..Die He Must...
My father never really loved me. Maybe at some point he had some pride in my adolescent achievement; after all, I graduated with high honors from a top ivy college, turned down a scholarship to Harvard-- -stuff parents can 'bank'. But person to person? He couldn't look me in the eye, we both cringed if a goodbye hug was required, and I used to sigh with great relief if he worked late and couldn't make a school play or performance.
Teachers would always comment on how handsome he was; that was useless for me. In fact I used to wish he'd never come home so my mother could marry someone who wouldn't ask me if I was a moron when I had a question about something. I didn't feel hurt or sorry; for years I thought that's what fathers did. I learned to use books. They were reliable, available, kind and patient.
Maybe I grew up and rejected men who doted on me; it didn't feel right. Of course at some point I realized that shame and alcohol had a lot to do with our family dynamics and my penchant for truth seeking was an unintentional finger pointing at him. He's 95 now. I can feel him squirm if he picks up the phone when I call my demented Mom, old cranky fuck that he is. Once or twice he actually blurted out 'if you wanna give me a present, don't ever call me.' The honesty is a relief… then every once in a while he says something almost 'paternal'. He actually likes my son. He's a boy. He's not an unmarried poet who plays bass guitar in downtown clubs.
Wednesday is my day to get groceries in Harlem; something always on special at Pathmark and I get to absorb some uptown culture. Pathmark in summer is my version of Coney Island. It's massive, it's crowded, it's filled with colorful displays and distractions, most of which I'd rather observe than partake of. There's tons of exposed skin and strange fashion statements… and at any given moment, a good percentage of the crowd is not intending to buy or participate. Some are taking in the moderately cool air, some are consuming anything they did not intend to purchase… gaping, butt-watching, hand slapping and commentating. There is plenty of narrative, family drama, the PA 'barker' beckoning the shoppers to sample the specials and bargains, old ladies shuffling and squeezing things, muttering, judging and spitting. In front of me on the huge snaking line, a young family with 2 giant carts loaded with frozen entrees and french fries, boxed pies and cakes, gallons of juice and punch, pounds of hotdogs, pancake mix, canned icing--- the usual… and a virtual team of kids--- the girls packing and helping-- the 8 year old boy in glasses asking his Mom constantly -- how do you make ice cream cones, what's a ingredient… can you put a motor on the cart… until she whacked him…'No more fuckin questions, you hear me?' The kid didn't seem hurt; he just leaned on the window sill and looked out at 125th street and fidgeted and talked to himself a little.
Of course the white liberal over-educated humanist wanted to pick him up and take him to a library-- I mean, I'm not predicting he's going to grow up and become an angry gangsta or a nerd who gets the shit kicked out of him at Promise Academy. Maybe he'll be a teacher. My own mother wisely bought-- from her housekeeper's handsome strapping football-playing son--- a set of Collier's Encyclopedia. I could look everything up. Jerusalem. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Penis. I no longer needed to fear my father's impatient wrath. I was saved.
Back in Carnegie Hill this evening, one of the investment banker fathers walking behind his little girl… barely 3, in her little Jacadi frock and the Bonpoint shoes, with her pink my-little-pony and her neat pigtails…Are you sure?, he is saying to her? Are you SURE? And she is saying… mmh hmMM! with the little upswing… and just as I pass them, he actually says… 'and WHAT IF SHE ISN'T?…. '
What if she isn't? What kind of twisted manipulative question is this to ask a 3-year old-- to plant doubt and fear and anxiety and all shades of grey in a tiny mind where everything is not only black and white but pink and blue… Is this what his boss asked him today when he put in a huge margin call betting that the market is going to drop tomorrow….And what if it doesn't? Your Stepford wife will leave you for a richer man and your tiny daughter will imprison you weekends until she is old enough for boarding school?
We are born with eyes and ears and a mouth, the lucky among us. We trust the people who hold us and swaddle us and feed us. We smile at them and helplessly let them pick us up and put us in vehicles and cribs and baskets. And some people pick us up and scold us when no one is looking--- they take our toys and touch us inappropriately and show us things we don't want to see and tell us things that give us lifetime nightmares. Some of these people are even our parents or relatives. And like random soldiers in a brutal war, some go home unscathed, and some are blown up. Some lose limbs and some become emotional amputees. What happens to the Robin Williamses and the Heath Ledgers and the Philip Seymour Hoffmans that opens up a tiny fissure of doubt or fear which compels them to laugh and entertain and compensate and develop extraordinary talents that do little to cover the gaping wound that no one sees?
