Mental Health

Accentuating The Positive

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A friend recently congratulated me for getting back to “normal”, and “improving” after the years with The Calamities. The quoted words angered me. Though it wasn’t her fault, I launched into a text rant so interesting, honest, and cruel it scared me. She was only trying to be positive but…

The words are the problem. The message, not the messenger, so I apologized and hoped The Rant did not affect her own senior mental state. For me, it was cathartic to finally be able to verbalize one of the many cloudy issues plaguing Old Age: we age physically faster than we age mentally, at least most of us do. There are anecdotes of early onset cognitive impairment, but for most of us getting old is a lot like long, birth labor or “failure to progress”. A part of our existence, the mind, is not at the stage of life the body is, so…

Many of us are still the quarterback of our high school football team well into midlife. Or for a female symbol: Carrie Bradshaw.* My personal manly physical prowess was consistently overestimated** well into my 50s. Minor honest efforts were made to retain that prowess, but age adds a sliding, disconnect between what we do and what we think we have done and the gap separating the two gets larger each season.

Suddenly, and for a reason we tell ourselves we don’t understand, we look in a mirror one day and see the body of someone else.

It is shocking, but our minds still allow for some wiggle room: even when we buy all new pants, we still think we’ve got “It”, and will lose the weight.

Back to The Rant and my friend. Her words incited The Brain to find a way to explain the real “progress” aging means to the rest of my body including both Inner and Outer Voices: once we pass a certain age, we NEVER “improve” and the “normal” changes daily, and not in a good way. Every element of my existence is thankful for the instruction.

We can still have moments of physical, mental, and spiritual clarity leading to contentment and possible satisfaction with life, but we will never be what we were, ever again. It is what it is and we are what we are at each and every age. And the age we accept that realization is different for each of us, with some never accepting it at all.

When we are young, each mile of the race is faster, even as we go up the hill, then we hit the top and start down that long, knee-pounding decline to the last mile, and finally, The End. “Improving”? “Normal”?

We can work with normal. In fact, it has a measurable component in sports. If you run those miles*** you know how long it takes from the first step to the last. If you’ve kept a record, you could use Ai to plot a graph or chart. It’s amazing how clear life is when you see your run times charted and that physical hill appears on the graph. Up, up up, then down, down, down. Life.

So where is the positive? First, at least you were able to do things, great things, normal things, and things you loved. Never forget that bit. Second, the disconnect between what we feel we are and what we really are is finally understood late in life, especially by those who pay attention. The Wisdom we used to hear about when we were young. And even as you run your race slower and steadier, there may be times you can let loose, and get close to your best time for at least a few yards…

But improvement and normal have to be flexible and on your own terms. Carpe linguam and change the narrative.

*Younger women and men will need to Ai the name. Or not care to know.

**Not a good word for it since there was no conscious thought of my “estimation”: I simply knew I was still in great physical shape, inconvenient truths be damned. Ora at least ignored.

***Or swim those laps. Or bike those roads. Or complete those marathons…et.al…

A Word About Writing the Words

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I am a writer. It doesn’t matter if anyone reads this or if the whole world reads it. It was written by me, at my desk, typing away and the whole world can go feck off.

Well…not really. But what exactly IS this?

In the modern world this is called blogging, and this is a blog and you’d call me a blogger. It is an attempt to…hold on. Let’s call this new work an essay. That makes me an essayist. What is an essayist? A blogger who wants to be called a fancier name and not be confused with someone who carries an axe.

An essay (nee “blog”) is a short form work that tries to make a point using facts, embellished facts, truths, half-truths, hearsay, and copied reference material, often generated by Ai, with one of two original ideas added to the mix. Basically, it’s a written rant yielding a huge helping of mental relief.

I write fiction, too, with two books of short stories languishing in the public domain while hundreds more hide in digital closets waiting to see if anyone will find them. A good writer writes for him/her/their self and hopes to be discovered. A successful writer does the same but then finds a way to promote themselves, like raising their hand and yelling in a crowded, quiet library.

Since you’re really into this essay, is there a question you’re thinking about? Like, what is the difference between an essay and a work of fiction? Hm. Good question. (Picture the scratching of the head and a light bulb.) Short stories and essays are a lot alike, but the audience is different.

