Chronic Illness, Hidden Battles, and the Death of a Celebrity

The outpouring of grief at the recent loss of a beloved actor and comedian as well as the show of admiration for him as a person and for his achievements have been heartwarming to be sure. Over the past few days we have read and heard loving tributes to Robin Williams and additional entreaties to better understand and treat mental illness and addiction. It would be nice to think that these conversations were moving us forward and out of the dark ages of mental health treatment and discourse. There is, however, little evidence to suggest that this is the case. After all, we have been down this road before--most recently--with the untimely death of actor Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

Though the grief and condolences may be sincere, they are not always accompanied by a change in behavior and attitudes. For all of the sympathy we may show for the dead, it does not always translate to compassion for the living. Let's be honest here; the very same comedians and talk show hosts who claim to be torn up about these tragic losses in the entertainment industry rarely miss a chance to go after easy targets such as Lindsey Lohan or even Rob Ford. We participate with our mix of laughter and derision. The message: the struggles of those living with addiction or mental illness are fair game as long as we can frame these people as unlikeable or unsavory characters.

Also at issue is the tendency to see and value others not as human beings but as merely role players. I was struck by something Wayne Brady said Tuesday night in an interview on Al Jazeera America. He mentioned, and I'm paraphrasing here, that performers feel a kind of pressure to always be "on," that they are not afforded the opportunity to be vulnerable or sad, because it is not what people want to see from them. I do not doubt that this is generally true, but I am certain that it is not universally true.

Consider the following of the acclaimed podcast the Mental Illness Happy Hour, which is hosted and produced by comedian Paul Gilmartin. It started in 2011 as an hour-long, weekly show featuring interviews with his show biz friends about their internal struggles. The shows now tend to run over two hours long and involve the reading of listener surveys to show us that "we are not alone" in our mental battles. MIHH is unlike any other podcast out there, and it allows a space for guests to be honest and open. Its niche but avid following serves as proof that many of us appreciate performers more after seeing their more human sides.

Insecurity is a common theme even among the more famous and accomplished of the show's guests. There is that illusion of success that we idealize--that finish line like a horizon that recedes as fast as we move toward it. With all the pressures of our society and culture, the high value they place on ambition and drive, it can feel as though we never have enough, do enough or are enough. It does not matter who we are or where we are in life. Sometimes we think if we just got that promotion, got published in that magazine, or got that house in the suburbs, we would be OK. Chances are though, you have already got a lot going for you. So if you cannot appreciate and be happy with what you have, what you do, and who you are now, what makes you think that next arbitrary milestone will change anything?

It can be even more tiresome and defeating when we have to fake ambition or find that its existence is so often blanketed by apathy. Even the things we want to do can become cumbersome. I have sat indoors on perfect summer days, knowing that I should be taking advantage of the fair weather but also certain that I will not be able to enjoy it in the way that most others will. I have spent hours standing in front of my stage piano and keyboard trying to re-create the exhilaration and joy I once felt for playing and composing music only to quickly become bored and feel disconnected from the experience. This lack of feeling connected can be particularly painful.

The truth about emotional pain is that, like physical pain, it comes in many forms. There is the constant dull throbbing that seems to permeate through your soul and can last for weeks at a time. On the other end of the spectrum, there are the acute pangs of dread and despair that can be excruciating. Is it any wonder then that we might turn to alcohol or other recreational drugs to distract ourselves, if only temporarily, from this hell? Luckily, I have gained some insight and wisdom over years of working on myself emotionally. I have learned that this momentary relief can lead to a harsh rebound effect and a self-sustaining death spiral. So I am more mindful now, more in touch with my feelings, and I try to feel compassion for myself whenever possible.

Yet, the scary thought remains. Williams presumably knew all of this. He talked about alcoholism and rehab in thoughtful ways. The cruel thing about conditions such as his is that you can think you are in the clear and suddenly hit a brick wall. All of that gained wisdom can be forgotten in a whirlwind of depression, and that is perhaps the most frightening and tragic aspect of his death. It begs the question: Are any of us ever really "in the clear?"