I know parents who, while bragging about their children, I can see in a nano-second when there is no love here. I have seen these kids overdose, binge drink, do rehab and jail time. And some of them become presidents and rockstars. Actors. Or men like my Dad who are heroes and wonderful human beings to someone but are emotionally cruel to some of the women in his family… yes, these people had their own wounds and damages… I try to understand. And I pray none of my eccentricities ever hurt my own kids in some cavalier and branding way.
We read and watch footage of our beloved Robin Williams on every network… the great irony of the brilliant comedian--- the sad clown. We have read this story before. And knowing in this toxic media world that no secret would be kept sacred, that no detail would be spared… and still, he couldn't find the will to NOT go through with this…. well, we are chilled to the bone in the August summer. Some of us feel the undertow every day of our lives. We hold our ears against the screams of the Sirens and we struggle to make it to another day because even though the darkness beckons, we hesitate to leave this legacy of wreckage for the few that actually might love us.
Personally I thank my father for giving me an inroad to these souls, to the dark side. And as much as we feel the shiver of this passing, we feel a tiny bit of relief…he is free, we have a little vicarious 'what if' moment… and we mourn and go on. .. with our talents and our sadness and our curse of compassion and our gaping hearts…and we ask questions that are not answerable in any Encyclopedia or bottle or needle or warm bed.
Teachers would always comment on how handsome he was; that was useless for me. In fact I used to wish he'd never come home so my mother could marry someone who wouldn't ask me if I was a moron when I had a question about something. I didn't feel hurt or sorry; for years I thought that's what fathers did. I learned to use books. They were reliable, available, kind and patient.
Maybe I grew up and rejected men who doted on me; it didn't feel right. Of course at some point I realized that shame and alcohol had a lot to do with our family dynamics and my penchant for truth seeking was an unintentional finger pointing at him. He's 95 now. I can feel him squirm if he picks up the phone when I call my demented Mom, old cranky fuck that he is. Once or twice he actually blurted out 'if you wanna give me a present, don't ever call me.' The honesty is a relief… then every once in a while he says something almost 'paternal'. He actually likes my son. He's a boy. He's not an unmarried poet who plays bass guitar in downtown clubs.
Wednesday is my day to get groceries in Harlem; something always on special at Pathmark and I get to absorb some uptown culture. Pathmark in summer is my version of Coney Island. It's massive, it's crowded, it's filled with colorful displays and distractions, most of which I'd rather observe than partake of. There's tons of exposed skin and strange fashion statements… and at any given moment, a good percentage of the crowd is not intending to buy or participate. Some are taking in the moderately cool air, some are consuming anything they did not intend to purchase… gaping, butt-watching, hand slapping and commentating. There is plenty of narrative, family drama, the PA 'barker' beckoning the shoppers to sample the specials and bargains, old ladies shuffling and squeezing things, muttering, judging and spitting. In front of me on the huge snaking line, a young family with 2 giant carts loaded with frozen entrees and french fries, boxed pies and cakes, gallons of juice and punch, pounds of hotdogs, pancake mix, canned icing--- the usual… and a virtual team of kids--- the girls packing and helping-- the 8 year old boy in glasses asking his Mom constantly -- how do you make ice cream cones, what's a ingredient… can you put a motor on the cart… until she whacked him…'No more fuckin questions, you hear me?' The kid didn't seem hurt; he just leaned on the window sill and looked out at 125th street and fidgeted and talked to himself a little.
Of course the white liberal over-educated humanist wanted to pick him up and take him to a library-- I mean, I'm not predicting he's going to grow up and become an angry gangsta or a nerd who gets the shit kicked out of him at Promise Academy. Maybe he'll be a teacher. My own mother wisely bought-- from her housekeeper's handsome strapping football-playing son--- a set of Collier's Encyclopedia. I could look everything up. Jerusalem. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Penis. I no longer needed to fear my father's impatient wrath. I was saved.
Back in Carnegie Hill this evening, one of the investment banker fathers walking behind his little girl… barely 3, in her little Jacadi frock and the Bonpoint shoes, with her pink my-little-pony and her neat pigtails…Are you sure?, he is saying to her? Are you SURE? And she is saying… mmh hmMM! with the little upswing… and just as I pass them, he actually says… 'and WHAT IF SHE ISN'T?…. '
What if she isn't? What kind of twisted manipulative question is this to ask a 3-year old-- to plant doubt and fear and anxiety and all shades of grey in a tiny mind where everything is not only black and white but pink and blue… Is this what his boss asked him today when he put in a huge margin call betting that the market is going to drop tomorrow….And what if it doesn't? Your Stepford wife will leave you for a richer man and your tiny daughter will imprison you weekends until she is old enough for boarding school?
