Month: October 2014

Using Music To Power Through

I used to be a disc jockey on the FM radio in the 1980s.

This first career was a labor of love–I wasn’t paid to do it–yet it set in motion the events of my life in the future. I recommend all young people try to do something positive like this. It will power a person through to the rest of his or her life. It can be a kind of therapy when you’re faced with oncoming symptoms.

Even now, I recommend doing things that give you positive reinforcement. One guy watches sports games. Years later, I listen to music on the radio and iTunes. I recommend installing iTunes on a computer so you can listen to [mostly free] radio stations. Zeilsteen in the alternative genre is good.

In a flash one day it hit me to install Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” At first, I accidentally installed the Sex Pistols version of “My Way” and then I found out they re-created it with new lyrics that butcher the song’s intent.

The original version of “My Way” is the perfect antidote to stigma in my estimation. Listening to it can help us soldier on; to remember we’re beholden to no one else in society to prove our worth to; that we need not seek other people’s approval.

I recommend that you do things YOUR way–in your version of the “My Way” that Frank Sinatra sings about.

Old Blue Eyes was right on the money. Here’s to you, Frankie.

I’ll end here that about five years ago a New York Times article reported on the high number of “Sinatra-cides” that happened in the Phillipines when “My Way” was belted out during Karaoke. People singing this song were actually killed. Numerous clubs banned the use of “My Way” as a result.

Google the lyrics to this song if you don’t want to buy it. I find this song to be truly uplifting.

Music can be one of the joys of life. It can give a person positive reinforcement.

Take that, stigma.

A Butterfly In The City

Tumbling down the hole. Not realizing I would be set up for the perfect detour years later.

An excerpt from Left of the Dial.
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As I neared my twenty-fourth birthday, I wanted to book out of the day program fast, so I was willing to change my tune if it meant that Abby would refer me to OVR—the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation. This New York State agency trained people with disabilities for jobs or sent them to school. If I could learn word processing, I’d get a job in publishing.

Browsing magazines, I saw that all editors had a look: barely any makeup except foundation, a dark slash of eyeliner only on the top lash line, and brownish pink or pinkish brown lips. I wanted that look, and I knew I had to get it.

“Kiddo, come on, I want to treat you for your birthday,” Zoe suggested. Her gift was a makeup session at the Prescriptives counter. She had gotten a job as a music therapist at a day program in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, and had the money to burn.

“Okay,” I couldn’t resist, and so I drove us in my Mustang to Macy’s.

The woman in her black smock “color printed” my cheek to determine the exact shade of foundation, like my skin’s signature. “Fresh Peach” she pronounced, and she placed the round glass bottle aside. I was an “R/O,” so she found the perfect lipstick: Fado for work. She swiped Pompeii blush—a deep apricot—on my cheeks and finished off with Espresso eyeliner. A dramatic quad of eye shadow completed the look with four colors, all variations of brown.

The transformation was subtle, as if I was sun-kissed, and I looked healthy, not like the undead with my black hair and pale skin. “Time for an Italian lover.” Zoe laughed. “I could imagine you in a villa in Tuscany.”

“Oh, please,” I shrugged her off, though it felt good.

“You look mahvelous, dahling,” the counter woman sang and handed me the green tote bag with my goodies. My gift-with-purchase was a sample of Calyx perfume.

“Let’s go shop,” Zoe said, and so we walked out into the mall.

I wanted to get a pair of pants and a shirt for when I had the appointment with the OVR counselor, who, if I was lucky, would send me for testing, and I’d come back approved. You had to be screened for a training program, and I wanted to give myself every advantage.

I found the black slacks and white button-down shirt in Paul Harris, where they had petite clothes, yet I’d still have to hem the sleeves and pant (I’m that short). For five weeks I’d saved ten dollars a week, so I had enough money for the items.

Zoe looked at the outfit when I came out of the dressing room. “You are so going to be an editor, baby. I can see you in a little convertible zipping down the road.”

Oh, I lived for that dream. It propelled me. I would do whatever it took to make that happen. I changed back into my regular clothes and took the new items to the register.

