War On Compassion and Common Sense

I’ve never been a social person, so when I was a teenager and young adult, I never hung out with the druggies or the stoners, and I wasn’t invited to many parties. I didn’t take my first drink until I was in college. Even though I drank to excess a few times, I never became a regular drinker. It just doesn’t appeal to me that much. I enjoy feeling tipsy now and then, but I don’t like the taste. It costs money, too, and I’ve never had much of that. I’ve never taken any illegal drugs. I’ve taken prescription tranquilizers off and on for years due to my anxiety. They help, but I like to be awake and alert, so that’s not something that’s all that alluring either. Same thing with prescription pain killers. I was given a steady supply for a year following my head surgeries, but I was happy to switch to ibuprofen when I could. For a long time, I’ve wondered if marijuana might help with my anxiety, and I’ve resented the fact I couldn’t try it without breaking the law.

So I guess I have been directly affected by the war on drugs, but not so much that I feel persecuted. However, I do think addicts have been seriously harmed by anti-drug laws and our society’s general attitude toward addicts. For years, I’ve believed addiction should be treated as an illness, not as a crime. I’ve also become increasingly aware of the racial aspects of the war on drugs.

I can’t say Johann Hari’s Chasing the Scream changed my mind about many things, but I was deeply moved by it. I’m now more convinced than ever that we have been making a bad situation worse for decades.

For me, the most striking part of the book was the personal stories of the addicts and the conclusion that these are mostly people who have faced some serious problems in their lives aside from addiction. Many were abused and traumatized as children. Many are paralyzed by depression, loneliness and fear. Most people who drink don’t become alcoholic, and most who take drugs don’t become addicts. So why do addicts get hooked? It might be that the physical dependence isn’t the clincher. Many if not most addicts might turn to drugs for the same reason we all do after slipping on ice, or getting a tooth pulled, or getting a head tumor removed. They want to kill the pain. Turning them into criminals and giving them records that make it difficult for them to get jobs, apartments or student loans only exacerbates the problem.

Prohibition does not eliminate drugs. It only pushes them completely out of the sphere of regulation so that criminals are the ones delivering them. The criminals typically sell to anyone with money, including children, and because they can’t rely on police protection, they resort to barbarism and terrorism to get their product to market. Users can never be sure of what they’re getting, and dealers also tend to sell the most highly potent form of drugs. Before and after alcohol prohibition, beer was the most popular form of alcohol, but more concentrated alcohol became prevalent in the ’20s, and many were poisoned. We’ve all heard the stories of coke in soda and allegedly medicinal syrups. Those doses were mild compared to what addicts today usually take.

Prohibition also drives up the cost, which means addicts often engage in criminal activity to pay for their habit. Some steal, some prostitute themselves. Many become dealers themselves so that in order to buy drugs, they recruit new drug users.

Chasing the Scream is illuminating and informative. Most of the information might not be all that shocking to those who have been paying attention, but there was one thing that did surprise me. Many addicts stop using on their own without any treatment. They simply grow out of it. Maybe they work through their personal demons. Maybe they found something that gives them hope. Maybe drugs are especially appealing when we’re young and filled with anxieties, and once we’re settled and have been around the block a few times, we relax. Who can say for sure? Hari believes one of the most important things addicts need is connection. They need to feel connected to other people and to the community at large.

Ernest Becker's The Denial of Death

Ernest Becker was part psychologist and anthropologist and part philosopher. I just read his book The Denial of Death, first published in 1973, and I’m pretty sure his insights are going to stay with me for a long time. This work is 45 years old, and Becker spends a great deal of time framing his theories in the psychodynamic model, so The Denial of Death can seem terribly dated now. His understanding of depression, schizophrenia and homosexuality seem quaint in the twenty-first century, and I don’t think I’ve ever slogged through more passages about penis envy, castration anxiety and the Oedipus complex in my life. But Becker does not simply regurgitate Freud and his peers and descendants, and he moves toward existentialist philosophy throughout.

Although Becker does not come right out and dismiss Freud’s claim that sexuality is the primary driving force motivating humans, he claims that this view is significantly incomplete. Becker believed that it is our finitude, our creatureliness, and specifically our awareness of our own mortality that’s behind most of what we do. One of the funniest and most perceptive comments was his claim that shit is a serious problem for humans. That’s because it reminds us daily that we’re a perishable object, and that one day someone will bury us in the ground before we stink up the place. Sex is only one bodily function that continually points to the fact that we’re flesh and bone.