We now know that it was not a relapse into substance abuse that spurred his final actions but likely the beginning stages of Parkinson's disease. Chronic conditions, especially neurological ones, can be triggers or intensifiers of depression, and they can pop up at just about any time in our lives.

It is my hope that things will change. One day we may look back at our trial-and-error approach for treating mental illness and neurological disorders in the way we now think about using leeches and exorcism to cure disease. We may finally get to the causes instead of just treating the symptoms. Until then, however, we must remember that we never know the full extent of what those around us are dealing with internally. Perhaps they are experiencing debilitating physical pain or their souls may feel like cold, wet dog poop. So it is important to be constructive with our criticism and generous with our praise--to let the people in our lives know that we value them for the whole of who they are and that our lives are better for their mere presence in them even though that may not ultimately be enough.

5 common mistakes made by new writers

I should preface this all by saying that I do not want to give anyone a complex. It is important not to overthink your first draft and constantly second guess yourself as I, myself, am disposed to doing. The voice of my inner editor can, and often does, disrupt the flow of my writing process. Nevertheless, there are some habits that new writers may want to break in order to improve their writing and make the editing process easier. Remember, editors have a lot of material to review, and, in this day and age, it seems to be all about getting content published as quickly as possible.

I am still getting used to the idea of editing and proofreading the work of others. In fact, I have plenty of doubts and insecurities when it comes to my own writing. Yet, there are a few issues that I come across frequently and which are fairly easy to correct. I have listed a few of them here.

1.) Putting two spaces after a sentence. This is something most of us learned in grammar school, but it no longer applies. I've heard that the practice of using two spaces to separate sentences harkens back to a time when typewriters were commonly used. Nowadays, space is at a premium and the wider gap can be disruptive to the flow of one's writing.

2.) Commas or dashes separating two (or more) independent clauses. Independent clauses work fine on their own, and short, simple sentences can be very effective. They can also be combined using conjunctions. Still, if using a conjunction seems inappropriate, and you really think that two otherwise complete sentences belong together as one thought, use a semi-colon to separate them.

3.) Not spelling out numbers up to ten. This varies depending on the style guide used (some recommend writing out numbers up to 100) and does not pertain to headlines. It can seem like nitpicking; however, it is generally disruptive to the reader when he/she has to switch between numbers and letters. On the other hand, writing out long numbers can feel clunky and take up a lot of space. Because, as a rule, numbers at the beginning of sentences should be written out in word form, it is best to avoid beginning a sentence with large figures whenever possible.

4.) Using the same word multiple times in a sentence or paragraph. This can be, at times, unavoidable. You may have noticed that I did it above with the word "sentence." Clarity is paramount in writing, and sometimes there just isn't a better word. Also, using some obscure word you found in the thesaurus can come off as pretentious. But consider the following unpalatable sentence:

Wanting some food, I went for food at the Food Truck Rodeo, which offers some of the best food around.

In this case, replacing an instance of the word "food" with, say, "alimentation" is probably not the best way to go.  Sometimes you just need to find a different way of phrasing your thought. There will be other times, however, when the dictionary and thesaurus will be your best friends.

5.) Verb agreement. If you are telling a story in the past tense, you need to stick with it. Here is an absurdly egregious example:

Yesterday, we went to the market, had eaten apples, and enjoy them very much. 

Being a stickler can often be unpleasant, and sometimes it seems as though rules can hold us back creatively. At the same time, the most creative among us may use the confinement of these rules to construct more thoughtful, meaningful sentences and more easily flowing prose.

Are there any editors out there? What are your biggest peeves and most often-encountered issues?