We are born with eyes and ears and a mouth, the lucky among us. We trust the people who hold us and swaddle us and feed us. We smile at them and helplessly let them pick us up and put us in vehicles and cribs and baskets. And some people pick us up and scold us when no one is looking--- they take our toys and touch us inappropriately and show us things we don't want to see and tell us things that give us lifetime nightmares. Some of these people are even our parents or relatives. And like random soldiers in a brutal war, some go home unscathed, and some are blown up. Some lose limbs and some become emotional amputees. What happens to the Robin Williamses and the Heath Ledgers and the Philip Seymour Hoffmans that opens up a tiny fissure of doubt or fear which compels them to laugh and entertain and compensate and develop extraordinary talents that do little to cover the gaping wound that no one sees?
I know parents who, while bragging about their children, I can see in a nano-second when there is no love here. I have seen these kids overdose, binge drink, do rehab and jail time. And some of them become presidents and rockstars. Actors. Or men like my Dad who are heroes and wonderful human beings to someone but are emotionally cruel to some of the women in his family… yes, these people had their own wounds and damages… I try to understand. And I pray none of my eccentricities ever hurt my own kids in some cavalier and branding way.
We read and watch footage of our beloved Robin Williams on every network… the great irony of the brilliant comedian--- the sad clown. We have read this story before. And knowing in this toxic media world that no secret would be kept sacred, that no detail would be spared… and still, he couldn't find the will to NOT go through with this…. well, we are chilled to the bone in the August summer. Some of us feel the undertow every day of our lives. We hold our ears against the screams of the Sirens and we struggle to make it to another day because even though the darkness beckons, we hesitate to leave this legacy of wreckage for the few that actually might love us.
Personally I thank my father for giving me an inroad to these souls, to the dark side. And as much as we feel the shiver of this passing, we feel a tiny bit of relief…he is free, we have a little vicarious 'what if' moment… and we mourn and go on. .. with our talents and our sadness and our curse of compassion and our gaping hearts…and we ask questions that are not answerable in any Encyclopedia or bottle or needle or warm bed.
Labels: 125th Street, Collier's Encyclopedia, Coney Island, Harvard, Heath Ledger, margin calls, Pathmark, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Princeton, rehab, Robin Williams, sobriety, Stepford wives, Suicide
posted by mysocalledwriterlessblog at
2:54 AM
1 Comments:
Once again Philip Larkin's poem seems as apposite as before. We all have some vision of how things ought to be; loving parents, dutiful children, gratitude and benevolence from the rich and famous, gratitude and humility from the charity cases, gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. It is rarer than we want to believe.
"If you are having a mental health problem, get help" they tell us... everyone tells us, with kindly benevolence, as if they know what is best for every other person. It's easy for them to say.
I have no idea how much it costs to "Get Help" in the USA, Financially, I'm sure as I can be that it is impossible for those most in need of it to "Get Help".
Everyone else can go spin.. "Are there no prisons, are there no workhouses?" Ebenezer Scrooge lives yet.
I went to "Get Help" in the early 90s. It's different here, and at least I didn't have to pay for the long waiting times, the bored, patronizing, overly familiar strangers who were wearing their "charity faces" or for the poisonous pharmaceuticals that left me numb, bouncing like a pinball in a machine from bumper to bumper, appointment to appointment, a "case", a "victim", some pitiable object unable to stand alone.
I'm not that person. I face a daily rollercoaster of emotions, boom to bust in seconds, and contemplate taking my life on a daily, if not hourly basis, but I am not that person. I will not be that person.
This will probably be news for plenty of people who like the easy answer, but there really is no pill that can cure depression. There are some which will alleviate symptoms on a temporary basis, but, sorry people, ultimately, rather like giving up smoking or weight loss, it really is largely a matter of how much you can manage to do for yourself. Therapy and medication can help some people .. sometimes, but not me, not then, and not now. Everyone is different, and I certainly would advise anyone feeling suicidal to talk to SOMEBODY. People can surprise you sometimes, a good listener who actually cares about you is worth 50 bored professionals who are watching the clock as you unburden yourself and hastily handing out a scrip for a chemical hammer to kill all your emotions, not just the negative ones.
To everyone gradually climbing out from under the medicinal cosh... keep going, you can do it, and in the doing of it, take pride, understand that you are accepting and embracing the thing that makes life difficult and conquering it a little more every day.
Having mental health problems is not a tragedy, it is a very real part of life for the majority of us at some time or another, and it is an illness, but a complex one and affects everyone in a unique way. There is no simple answer, Some people feel better for a lot of medical intervention, some people feel better if everyone steps off and allows them the time and space to work through things in their own way. I realise this latter is an extremely controversial stance, but having suffered more than 20 years of this I feel qualified to have an opinion of my own. Of course it suits the powers that be to give us, no SELL us a pill that will make us carry on working and paying tax like a good drone... but.. well there you have it...
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