Next we went to the food court to get lunch. We ordered salads at the vendor where you could get a fresh salad tossed on the spot. I always bought the spinach with bacon and egg.

We gossiped about famous people who were supposed to have bipolar.

“Tracey Ullman and Carrie Fisher,” she outed the comedian and actress.

“Sure, it’s cool to be hypomanic,” I suggested. “You buy twenty pairs of Manolos, and everyone thinks you’re the life of the party.”

“Hey,” she cut into me. “It’s not hip to be bipolar. Can you imagine the effort it would take to coordinate all those shoes in your closet?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Some of us are mostly depressed. I tried once. It almost happened.”

“All I’m saying is that if you’re Tracey Ullman, you can brag. I don’t see any celebrities with schizophrenia touting the benefits of being cracked up,” I insisted.

“You got me,” she said.

“So, do your coworkers know?”

“No way,” she told me. “I don’t have twenty pairs of the right kind of shoes.”

“Sylvia Plath was rumored to have bipolar.”

“That proves my point,” she argued. “I read all her poetry books when I was in college.”

This surprised me.

“Well, she’s a poet and a well-regarded one. The only people you hear about on the six o’clock news with schizophrenia are killers on the loose,” I told her.

“Be careful. Promise me you won’t tell anyone. I would hate to see your chances at getting a job go up in smoke.”

I said I understood that I would have to live in hiding. She said it was like we lived in the world and outside of it at the same time. When I was younger, I felt like an outsider looking in at the other teen girls’ charmed lives, and this feeling was only intensified now.

We finished eating our salads.

“Let’s shop some more.” Zoe got up with her tray to dispose of it, and I followed with my tray. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes.”

We went to Parade of Shoes and looked around. I told her that we’d have to cut it short because I had to go back to the house and cook dinner.

 

Left of the Dial Amazon Page

Bingo

Surreal. The detour taken.

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Weekends were a drag unless Margot and I carted ourselves to the city to watch a movie or browse a street fair. You scored points for walking the line, so we often wound up at Lake House acting like we belonged.

Bingo was popular on Sunday afternoons. Amy Lou, a counselor, would bring out the game and a kettle of Charles potato chips. Margot wore a sign on her head that said badass and lived up to that designation. The shout out of “O69” found her heckling: “Toothpaste, mouthwash.”

Amy Lou wasn’t an idealist. She couldn’t conceive of any of us ever acting normal, so she protested Margot’s innuendo, and that fueled my new friend even more. “I wish I were stoned,” she belted out.

That bait was fishing’s best lure, and Amy Lou took it even though she should know better. “Do you want me to write you up?”

“Be my guest.” Margot lifted her palms outward.

I knew she didn’t want to get stoned. Her secret fantasy was to lie on a beach in Hawaii sipping a tropical drink. One night Margot pointedly told me she didn’t do drugs. We had been in the basement lounge listening to drop-dead segues on WFMU from the ancient radio.

We spent Saturday nights down in the basement where no one else went because you couldn’t smoke down there. We sat on the frightful baroque sofa complete with plastic cover. We made a vow to get the hell out and stay out.

Bingo lasted for about an hour.

“Scope, Altoids,” Margot shot back one last time.

“You’ve lost your privileges,” Amy Lou referred to some mythical privileges that in reality we didn’t have.

Our weekday curfew was ten o’clock, and our weekend curfew was midnight. A real stoner guy came in at 3:00 a.m. all the time, and no one did anything about it. Ironically, he was the first resident to move up to the next level of independent supported housing.

You were yoked to the staff, and any extended absence sent alarm bells ringing in their heads. You had to clear with them every outside event away from Lake House. I was glad I had traveled to San Francisco before I arrived here. Pretending to be somewhere you weren’t was the norm. They wouldn’t check up on you if you were back in time.

The counselors got us tickets for concerts at BAM in Brooklyn or the 92nd Street Y, and they herded us into the van clearly marked Lake House to the world. Only, I welcomed these excursions because it was a chance to bumble about the city. I got excited riding there in the early evening as the lights lit up the Manhattan skyline.