An Open Letter to the Bugle Podcast

Dear Chris, Andy and John (in order, from left to right, of the faces depicted on my mock Mt. Rushmore tattoo):

I am writing to express my dismay for your decision to name last week's episode Crimea River. At first, I thought: "Odessa good pun!" But then I started to think: "that was the worst joke Kiev-er made." Though I guess I Cyrillic can't blame you. I really think Ural gonna be sorry that you made light of Russian foreign policy, and I'm not sure it had Dnieper-pose. The whole situation seems quite grave, and I am worried about the potential Cossack-quences of any intervention. 

In any case, I love the show, and I wish Yalta best. 

***

You can catch this very witty and often ludicrous podcast here: http://thebuglepodcast.com/

HMS Moira

She blew in a day early,
A vessel tall and proud.
From across the world
With sails unfurled
She met the cheering crowd.

My Love had traveled on that ship
With other precious cargo.
A fateful freight
To abrogate
A long and cruel embargo.

Though liquor My Love had rarely touched,
A lady prim and prude,
We sought libation
In celebration
Of this end to solitude.

From the frigate to the shore
Clippers brought both rum and rye
To ingratiate
And satiate
Land and lips so dry.

The rum had put My Love at ease
To reveal her penetralia.
Though she would mind
When I, in kind,
Exposed my genitalia.

Below, the streets were filled with mirth.
The throngs were warbling tunes.
Lascivious
And oblivious
To hordes of marauding dragoons.

Though danger was approaching,
The gentry were now feral.
They hollered and clapped
And proceeded to tap
Each and every barrel.

While spirits on the battlefield
Can make a valiant soldier,
Before the dawn
The rum was gone,
And we were all hungover.

The sentinels were in a stupor
Among whom I was one.
We signaled in vain
And all would be slain
Before the day was done.

So heed you well this warning
From my post beyond the grave:
Beware what you do
That you may eschew
All that which doth deprave.

For our bounty did come early,
Bringing joy and then remorse.
What caused delight
Became our blight
An aquatic Trojan horse.

Homecoming

The sun was setting behind the hills, and the glare revealed the oily residues of passengers past on tinted panes of plexiglass. The intermittent ka-thump of the train cars and the passing of telephone poles through my field of vision were a reminder that I was moving toward something I didn't want to face. 

The funeral was set for tomorrow morning. I had no idea how I was supposed to give a proper eulogy for a man with so much ugliness. I wondered if anyone would be there and if I should even bother showing up. 

I grabbed my duffel bag and suitcase just as a shrill voice came over the P.A.: “Stony Creek station.” 

Despite the baggage, I didn’t mind the long walk through town. The sodium street lights flickered on to a dim glow as I came toward my old house. After about a minute, they gained full intensity, bathing the street in peachy light. 

At the porch steps, I pulled a hidden key from under a fake rock, made my way inside, and turned on the hallway light. 

Walking into the living room, I glanced over at the rocker. I imagined Ma there getting lost in her sitcoms and variety shows, because real life didn't come with laugh tracks and prompted applause. Pale blue light flashed across her expressionless face. 

The stairs groaned with the pressure and release of each step as I slowly plodded upward. My room was pretty much as I'd left it. A simple, scratched-up desk and wooden chair sat by the window, and the twin bed mattress without a frame was tucked by the wall under the slanted ceiling, which had taped to it a faded Led Zeppelin poster. 

I remembered Dad bursting through the door with unmitigated fury over something I had (or hadn't) done. He threw me against the wall, and with his hands encircling my neck, I started to black out. I could still hear Ma wailing through sobs, "Stop it, Hank! You're going to kill him!" But he couldn't hear her. His eyes revealed a kind of crazed, adrenaline-fueled trance. The smell of whiskey hit me just as I lost consciousness. 

The next day, Ma seemed oblivious. I didn't understand how she could just go about pretending that nothing had happened--like we lived in some kind of "Leave It to Beaver" fantasy world. "Let me fix you some eggs, Honey," she said. Yet, I suppose it was more than eggs she was trying to fix. It was our lives as well, as if food would fill these widening emotional chasms. 

I grabbed a flashlight from off the desk and climbed out of the window and onto the porch roof as I had on so many nights previous--those nights when Dad was shouting or Ma was crying and I just needed to escape. 