Short stories can be about anything, using anything, to tell a story about anything, tailored to an audience who might be interested. (Key word: Might.)

Essays are focused more on a personal point trying to be clarified, and often hope to reach an audience of the entire population of humankind.

The audience’s inspiration is the most important driver of either work. A writer may want you to know about how his Uncle Carl’s hatred of vegetables influenced the writer’s digestive life. Who would be interested in that besides relatives, dietitians, and the occasional crazy person?

But if a writer wants all of you to know why money doesn’t grow on trees, the essay is The Thing.

Since this is the morning after the Super Bowl and the room is still spinning, let’s get back to the first paragraph of this essay. I’ll give you a second.

There is an aspect of writing more profound than any point or story, whether read or unread by everyone or no one: writing is good for mental health. Everyone should be doing it. For over 60 years writing has been a constant friend, companion, shoulder-to-cry-on, and unjudging(sic) confidant. There is no secret, no shame, no remorse, no regret you can’t share with writing. When you sit with yourself and write about your problems they transfer from you to this white, unspoiled page, and something happens to those troubles. They may go away, they may not, but they will be easier to live with, and here are some extra words so I don’t end a sentence with a preposition.*

Let’s end with a proposition: You write and see what happens. Use crayons and construction paper. A computer and Calibri font. Anything.** And remember this when you do it: no one has to see it if you don’t want them to, so don’t leave your masterpiece lying*** around on the floor.

Maybe the next essay will be about poetry, iambic pentameter, and rhythm…the only birth control method with no vowels.

*Ai says ending with a preposition has become normal. I resist.

**But DO NOT USE speech to text. The time it takes for your brain to think of something and your fingers to type it accurately are magical moments. Don’t short-change yourself and not feel them.

***Grammar nuts: you thinking it should be “laying”?

How Many Of Us Are There?

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My UPER (Unnamed PERson) sent me a wonderful link to a nice, well-spoken gentlemen who discussed an intellectual and psychological concept you see all the time in these postings: the fragmentation of our psyche, what makes up our personalities and determines our actions. My postings use an Inner Voice (IV) and Outer Voice (OV) to illustrate inner mental and emotional conflicts. Regular readers* have been exposed to the inner dialogue IV and OV love to have about my life, its situations, and actions. Sorry for exposing myself**. Discerning readers also note there is an un-designated umpire ruling over the IV and OV debates, an entity making rulings, taking decisive actions, and writing these posts. Does that entity have a name?

Our brains are wonderfully intricate and obtuse. Ai obtuse for its “second” definition. The brain is bombarded with data from all sides, angles, and forms. Sight, sound, touch, political debate, and unfunny humor, so how does it decide what data, what stimuli to respond to? No one knows for sure, but I posit our magnificent gray watermelons take it ALL in, like a security camera, and park the data someplace in case it’s needed. Imagine the size of that data file after 73 years.

Who or what needs that data? And how is it recovered? Is there an app? And is it different for all 8 billion people? In the world of psychology, from here on out called The Circus, theories and guesses and opinions, oh my, abound. See the Pixar movie “Inside Out”, for a light-hearted examination of mental life. The Circus is different from excellent, rigorous, verifiable scientific research into the structures and mechanisms of the brain, where opinions are irrelevant.

Under The Circus’s tent you’ll find many “models” of personality that are used to treat corresponding symptoms/diseases of the “brain”, diagnosed by applying an individual’s actions to the individual model being used in the examination. Some results are good, positive, results, some are not. Fixing a broken mind isn’t as easy as fixing a broken bone. Or removing a misfiring heart. The word isn’t used anymore, but how many of us if we are looked at using the “correct” model might be labeled “crazy”? Everyone knows Freud’s name, but does everyone know what he postulated about the human mind? Ai him and read it. Or the many others*** in The Circus trying valiantly to bring their big-top show into the halls of actual science, oftentimes including simple self-help concepts meant to wrangle the mind into what it should be, according to the model of the time. I’ve been exposed to a lot of the models and could call IV, OV, and The Unnamed Umpire ID, Ego, and Superego to make myself happier. Or use the bible solution and replace all bad thoughts and lies with God’s Word. Or renew any addiction that makes thinking about things easier. Simple, profound advice when trying to understand your brain and its actions is to use anything that works for you, doesn’t destroy you, costs little, and doesn’t harm anyone else. IV OV and The Umpire are screaming in my ear to suggest you use their model. Actually, OV and IV are debating loudly while The Umpire is telling them to shut the hell up, we’re trying to be helpful, here. Like any other family, it will work out. Or not.

