the eyes of an adult. Maybe I would touch upon the L.A. Riots in 1992. Maybe the trial of O.J. Simpson. But at the end of the post, end of the day, all I could think about was the principal talking about the parents who would never see their children climb off the bus again.

It’s remarkable what modern pharmaceutical companies can and do create. I’m now going in to months six and seven (ish) on my latest round of meds. And, much like they are designed to, they have kicked my serotonin and norepinephrine into gear. Maybe not to levels that would be considered “high” and not to levels that would be considered “happy”, but my meds have given me a platform to stand on. That platform isn’t exactly high up, but it’s keeping me from a free fall into darkness and despair.

Which is all a round about way of saying I’m not horrible right now.

More directly, with 2012 officially being over, I feel like I’ve won the biggest battle in a long, long time. That being said – as I recently texted to a close friend – there is no “win” against depression. Depression is a siege. And I worry about when the next battle will be.

That’s one of the worst parts about clinical, major depression. And I know that I’ve talked about it here before. And I know that I quoted BGIM last year (about this time, actually), ““Things started to feel so good that I forgot, I forgot that when I don’t actively know my limits and accept them that I push too hard, too fast, hell I become Superwoman and I have been on a Superwoman high for a while now.” You’re lulled into this false sense of complacency, a belief that maybe this is a singular battle. That maybe, just maybe, you’ve won. And then something happens.

It could be something major, something inconsequential. Last year it was major. Years previous, it’s been minor. I find myself waiting on tenterhooks for the next round. I fear it could happen any time.

Of late I’ve found myself feeling incredibly vulnerable. A bit of stress at work, a lot of memories. I’ve found myself thinking of Ann. I keep thinking I see Julia around Freeport. Next week is a memorial service for Brian. I’ve asked some friends who I’m close with, but in less emotional ways, to support me in more emotional ways (a HUGE departure for me…for those of you who know me, you know how hard that is).

Some of you are inevitably saying, “These are all good things. Well, maybe not the seeing dead people thing, but asking for help.”

The problem is that it makes me feel vulnerable. And, in my experience, the journey from vulnerable to destroyed is short. And that’s what I’m worried about.

So. Here I am. Maybe not drowning, but struggling to stay afloat. And I have friends surrounding me – digitally and in real life. Friends who don’t hesitate to say “yes” when I ask them to join me for memorial services. Friends who don’t hesitate to say “yes” when I ask if I can call them. Friends who don’t hesitate to say “yes, let’s” when it’s time for me to get emotionally, fall down drunk. Friends who say, “I don’t understand that feeling, but I’ll throw you a life preserver whenever you need it.”

That level of support is humbling. And appreciated.

It eases the hurt.

As I tossed and turned this morning (I woke up around 2am) I piddled about online. Checking out the haps’ on Facebook and Twitter. Seeing what the news had to show me. What the pundits had to say about President Obama’s second Inauguration. (I willfully acknowledge that the Internet at my fingertips 24/7 is not the most conducive to a sound night’s sleep)

Over the general course of my ADD, I ended up thinking about some things that have been irritating me of late. Some things that have been pretty seriously irking me, actually. And I started to type them out with as much vitriol as I could possibly imbue into the various social media platforms at my disposal.

And then I stopped. Deleted. And wrote something completely different.

One of the most important lessons that’s ever been drilled into my head is, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” And, frankly, it’s not that I don’t have legitimate grounds for complaint. But bitching about things is going to do nothing but irritate and hurt the subject of said bitching, and – frankly – would just snowball into a whole host of other issues that would be infinitely more irritating and complicated.

So.

I will bite my tongue. I will avoid saying (and typing) the first things that pop into my mind.

Granted – a corollary to this resolution will be hiding my thoughts so you’re not seeing what I’m actually thinking when I don’t say it. I have a feeling that will be infinitely more difficult for me to learn.

Trigger warning: Rape and sexual violence will come up in this post. Please be aware if you continue to read.

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For those of you who know me (which – let’s be honest – I’m fairly certain is all of you) I’m a wee bit obsessed with Les Mis (the musical). I have both the anniversary shows on DVD. The tenth album on every digital device capable of carrying music. I listen to it, without fail, at least four times a week – often times more.

Which is all my way of saying I know this show. Really, really well.

I know there are people who are bigger super fans than me, but I’ve got some game.

When news broke that there was going to be a movie I thought Christmas had come early. It was awesome. And then with the cast announcements I wasn’t convinced I hadn’t died and gone to heaven. Every name mentioned was a mark in its favor (except Russell Crowe – more on that later). Hugh Jackman, Anne Hathaway, Amanda Seyfried, Helena Bonham Carter, Samantha Barks, even Colm Wilkinson (the original Valjean) threw his hat in the ring. This is to say nothing of the stamp of approval coming from Cameron Mackintosh signing up as a producer (Mackintosh, you may remember, was the original producer of Les Miserables on London’s West End as well as Phantom of the Opera, Cats!, and Miss Saigon). With so many votes of confidence, the bar that started naturally high only went higher. Read More…

There’s a whole lot of tragedy that’s happened this week, month, and year. Seriously. A metric shit ton of bad and tragedy and inexplicable wickedness has happened. The murder-suicide involving an NFL player. The shooting at a Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin. The shooting at the movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. The latest is, of course, the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. These are just the shootings that made the national headlines. A quick search of “shootings” on Google and the local headlines start making an appearance. Standoffs, gang violence, domestic violence. Shootings abound.

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