Friday, June 28, 2019

Fu*k.

I'm having one of those days.

I haven't had an episode in a long while. I mean, not like an EPISODE. I've had little moments here and there (I call them "tremors," because it sounds kind of cool and mysterious), but I've been taking care of myself, going to the gym, watching what I eat, reading, and making music. I've been doing all the shit I know I'm supposed to do.

And guess what? Depression gives absolutely no fucks whatsoever about any of that.

I was walking up the stairs to my gym this morning, and halfway up I started weeping. It was the kind of weeping where you'd have thought I just watched the end of Old Yeller, or Brian's Song. It was embarrassing as shit, and I think I covered it up pretty well, but I couldn't get over the shock of it just suddenly being right on top of me. One minute I'm trotting up the stairs, thinking about my workout, then out of nowhere the Black Dog sinks his teeth into my brain and gives a violent shake. 

For the record, I continued up the fucking stairs, and I DID work out. I've learned the value (though it is often a Pyrrhic victory) of pushing through in those moments. Especially if what I'm doing doesn't require much brain power. I often use the discomfort and pain of exercise to get my psyche to shut up for a bit. The problem was, I was convinced everybody was watching me. (They weren't, and I know they weren't. But these are the kinds of things the Black Dog says to you. They're watching. They know you're a mentally unstable wing nut. The dudes in the white coats are probably waiting downstairs. Maybe when you finish you should just take a header out the window.)

I feel bad for my family when this shit hits. My wife and kids are "get-shit-done" kind of people. If there exists a problem, they all want to FIX IT. Do this thing, get that thing, think about this other thing. I wish it were that simple. I really do. I wish this wasn't clinical depression, that it was just a foul mood, or a bit of melancholy, and that I actually could improve my disposition with some sort of distraction. How do you even begin to explain to someone who doesn't live with the Black Dog that distractions are about as effective as shooting rubber bands at Godzilla?

Maybe you think that writing about it will make it better. You'd be wrong about that. When this is happening, there is no making it better. All I can do is document it for posterity. Because what the fuck else am I going to do? Writing about this shit and putting it in the world is how I give a big middle finger to the Black Dog. It's not a cry for help; it's me telling the demon that, if he wants to fuck with my head, he's going to have to do it in the daylight. I have a belief - based on no empirical evidence - that Depression dislikes the light. So all I'm really doing by writing this and sharing it is choosing where the fight takes place. 

I'll take any edge I can get.

Thursday, June 13, 2019

A Survival Guide For People Who Dislike Cruises, But Find Themselves On One, Anyway.

My actual face when I was told we were going on a cruise.

So. You're going on your first cruise. Almost everyone you have ever known has been on a cruise, and they have all told you how much you will love it! This proves one thing above all else: your friends don't really know you. AT ALL.

I found myself in this very same position last month. And I will tell you, dear reader, I was less than enthused. Still, my wife's sister was celebrating her 50th birthday, and the way she wanted to celebrate was to take a cruise with as many family members as could make the trip. My wife's family is very close, and they hold grudges longer than a Sicilian mobster, so I knew there was no getting out of this. And so I went on a cruise.

I will not lie and tell you that all of my fears and anxieties were unfounded. (Some of them turned out to be VERY founded.) But I can say that, while I will almost certainly not repeat the experience of my own free will, it was not the worst thing I have ever done. It turns out that even introverts like me can have enjoyable moments at sea - especially if the introvert in question likes to drink a lot. What follows is (I hope) a helpful guide to getting the most out of your hostage situation - sorry, your "cruise experience" - if you ever find yourself in a similar circumstance.

1. Buy The Fucking Drink Package. Every cruise line in the world gives you the option of buying a drink package, that will basically allow you to remain slightly buzzed or knee-walking drunk for the duration of the cruise - depending on your tolerance levels. (I mean tolerance for humanity. Not booze.) My wife bought this for me, not because she thought I would enjoy four days of debauched stumbling at sea, but because she loves me, and she knows me. I could be tempted into a goddam Balkan mine field if you told me there was a 25 year old bottle of single malt in the middle of it. Now: for those of you who are introverts and dislike crowds but cannot drink, all I have to say is...stop reading this. I can't help you. 