One woman who volunteered at the BAM ticket booth was tall and wore a chartreuse cardigan that I coveted. I fell in love with the life I imagined she led.

I came home from these trips deflated like a punctured tire. I wanted to drive the highway of life. Instead, I had to settle for bingo and chips.

Everyone got up to leave the dining table, and Margot cocked her head: “Basement?”

“Of course.” I followed her downstairs.

“That was fun,” she said. And turned the stereo up loud.

MFA: Boon Or Boondoggle?

From time to time I will talk about the writing life in a category of blog entries under the title the writing life.

It might interest readers who have the urge to tell their story or write a book.

I recently read in the book Happiness, a collection of essays taken from the critical literary journal n+1, a chapter by Keith Gessen, a guy who was a penniless writer forced to teach fiction at a college. He does have an MFA, and sold a book for a six-figure advance (advances are always against future royalties.) Yet for most of his writerly life, he existed on $15K to $20K in yearly income.

This will be the first writing myth I bust: that a traditional avenue for a writing career is the only one a would-be writer should aspire to.

First: I’m not a fan of most MFA fiction (or fiction for that matter), so I’m biased against having a job in an “ivory tower” academic institution where you teach writing to students. I read a fine column in Poets & Writers about how real-life experience is vital to have as a writer, instead of going the paper-mill route.

I make an exception: certain MFA writers are good–like Danzy Senna. And it’s a matter of preference, because Heidi Julavits is a famous MFA-writer, and I found nothing spectacular about her first book, The Mineral Palace. (I read it when it first came out.)

She was on a panel discussion I attended titled: “MFA: Boon or Boondoggle” easily over 10 years ago.

The myth of having to write full-time, the myth of most writers being able to earn a livable income solely from writing, is just that: a myth.

The wind-up:

To get an MFA, you have to think of your R.O.I., or return on investment: if you’ll recoup the expensive tuition by getting a book deal with a decent advance.

I will return on Thursday with a more hopeful scenario to combat this common dilemma.

Personality Crisis

This comes from the first chapter that recreates the days following when I moved into the halfway house. I don’t recommend anyone do what I did. Instead, research your options and be not afraid to do something different. I don’t think any young person should be shunted into a traditional day program. I’ve formed this stance in retrospect because of my time spent writing the memoir. I do not offer this advice flippantly. Nor do I recommend ditching a treatment plan that could actually work. My contention is that you have to do your research and choose wisely what you do after you’re first diagnosed when you’re young.

The title of the blog entry is a reference to the song title of a song one of the characters was singing on the first day I moved into the halfway house. She and I got out of the system. So few of the others did. It’s all too easy to get led down the wrong path. And true a better option might not exist where you live. It seemed like I had no other options circa the fall 1987.

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Waking up come Monday morning I heard the Sugarcubes on loud from in that room. This could get very interesting—first punk rock and now Icelandic pop.

I washed my face in the sink, barely removing my eye makeup so I didn’t have to apply it again. It saved time. Today I didn’t want to be late again for the new day program. Ellen sent me to Meadow because she didn’t think I was ready for a part-time job, not even volunteer work, and Rise was meant to be short-term.

Soon I met the woman who liked rock-n-roll. In the kitchen, she made herself coffee, and I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios. Her corkscrew hair snaked out around her face.

“I’m Margot,” she introduced herself, bringing her mug to the table where I sat.

“Chris.” I looked anywhere but at her face.

“I’ll walk with you to Meadow,” she said. It was the second day program I attended.

“Thank you.” I soaked up her kindness.

She wore a red leather MC and motorcycle boots. I coveted her style.

“You live in the room with the music.”

“Yes. I’ve heard your punk. I like it. The woman next to me listens to Slim Whitman.” She rolled her eyes.

I laughed. “I love your leather jacket.”

“It’s an ex-boyfriend’s. I broke up with him and never gave it back.” That was so cool. I knew I’d like knowing her. I hoped this would turn into a friendship. It would satisfy Brett. I’d have an ally in this strange world.

“Let’s go. It’s late.” We placed our cups and bowls in the dishwasher and left.