A thing to remember and helps: in 100 years none of it will matter or be remembered. OV wanted 200 years, IV wanted 50, The Umpire compromised.

Funny, happy ending? The fingers did exactly what they were told.

*I use “regular” because “irregular” readers don’t care or don’t know.

**It just sounds funny to admit it in writing.

***Transactional Analysis. CBT, DBT, and ACT to name a few acronyms. Maybe we need as many treatments as there are individuals?

Faith? Why?

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Faith is a strong word, one of those single syllable words which are hard to mispronounce and carry a lot of weight. Love. Hate. Peace. Death. Whoever invented these words tried to make their meaning clear and unambiguous, for all to see and understand.

Right. (Sarcasm.) Ai was asked for a definition of Faith. The sultry, English voice (my choice) offered two types of Faith: Religious and Secular. Paraphrased, Religious Faith is the firm belief in something for which there is no proof. My bet is most of us think of this definition when we hear the word “faith”. It is often debated as a complex issue but really, the bottom line is you believe or not. You have faith or not. True, unshakeable Religious Faith is one of the major wonders of the world. You’re lucky to have it.

We use a different faith all the time in the real world. On my drive to the fitness center this morning my 3,000 pound, gas-powered missile passed 12 other missiles, often within feet of each other, and at high speeds. It is a life or death situation we face every day where we do not even think about the “faith” we have in the other driver being competent, enough, to not kill us both. When I get in my car I have faith it will start. When I wake up I have faith my lungs will fill with air. I even have faith there will be air. These are secular faiths we employ—and believe in—every minute of the day. They might even be called “communal faiths” because we all believe in these daily miracles as we fill our daily, minute-by-minute days. Imagine if we lost faith…

Carpe Diem is a favorite phrase bandied about—ad infinitum–when talking about how to enjoy life. Seize the Day. Why don’t we, instead: “amplectere fidem?” google it.

If we could find a way to note and appreciate our daily, secular faith, how might it affect malaise and depression? Unhappiness? The holy grail of well-being? So many of us work so hard to be something, be someone, be somewhere, when we should have faith in who, what, and where we are. And why, too, though that one is trickier.

Secular faith even helps pessimists. Don’t they firmly believe without proof something bad is going to happen? This might be a Religious Faith for them, by the way.

There are miracles every minute of every day, some, maybe even sent by your actual God, whichever one in which you have Faith. Think about your own faith when you have the time, not just when you narrowly avoid getting hit by the dump truck that didn’t see you. Plus, contemplating faith may take your mind off other things.

The best part of having both Faith and faith (if you’re lucky enough) is when you can’t find one, the other will be there to help you get back from whatever misguided but utterly human misadventure you’ve foisted upon yourself.

You have faith in oncoming anonymous drivers so have faith in yourself, and in the world.

Atheists are the ultimate in faith groups, by the way. They have enough faith in themselves to reckon they don’t need any Divine Help.

PS I am entirely aware this short outpouring of words and platitudes in no way compares to a dusty, detailed, and annotated debate about Faith, faith, life, religion, and the meaning of life. So what?

It’s A Wonderful Modern, Thoughtful Life

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Life. Take a pause and just think about Life. Birth, followed by death, disease, accidents, catastrophes, pandemics, and finally possible cognitive decline which renders it all irrelevant, unremarkable, and easily forgotten by your survivors.

Take a little longer pause. It doesn’t get any better, does it. In the quick moment you answer, you want to argue, you’ll say it does but when you pause and think…

This is not an argument for suicide. Or depression. Or giving up. It’s an argument for knowing.

One of the sharpest “pangs” of senior resentment is the “undebatable knowing” things could have been different, could have been better. I could have been a doctor, for example, and saved lives. If you take another pause and think about how much better your own life could have been well…don’t do it. Funny, how even if you’re told not to do it, you’ll do it anyway. Thinking our lives would have been better if they had been different appears to be a mandated process baked into our genes. Wonder if Mother Teresa ever felt this regret. Einstein. FDR. Bob Dylan. Clark Kent.