Becker believed that humans needed meaning and purpose, and they have a strong desire to feel like they’re part of something bigger than themselves…because there’s always that nagging awareness that our bodies will not last. He claimed neurotics have difficulty functioning because they lack illusion. They are too much aware that life has no objective or provable meaning or purpose, and that’s why they find it difficult to go through the motions and why they’re so terrified. They see through the vanity of human institutions, customs and civilization. That struck me as an interesting idea because usually we operate on the assumption that dysfunctional people are screwed up in some way. In any event, the word “neurotic” isn’t used so much these days, and there’s a lot of scientific evidence that biological processes play a big part in mental illness…genetics, brain chemistry, etc. But I think there’s something to this notion that those who have a hard time facing the world—those like me—often can’t buy into society’s bullshit. And I’ve noticed many therapists push their clients toward conformity. Their idea of psychological health is “normalcy.” Why not? They see the vast majority are able to get jobs, get married and have kids, so maybe if their clients follow the pattern, they’ll find the strength to carry on, too. The trouble is, their clients aren’t like other people. They need a new game, something that will spark their imaginations. If they could conform, they probably would.

Becker theorized that the thing that gets us through our lives, knowing we’re going to die, is what he calls our causa sui project. Causa sui is Latin for cause of itself. It’s those things we latch onto and identify with that we believe or pretend or allow ourselves to believe are eternal. These are our passions. Religion is the most obvious causa sui project. Culture, nationality, race, ethnicity and tribalism can also be parts of our causa sui project. But almost anything can be…collecting antiques, sports, cars.

As we grow older, and our mortality sneaks up on us, we might become more strident in our devotion to tradition, law and order, our church and community. It is common knowledge that older people are generally more conservative than younger people. Becker’s theory explains this. And he warns that mere crotchetiness is not the worst of it. Those who believe their causa sui projects are their only hope of avoiding oblivion might, at any age, see anyone who challenges it as their mortal enemy. They might even be willing to kill those who stand against them.

The way to avoid becoming hopelessly fanatical and potentially violent is by consciously facing your mortality. Allow yourself to think about it rather than always pushing it aside. That doesn’t mean you’re going to give up your causa sui project, but on some level, you’ll know and accept that your physical existence and everything you were connected to while alive will eventually turn to dust. You can’t stop this. But you can find a reason to get up in the morning without wanting to kill those who believe and do things differently than you.

Alone

Alone in a universe trying to kill me,Among a species always looking for a scapegoat.
I am the detestable one, the despised one, the other.
It is all my fault.
No excuse, no forgiveness.
I feel shame, guilt and fear.
And that is used against me.
This is my life,
And time is running out.

 

The Benefits of Age

Next week I turn 52, and although growing older is no picnic, there are some silver linings. It’s easier for me to be an older male than it was for me to be a young one.

 

No one expects me to go to war. I came of age in the mid-1980s, and the memory of the draft and Vietnam lingered. Boys were expected to register, and those who didn’t were ineligible for college financial aid. It was also against the law not to register. Not only did the thought of being in a war frighten me, but I wasn’t like other boys, so the idea of living in a hyper-masculine environment was enough to cause me to experience panic attacks. I’m not exaggerating. I lost sleep thinking about being in the Army.

 

No one expects me to engage in fist fighting even if I were to be physically threatened. If someone were to punch me in the face the next time I go into a bar, no one would expect me to reciprocate. No one would ask me, “Why did you *let* him do that to you?” And I was most certainly expected to be prepared to violently defend myself at the drop of a hat when I was young in West Virginia. Boys were expected to protect themselves, and if you needed or asked for help, you were deemed unworthy.

 

No one expects me to play rough sports anymore. When I was growing up, I was regularly asked when I was going out for football. My father played, so many expected me to follow in his footsteps. I had no interest. I didn’t relate to the urge to run at other boys and slam into them at full speed.

 

It all left me feeling uncertain. I wasn’t a girl, but I couldn’t live up to the expectations placed on me as a boy either. It made me question my identity and my worth, and it put me in danger.

 

I grew up in fear. I feared rejection, and I feared physical assault. I’m glad the threat of those things are no longer as immediate. But I don’t want to forget. Living in fear for so long has taken its toll. And I don’t want to give even the slightest impression that I think what was done to me and other boys is necessary, acceptable or excusable.

Who Is Michael?

I Am Michael is now streaming on Netflix, and I watched it last night. Like many, I found the film perplexing and frustrating. There wasn’t much insight provided as to why Michael Glatze would be drawn into Religious Right anti-LGBT beliefs. To me, Michael came off as disturbing and unhinged.