We walked in silence the five blocks to the building. On arriving, she told me she’s in Level One, the highest rung on the ladder of groups, and walked down the hall. My counselor, Abby, placed me in Level Five, at the bottom. Today I was going to make the case that she elevate me at least to Level Two. I turned the corner and entered the morning group therapy.

Sylvia, a woman with punched-out eyes, applied her face: turquoise eye shadow and fuchsia lipstick. Abigail strummed worry beads and prayed under her breath. My anger was red as a drumbeat. I railed against being in this group because what passed for therapy was usually talk about the weather, and even so, I thought it rude to use the meeting as a beauty parlor.

The therapist, Andre, asked first off if anyone had an issue he or she wanted to discuss, and a guy asked, “Does anybody know why the train was late?”

After we’d gone around about this, a woman with a haunted face wanted to know why it was so cold. “Is there a wind chill factor?” I could see her blue veins through her thin arms.

Burl, a man with lagoon eyes and wild grass hair, stared at me the whole time. I slogged through this session until it was time to meet my counselor for the progress report. Abby ushered me into her office at eleven-thirty, and I took a seat in front of her desk. She was a lavender kind of woman, and I hated pastels.

Here I was at another day program, and I wanted to move faster.

“Why?” I asked automatically. “Why did you put me at the bottom? I’d like to be in one of Margot’s groups. Why can’t I have a goals group and a work-search group?” It was called Life Management, and it was available for those at the highest level, where you could work on planning for the future and what you would do when you graduated the program. As far as I could tell, everyone at the bottom had been here three, four, five years, or more. Though I’d only been here two months, I was itching to get out.

Abby said, “I placed you there because when you first came here, you barely talked and were extremely quiet.”

“How am I supposed to get support if people just talk about why the train was late or how the weather is outside?” I challenged her, and she winced. “Is that what group therapy is supposed to be about?”

Abby caressed the round glass paperweight on her desk. Before she could respond, I continued, “This place is a playpen. It’s a holding pen for people who can’t function on the outside. How is Meadow going to help me? I want out.” I feared the longer I stayed here, I would give up on myself, just like the others had.

“I tell you what. I’ll talk with the other staff, and in three weeks, if we’ve noticed an improvement, I’ll consider moving you up.”

Yes, it was going to happen. I was going to make it happen.

Abby said, “Nice haircut. Keep it up.”

I’d gotten a new style: longer in front, framing my face; shorter in back, with bangs spiked up. I liked it; I did. Kind of a modern bob. It made me look young, even though I didn’t need to look any younger.

She told me, “Next up I want you to work on your makeup and clothes.”

“Fair enough,” I said, though I wasn’t quite ready to take the leap.

“Okay, you can go to lunch,” Abby dismissed me.

Putting Your Quirks To Work

The October Oprah magazine has an article titled “The Power of Quirk”: why the qualities that set us apart are often the ones that help us succeed.

Alexandra Robbins, the writer of the article, wrote: “Here’s my discovery: Each of the adults said the difference that caused them grief in school eventually led to something wonderful. And when they kept nurturing that quality, it continued to give them an advantage.”

I recommend you fill in the blanks in the QuirkBook that accompanies the article to find out what drives you.

Management consultant Gary Hamel is quoted that what lies at the heart of inventive thinking is: “a knack for seeing the world in a way no one else does.”

To wit: “embracing your quirk helps you become the you-est version of you and share that you-ness with the world.”

I’m all for celebrating and expressing our quirks.

It takes guts to be honest and authentic. Yet the world doesn’t need another person pretending to be someone he or she is not just to be accepted.

I’m not impressed with fakes. I’m not impressed with what passes for normal.

You’re not a rhinestone; you’re a diamond. So shine your one and only light in the world and the ones that matter will accept you for who you are.

The others: we don’t need to try to impress them if they’re going to judge us for having our quirks.

What’s not to love about a quirk?

It’s time to celebrate the individuality of spirit that everyone has instead of attacking others for being different.

Difference is beautiful. Dare to be different in a world of copycats.

Own your quirks. Use them to your advantage.