Two interesting stories in the news this past week might help us understand…something Two different people clinically “died” and then came back to life: Patient 1 after 6 minutes and Patient 2 after 21 minutes. They both had stories to tell. Patient 1 felt peace, light, and colorful beauty, including the “white light” most resuscitated patients report. But Patient 2 reported being approached by beings who “shackled” him and restrained him, resulting in them “harvesting” his soul as part of a “soul farming operation”.

Another story in the news articulated the centuries-old debate about the origins of life. When read in chronological order you can see human intelligence struggling to define the “how” of life while struggling with the why, what, when, and where surrounding the start of it all, as well.

Ai says “a prominent estimate from the Population Reference Bureau (is) 108 billion people have ever been born.” Subtract the “estimated” 8 billion people currently alive and you learn an “estimated” 100 billion people have lived and then died on this earth. How many do you remember?

So? This post has gone off the rails and needs to be euthanized as its point has slipped away. Like most of our “lives”, it began well but got sidetracked by “life”. Maybe that’s the point? Would be interesting to read comments from anyone who can make sense of this page. I personally, feel lost, but okay, as if it were meant to end this way. The post is what it is and I can deal with it. (Hint?)

As my favorite Doctor Steven Wright says: “I intend to live forever. So far, so good.”

But…nothing ever makes it easier, permanently, does it. Words of wisdom and thoughtful machinations* help, but only momentarily, like falling head over heels, today, for a lover you can’t stand 6 weeks later. (See Seinfeld: The Low Talker”.)

And the questions return.

Guess I’d better conclude with another pertinent Wrightism and see how long it lasts: “A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking.”

Amen?

*google the definition for full effect. It reveals intent.

Expectations? Don’t Bother.

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In thinking about happiness and well-being, and after years of observation and self-testing, my conclusion is we are our own worst enemies. We get in the way of happiness by not seeing it when it’s there and by not pursuing it when it isn’t. The sentence sounds odd so take a moment to think about it…

I’ve been a New York Yankee fan since 1960. Sixty-two years. When you are a sports fan, you get to live the highs and lows of the teams’ results. Championship years and cellar-dwelling years, it’s all a package. Happy when the World Series ends in victory, banners raised, and sad in years they don’t make the Series, and the season is over with a whimper. It’s easy to see when happiness comes and when it doesn’t. They win, we’re happy. They lose, we’re not. Is there anything we can do about it? No, especially when we are a small child listening to every play on the radio. You actually experience happiness and despair, clearly defined and unavoidable. Damn Yankees.

So what does that have to do with anything? It’s easy to live with the happiness thrust upon you by your team winning, but what about the unhappiness of losing? Ah, there’s always next year. In baseball, the following spring brings hope for a better year, a hope for seasonal happiness, a hope for the World Series Ring. For a sports fan hope becomes an expectation. Before any new games are played, we do not hope the Yankees will be better, we assume to know the Yankees will be better, we expect it. And when the Yankees lose, we are unhappy because an expectation not realized makes us unhappy.

And there it is in black and white: expectations are the cause of unhappiness. The measured and regulated nature of sports makes it obvious, including the annual renewal of “expectation” no matter what happened last year. A common fan’s announcement after an unhappy, expectation-denying season is “never again will I root for them”, a vow only kept until next season begins with a new hope/expectation.

But the damage expectations do to our lives is harder to see in real life. Why are some of us unhappy? Something in life didn’t go as planned, didn’t happen as we expected it to happen, and there is no choice but to feel unhappy about it. Marriage doesn’t meet our expectations, we divorce. Friends don’t meet our expectations, we dump them. Even in our dining habits, if a restaurant doesn’t meet our expectations we unhappily decide not to dine there again. We expect a diet to work? Potential unhappiness. We expect to get a job? Meet the girl of our dreams? Become an influencer? Be like Taylor?

But it is not the action or inaction making us unhappy. Unhappiness comes from the destruction of expectation and how we process that destruction.