Across the street was Caroline Connors’ house. She was the only good thing in this beater town, and the only reason I could have had for staying. She had a way of ensnaring herself in relationships with older guys who treated her badly. Maybe they were stand-ins for her absent father, giving her just enough validation but no more than she thought she deserved. One night while sitting on the roof, I took a flashlight and pointed it at her window, waving my hand in front of the beam as if to signal. She came over and climbed up to my perch where we talked for hours, both sharing our need to get away from our lives in this town. 

I wondered where she was and what she was up to this evening--thinking she was probably away somewhere married to some guy she couldn't stand. I hated that I had these thoughts--resurging crests of jealousy--but my mind just couldn't help but go there. Just then it caught my eye. From across the street a light was flashing from a bedroom window: Our secret signal. My heart leapt into my throat.

Noćnik

Great War Island, at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers, was so named because of its strategic importance in both the defense and siege of Belgrade. Officially, it was uninhabited, but there were a few of us who summered there in shanties--tending our gardens in solitude just a few hundred meters outside of the old city. Hidden behind a dense woodland, it might as well have been miles away. It had been a mistake to come here in early spring when the night air was still bitterly cold and there would be no one near to hear my screams. 

My heart was racing and sweat beaded up across my brow. It was time, and I was frantic. I knew that, at any moment, it would come for me--just like it had late at night when I was a child. 

Belgrade itself was no stranger to recurring nightmares. Countless times, the city had been raided and leveled by marauders, violated and passed about from Celts to Romans to Byzantines and Franks, juggled between Austrians and Turks. For ravenous, warmongering men, she was an object to be conquered and ravaged. 

Over the centuries, the walls were fortified and held for a time. But while they were keeping out Ottoman invaders, they also kept in pestilence and famine. 

In the cabin, the curtains, like swollen bubos, inflated into the candle-lit room with the brisk outdoor breeze. I pushed them aside and rushed to close the shutters, which I slammed and bolted in place. I ran to the door and, after fumbling for several seconds with my skeleton key, managed to lock it. I slid a chair toward it, screeching across the bare wooden floor, and propped it under the knob. 

At my bed I made the sign of the cross on my pillow before turning it over. This was the Serbian ritual for keeping the demon or mora away passed down over generations. I remembered how my mother taught it to me one sleepless night when I was a small child. The thought gave me some momentary comfort. But then the candle suddenly went out. 

I dove under the covers, shaking violently. It was dark and silent except for the chattering of my teeth. Then I saw it. A green light came in through the keyhole. It flowed in like a vapor at first and then began to take the shape of a luminescent moth. It approached the bed slowly growing and transforming into a large hairy beast. 

All the while, there was a weight building on my chest, and I began to struggle for each breath. Gnarly limbs grew up from the floor and tied my wrists back against the bedpost as I writhed with terror and began to sob. 

Suddenly, I could hear a woman's voice. It seemed to be coming from inside of me, reverberating through me. 

"You can change how it ends, Danijela," it said. "You MUST change how it ends." 

The mora hovered over me, approaching my face with breath like burning sulfur. It hissed and snarled and bore stiletto-like teeth. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This isn't real, I thought to myself. I have the power to end this. No sooner had I thought it than a knife appeared in my hand, and with a single thrust, I broke my arm free and plunged the blade into the beast. It shrieked and shattered into gravel and dust. The viny limb binding my left arm loosened and fell as it turned to yarn. 

The voice returned. 

"Now, on the count of three you will awaken from your trance." 

"1... 2... 3." 

***** 

The room was bright. It took some time to adjust my eyes and acclimate myself to my new surroundings. I was lying on a rust-colored teak sofa, and there was a table by my feet holding an antique stained-glass lamp and a box of tissues. From somewhere, on a clock radio perhaps, Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 was playing faintly. 

"You were very brave today, Danijela." 