We learn that Michael’s father died suddenly of a heart condition when Michael was 13, and then his mother died a few years later when Michael was in college. Just before he abandons his friends and boyfriend and denounces LGBT recognition, identity and rights, he has a string of panic attacks, which he fears are symptoms of the same heart condition that killed his father. When he’s given a clean bill of health, he takes it as a sign.

So he had an existential crisis? That isn’t rare. Many have trouble facing their own mortality. Many wonder about meaning and purpose. Many find comfort in religion and spirituality. But why would Michael choose Christian fundamentalism? It doesn’t make much sense. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of other points of view. And his parents didn’t foist fundamentalist beliefs on him. His father was an agnostic, and although his mother identified as Christian, she wasn’t Religious Right Christian, and she hardly ever talked about her beliefs. She didn’t take Michael to church.

One thing I noticed was how Michael always wanted to be out front. He wanted to lead. He wanted followers. He wanted to be the preacher. He was always going to the extreme. When he went to San Francisco with his boyfriend, he immersed himself in fast lane urban LGBT life. He joined a magazine and became an activist. Then he wrote a guide for LGBT youth. Then he started his own LGBT magazine. After becoming a fundamentalist, he started writing inflammatory blog posts that drew a lot of media attention. When he went to Bible school, he started telling his fellow students they needed to listen to God and not the instructors. Many seemed to be listening to Michael. Finally, he became the pastor of his own church. I got the impression he was an attention whore who was basically empty inside. He was absorbed by a particular subculture. He studied it. He learned to mimic. Then he wanted to take over. I suspect he has some kind of personality disorder, maybe borderline. There doesn’t seem to be a center. No one is really home. And the attention seeking and the adopted zealotry might be his way of compensating.

We Americans

by Gary Cottle

We are quiet and gentle
As much as we are brash.
We are communal
As much as we are individuals, rugged and refined.
We work in the morning for ourselves.
We work in the afternoon for our compatriots.
We dream, hope and pray at night.
There is no conflict.
Our country is large.
We spread out, body and mind.

We claim this country, body and mind.
We will not be dispossessed.
We give thanks for our bounty
As we acknowledge our wrongs.
There is no conflict.
We can be proud, grateful, humble, sad and sorrowful
As we laugh and dance with joy.
We know how to do all of these things,
We Americans.

We honor the cowboys and the cashiers,
The astronauts and the accountants,
The teachers and the custodians,
Star gazers, bird watchers, dancers and athletes,
There is no conflict.
Our country is large.

We are boys who go down on our knees
In basement rooms for men we do not know.
We give pleasure.
We walk with Jesus.
We are angels.

We are girls who speak out,
Sing, build and lead.
Taoists who have found the way.

We are male and female, both and neither.
We love male and female, both and neither.
There is no conflict.

We speak English, Spanish, Hebrew and Hindi.
We are brown, black and beige,
Writhing together in pleasure.
We hyphenate and assimilate.
Our country is large.

We march to the beat of our private drummers,
We pursue our ambitions
As we care for the sick, dying, afflicted and young.
We teach the children.
We take in the homeless and feed the hungry.
We do not ask who is worthy.
We are all worthy,
We Americans.

We believe in the Big Bang,
The Big Crunch, the Great Spirit,
And the Great Pumpkin.
We believe in love, hugs, smiles and handshakes,
We believe in open minds and open hearts.

We do not build walls.
We do not exclude.
We are not fearful of our neighbors.
We will not cringe by the threat of hell.

We claim this country.
We will not be dispossessed,
We Americans.

So much more than a mere depressive

“To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.”
—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

I finally got around to The Bell Jar. I had been interested in the novel for decades. It’s about a young woman’s battle with severe suicidal depression. Because of my own battles with the disease, I was a bit afraid of the novel, and it is often suggested that Plath was unrelentingly gloomy. I bought into this negative image of Plath, but I now know that portrait of her is unfair.

***SPOILERS***

It is widely known the novel is, more or less, a roman à clef. The protagonist Esther Greenwood is really Sylvia Plath herself. In the beginning, Esther is not unlike many young people just about to leave school. She’s insecure. She feels alienated. She has doubts about the future.

Esther is a smart girl with a passion for literature, poetry in particular. She is used to doing well and winning prizes and accolades for her academic and artistic accomplishments. She won a scholarship to go to college, and the summer after her junior year, she was allowed to work at a women’s magazine in New York for a month. This was the summer the Rosenbergs were executed, an event that troubles Esther. Esther is put up at a women’s hotel, given expensive clothes and sent to parties and fashion shows.