You want to be happy? Don’t expect anything. Ever. At all. Enjoy the terrible meal. Enjoy the Yankees losing. Enjoy your girlfriend dumping you. At least be ambivalent, but don’t be unhappy. And you can expand the process into your philosophy of life: don’t expect happiness and you won’t be unhappy when you’re not happy…?

A little hyperbole helps make a point until it veers off into absurdity. Hm. If you expect to understand what makes you happy and you never do, you’ll always be unhappy? Or happy you understand you’ll never be happy?

That’s it. You got it. Want to be happy? Just be happy. Let things be what they are. Do your best, but don’t expect it to be better than anyone else’s expectation, especially if it really is better.

Final example and possible escape from this mess: A young female student sits behind a young male in class. She constantly complains to him about not meeting the “right” guy. It takes her the entire school year to see her expectation of the right guy is wrong and the guy in front of her is The Right Guy. They fall in love and marry, something neither of them expected, though the guy did hope. (Don’t think too hard about this one. It’s a true story but a poor example.)

I took a shot of tart cherry juice to clear my head for the final, really final thought. Hope is one thing, but expectation is another, different thing. Find the hope all around you and you’ll find happiness anytime you want it. Let hope fester into an expectation, you lose control.

Keep hope alive. You can do it.

PS Hope this sloppiness helped someone…I expect to hear about it, too.

Happiness? Meh…

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Happiness. Bah, humbug; Ai says: “Happiness is a complex and multifaceted concept with no single, universally accepted definition.” After listening to algorithmic crap for 5 minutes the Ai voice settled on a conclusion: “it’s a mental state where positive feelings outweigh negative feelings.” There’s an algorithm you can run for yourself. Get a piece of paper, make a T Chart (also called a “graphic organizer”, “two column chart” or “Pros and Cons”). List all your positive feelings under the Pro side and all your negative feelings under the Con side, then add them up, subtract for the difference, and find out your mental state at that very moment. Remember, if the Pros outnumber the Cons you are happy, no matter how you feel. Trust the process.

You wonder where “happy” came from? According to Ai it derived from the Middle English word “hap” which meant “good luck” and through the years the word meant something that HAPPENED (or could happen) to you not what you felt about the happening. (e.g. Winning the lottery is “hap” and how you feel about winning the lottery is “happy”.) There is no known reason or excuse how happy came to mean a feeling of being fortunate instead of the actual act of being fortunate. Fortunately for you I wasted my time looking this up so you can sit and feel fortunate you didn’t have to do it. Put that on your Pro side.

Much like all the different “theres(sic)” there are, happiness is often misused and even misunderstood. If you feel happy you read my post, for example, does that make you happy all day? For a second? For ten minutes? Ai is, again, no help. Happiness can be: “a momentary, specific emotion like the joy you feel when something good happens.” Or it can be “a broader, more enduring sense of well-being.” Ai does not offer a judgment on well-being-joy being better or worse than momentary-joy when contemplating if you’re happy or not. Thanks for nothing. But if you have to contemplate if you’re happy, logic says you must not be, and if contemplating makes you happy, do NOT look down at your navel…unless it’s an outie.

When collegiate philosophical course requirements conflicted with the happy-go-lucky (Yikes.)  lifestyle of a young man, I retreated to an area lacking external stimuli. The hopeful plan was quiet reflection and meditation would lead to a clearer understanding of why what I liked to do to be happy might not be what what I should do to find everlasting happiness and peace. It took 52 hours for the mental fog to part, revealing nothing more than the need for external stimuli.

What saved that particular young man from perpetual Naval Contemplation while looking for “life’s:answers” about happiness was contemporary literature. In James Thurbers’ “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” and collected works, he noted the need for humor and a “Sense of wonder” when understanding happiness. Wonder? Yes. Remember how you felt when you first saw Niagara Falls. Or the Cathedrals of Europe. Wasn’t the wonder, first, that made you happy? For some specific NY sports people, imagine how you’ll feel when the Buffalo Bills (for non Bills fans, insert your favorite team,) finally win the Super Bowl. There will be a dizzying sense of happiness, but isn’t it the result of wonder? They finally did it! Wonderful. Some would say the Bills not winning the Super Bowl is humorous, as well, but let’s not get Western New York angry.