Dr. Obrenovic's voice was soft and soothing, but as I looked down at my still trembling hands, I could not ignore the bruised and swollen wrists that met them. They were reminders that the horrors of the past could not easily be overcome.

Fashion Faux Pas

The detectives, a thirty-something female with long dark hair and an older man with grey hair and mustache, came out of the elevator carrying covered coffee cups. They flashed their badges and pushed open the glass door to the studio without pausing their conversation.

"Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she spouts the rankest mash of drivel and poppycock."

"Poppycock? Who are you?"

"What's wrong with poppycock? My grandfather says poppycock."

"I think you've just answered your own question."

"Oh, hush." She mumbled sheepishly. An attractive woman, she had a slightly gaunt face with high cheekbones and captivating brown eyes. "You know, I wanted to be a model when I was a teenager."

"What made you change your mind?"

"It was just a phase I grew out of, I guess. I don't know. It all just seemed so..." She was searching for the right word. "Vapid."

The receptionist was filing her nails and pretending not to notice them. "All the way back and to the right," she droned without looking up.

Inside of the fashion studio the walls, floor and furniture were all bland varieties of white, egg shell and beige. This was by design. It was the blank canvas over which everything else came to life. Against it, the unadorned mannequins practically disappeared into their surroundings while others displayed vibrant, multi-colored garments. To the left were large windows looking out over Madison Avenue. To the right were giant rolls of fabric in a plethora of hues and patterns. On the far wall, assorted sketches done by colored pencil were posted neatly in rows. They were of female figures in various dresses and gowns, commanding in their presence, always with their arms on their hips. Some stood straight while others had one hip lowered seductively.

"Look at these photos." Higgins was looking at glossy pictures of fashion models he found on a work desk. "Would it kill them to smile once in a while?"

"Smiling is uncool. Unfashionable." Rodriguez couldn't help but smirk as she said it.

"This isn't Moscow. I mean, do they have to project such..."

"I think the word you're looking for is ennui."

"On-what?"

"Apathy. Boredom."

"I swear, Rodriguez, when they assigned you as my partner, they should have issued me a dictionary instead of a gun. Lord knows I'd use it more often."

"This way detectives." A uniformed officer approached. His face was sickly pale, and he seemed relieved to see them. Clearly, he was not used to the sight and smell of not-so-fresh corpses.

He directed them to an office with a placard displaying the name Xavier Leroux. Higgins hung back to question the officer, while Rodriguez went inside.

The medical examiner had already arrived. "It looks like the body has been here for about two days. The positioning and ligature marks around the neck suggest that he was attacked from behind," he added.

"By the way," he was looking at Rodriguez, "navy is NOT your color, detective."

"Thanks for noticing," she shot back.

Higgins came in and handed her a file folder. "This may be our perp. He's an up-and-coming star in the fashion world. Camera loves him, apparently. He and Leroux were seen having an argument last week, and guess who didn't show up for the photo shoot this morning?"

"Interesting." She looked over the file with glamour shots paper-clipped to a bio.

"Quit drooling."

"Shut up." She tried to hide her embarrassment.  "Alright. We need to interview anyone with a connection to our vic. And let's put out an APB for..."

******

SAINT MICHEL, Florian Laurent. The letters, once engulfed in flame, shriveled and disappeared into blackness. He turned the card slightly and let the flame run across the picture, an emotionless visage of vanity and emptiness. He held it up and, just as the intense heat began to singe his thumb and index finger, threw it into an urn. The last remaining connection to his former life smoldered and disintegrated. He picked up a broom that was propped against a wall of jagged stone and brushed toward the corner sweep-hole long, curled locks of golden hair.

The quiescence was punctuated by the sudden ringing of a gong. Once. He let the sound wash over and through him as the higher pitches receded, leaving a low bass that too eventually faded. Twice. He put away the broom, put on his sandals, and instinctively looked for a mirror before catching himself. Thrice. He left the room, descended the spiral staircase of a stone tower, and entered the courtyard to join the converging swarm--an anonymous face among a sea of orange robes.