2. Take The Fucking Stairs. Most cruise ships have staircases fore and aft (that's the front and back of the ship respectively, you land-locked heathens), and you should use these as often as possible, for two reasons. The first is practical; taking the stairs is a good way to get in a little exercise, and staircases come with handy bannisters on either side for those of you who have committed to the drink package. The second reason is pure survival; taking the stairs will keep you from waiting for the elevators, of which there are too few, along with all the unwashed masses, of which there are far too many. I can be three Rum Runners deep and STILL take the stairs, just to not have to cram into an elevator with that family of five, all of whom are sucking down sodas like it's the apocalypse and they all really want to get diabetes before The End, and smelling of sunscreen and SPAM (swear to God), while the kids bicker and fight over whether to join in the belly-flop competition on Deck 11, or hit the cafe for their THIRD round of desserts (it's not yet lunchtime). Trust me on this. Take the fucking stairs.

3. Make Friends With The Fucking Crew. Here's an observation I made as a virgin cruiser. On the first day, everybody who clambers aboard that big ol' floating amusement park is just as happy and nice as they can be. It's the start of VACATION. Tensions are melting away with every mile that they get out to sea. People are polite. They say "please" and "thank you." They will make way for one another. 

I have observed that this phenomenon lasts exactly 24 hours. The next morning - the very next morning - many passengers (not all, but a shit-lot of them) have transitioned from "polite" to "ENTITLED." "Please" and "thank you" have been replaced with "Where's my fucking Bloody Mary?" "What do you mean you don't serve cheeseburgers at breakfast? What am I paying for?" I saw two very large women nearly come to blows over a cake doughnut. I'm not kidding. And don't get me started on the kiddies. Watching how a lot of children behave on a cruise ship (or rather, how their parents let them behave) may be a very viable form of birth control. And Conservatives wouldn't have shit to say about it, because you're supporting tourism and, therefore, the economy. 

And ALL of this is why I implore you: make friends with the fucking crew. Here's an easy way to do it. Every ship employee has a name badge, and beneath their name is their country of origin. I noticed that a few of the bartenders on the ship were from Ukraine, and I know exactly three or four words in Russian. But they're good words to know, especially when talking to a bartender: hello, please, thank you,  and another (which is usually followed by please).  Making an attempt to speak in anybody's native tongue is an excellent way to get them to remember you. I also noticed that, when I made return trips to these couple of bartenders, that my drinks got a little more generous. I confirmed this when later I met a bartender from Romania. I don't know a fucking thing about Romania except that's where Nadia Comaneci, the famous Olympic gymnast, comes from. And I think they executed a dictator and his wife in 1989. I'm getting distracted. What I'm trying to say is, I pulled out my phone and opened Google Translate, learned how to say "thank you" in Romanian, and BOOM. New bartender friend with a generous pour.

Plus, it's just fucking NICE to get to know the people who are looking after you. 

4. Avoid The Fucking Onboard Pools. I am not a germ-a-phobe. I WILL ignore the 5 Second Rule if I have inadvertently dropped something yummy and there is any chance at all that it can be salvaged. I am not afraid of double-dippers, as long as I know them personally, and can be assured they have no open sores. BUT: having spoken to a few of the crew members (see Survival Tip #3), I can tell you, without fear of contradiction, that the only way you would ever get me in a cruise ship's pool would be to murder me in a violent fashion, murder me again just to make absolutely certain, then throw my rigid corpse into that pool. Every gross and disgusting and abhorrent thing that a human being can do - from toddlers to the elderly, and all ages in between - is done AT LEAST once in that pool, on every single cruise. No exceptions. This is not coming from me, but from long-time employees on that boat. They are the kind of stories that keep me awake at night, and I laughed during The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Get out on that deck and sun yourself to your heart's content. Because believe me when I tell you that skin cancer is preferable to what might await you in that fucking pool. 

5. Be On The Lookout For Cool Fucking Moments. They can happen on a cruise, if you're open to them. Example: on the second night, my step-son basically wheedled me into joining him down at a place called the "Schooner Bar" (looks as schmaltzy as it sounds, I promise) to see live piano music. Since the word "bar" was mentioned, I agreed. The guy at the piano that night was a fellow named Andy, and he turned out to be about the coolest bastard I have ever personally met. At one point he even invited me to sing with him, because he wanted to play anything by The Commodores, but you just can't do that without a decent harmony.

Pictographic proof. The suave black guy with dreads is not me.

After his set we chatted a bit, and my step-son developed a hard bro-crush on Andy. Fine. We BOTH did. Meeting him and hanging out made our lives a little richer for the experience, and provided a very important life lesson for my step-son: learn to play piano well, and you can sleep with any woman you want. (My wife will likely take umbrage with that, but life chooses which lessons to give. I'm just the guy who points them out.)

I hope this Survival Guide has been of use to you. It would certainly have been helpful to me if I'd written it before the cruise.