As usual, the post has wandered off to the side of the metaphorical trail, but one last visit with Mark Twain ( a HUMORIST!) might help with Happiness: “There is only one happiness in this life, to love and be loved.” Significantly, he adds: “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.” Not much humor in either statement, but happiness? We all know what he means…

So happiness can be like your first love: you’ll know it when you feel it.

And if it never happens? The only answer to “never” is an incommunicative death, which is what waits for us all.

But there’s hope. Be patient and recognize it. Happiness will follow.

Can’t close without a thought from (honorary) Dr. Steven Wright. “Yesterday I was a dog. Today I’m a dog. Tomorrow I’ll probably still be a dog.” Take 5 minutes to think before you wonder what it has to do with happiness and why it’s The End.

PS John Lennon’s song “Happiness is a Warm Gun” has nothing to do with this post. Maybe later…

Music. Jackson Browne. The Brothers Comatose. Serendipity.

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The last post about waking up in the middle of the night? Anxious? Distraught? Possibly even in despair? A lead-in to depression?

Ha.

A fortuitous click/flick on a Samsung phone yielded a Youtube video of The Brothers Comatose performing Jackson Browne’s “These Days”.

If you are at all unhappy with life, politics, a cruel ex-girlfriend, or calamities of any kind…find this video. As a strong, modern American, internally fortitudely (sic, for the entire sentence) secure man, I cried. After 10 plays, still crying.

Music has the power, seemingly the duty to save us from…everything. A good poem helps us. A good tune helps us. But a great song? It heals. Alters the mind. Makes life better. Not just better, but wonderfully okay, euphorically livable. Especially in old age.

I’ve written about Jackson Browne (JB) before, and how many males my age grew up with his music, his fantastically, emotionally pertinent music. You can hear almost his entire, 60 year, lifetime catalogue—done by him—performed differently in every decade since 1970. You can also hear most of his catalogue covered by DIFFERENT artists in every decade since 1970. A lot of the great 60’s and 70’s acts have such an emotional power for us, The Aging Man and Woman. For you, it might be someone else. Definitely someone else for you younger readers.

The power of this type of music is amazing, whoever it is, whenever you hear it. God’s gift to us.

“These Days” was written by JB when he was 16 and recorded by Nico in 1967. AI says the song deals with “loss and regret”. I’ve listened every decade, since.

The Brothers Comatose have covered “These Days” more than perfectly, more than respectfully. They turned it into a divine version so singularly apt for the time I accidentally found it, when it was needed most, as if their version was meant for me, alone, at this time in my life. Serendipity. Karma. Providence. (The Brothers Comatose did the same thing to Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon”, a performance I rely on, frequently, for mood settling and the overall restoration of good feelings.)

It is a hope that you, the individual, unique, one-of-a-kind reader, has something similar in your life.

One of the problems, however, is remembering you have this power to turn to in time of need. If I’d have listened to “Harvest Moon”  last night, for example, instead of memorializing my angst in writing, well…

Now I have JB, The Brothers Comatose, and the rest for comfort. How fortunate is that? Bring it on, Trusk…and the rest of life.

JB can be watched from the early days, when he was a young, handsome man, all the way up to now, age 76 in 2025. While interesting to view, does it make JB, himself, sad/happy/unsure to see himself age?

JB’s voice is gruffly pleasant to some, but not to others. It is intriguing, then to hear his songs covered by females like Bonnie Raittt, Linda Ronstadt, Nico, Allison Krause, and AJ Lee. They all—and others—have the power to add emotional depth to every JB song they perform. See Bonnie’s version of JB’s “My Opening Farewell”.

An interesting video, too, is JB and Gregg Allmann “outgruffing” each other on a live version of The Allmans Brothers’ “Melissa” from ten years ago. It is a spectacular live performance.

It’s 3 am and it has taken three hours to type this short post. Damn music videos. It appears there are many things in my life to be thankful for, many blessings to appreciate.

Calamities, Trump, deceitful girlfriend, and every single problem Old Age can throw at me, be damned. Oh, and death. Screw ‘em all.

My new motto? Devour Feculance. (Thank you, Mr. Milchick.)

And thanks to all the great artists who have accepted their gifts and shared them with us, the rest of the world.