The trouble is, Esther is rather put off by her experiences in New York. She finds the young women around her to be vapid and conformist, and she isn’t interested in fashion. The only thing she seems to enjoy is the chance to eat expensive food in a nice restaurant. Esther pigs out, and the scene is rather comical. Yes, I found myself laughing while reading Sylvia Plath. Imagine that. Unfortunately, the rich dinner gives Esther and the other girls food poisoning.

Esther’s supervisor at the magazine has a frank talk about her prospects. Esther imagines herself becoming a poet and a professor. But she knows that she can’t support herself by writing poetry, and advanced degrees and a teaching position seems a long way off and not at all guaranteed. So she tells the woman that maybe she could work in the publishing industry, but the editor informs her that the business is quite competitive, and she needs to be sophisticated, worldly, and she needs to speak several foreign languages. Esther doesn’t know any foreign languages, and even though she’s intelligent and a good student, she’s naïve and inexperienced. While in New York, she orders random drinks because she has no idea what she might like.

Esther can’t rely on her family to support her while she figures everything out. Her father died when she was 9 and didn’t leave any insurance. Her mother has had to support Esther and her brother by teaching typing and shorthand. Esther’s mother is supportive, but she wants Esther to be practical. She’d like Esther to learn shorthand so she’ll have a marketable skill after college. Esther can’t think of any job she would want that would involve shorthand.

Nearly everyone, including Esther’s mother, expects Esther to get married and have children. But Esther can’t imagine being a mother and a poet. Esther does have a boyfriend, and by the standards of the 1950s, he is a great catch. Buddy is handsome and athletic, and he’s in medical school. Buddy is going to be a doctor.

Buddy, however, doesn’t take Esther’s enthusiasm for literature seriously. Like many literal science-minded types, he doesn’t relate to artistic expression. He tells Esther that her poetry is dust, and she’ll lose interest once she becomes a mother.

Esther decides to break up with Buddy after he tells her he had a sexual relationship with a waitress the previous summer. She isn’t jealous. In fact, she understands Buddy’s desire to engage in sexual experimentation. But she resents the fact that he has been presenting himself as pure and a great believer in traditional values. Esther wants to have sex, too. Not because of lust. She wants the experience, and she wants to be Buddy’s equal. However, in 1950s America, it was permissible for a “nice” boy to have sex, but a girl who had sex before marriage was a slut.

Before his confession, Buddy gives Esther a tour of medical school. Esther is exposed to death and disease, and she is also allowed to watch a baby being born. The mother is in terrible agony, but Buddy tells Esther she has been given a drug which will make her forget the pain. Esther doesn’t like that. She thinks women should be allowed to remember the pain so that they’ll know what they’re in for the next time they’re pregnant.

Esther goes out with a couple of men with the intention of gaining sexual experience. The first man is nice, but he is uninterested in sex with Esther. The second man hates women and attempts to rape Esther.

Esther wants to take part in a summer writing workshop after her job in New York is over, but she’s turned down. Esther is forced to move back home with her mother for the rest of the summer.

This is when Esther’s depression really kicks in. She stops eating and sleeping. She stops taking care of herself, and she loses interest in everything. She can’t even read because she can’t concentrate.

Esther is sent to a psychiatrist, an attractive young man who isn’t really interested in Esther. He tells her how all the girls at her school are “pretty.” He prescribes electroshock, but the treatment is poorly administered, and Esther is wide awake during the procedure. Esther wonders what she could have done to deserve such a punishment. (And remember, Esther has been worrying about the Rosenbergs.) After the procedure, the psychiatrist once again patronizes Esther by telling her all the girls at her school are pretty.

Esther thinks psychiatry and the shock treatments are like the drug given to pregnant women. They cover up the pain rather than address the underlying problem.

After the treatment, Esther becomes suicidal and eventually nearly succeeds in killing herself, but her mother finds her in time, and she’s sent to a private hospital where she’s treated by an understanding doctor. This woman supports Esther’s literary ambitions, and she understands Esther’s desire to engage in sex with men she doesn’t necessarily love or want to marry. She assists Esther in attaining a diaphragm. Esther is given insulin and more shock treatments, but this time the treatments are properly administered, and Esther recovers from her illness and returns to school.

Esther has a lot of stress in her life. Few people understand her, and she is pressured to be someone she isn’t. She’s young and inexperienced, and her family doesn’t have any money, so Esther will soon have to support herself. But Plath wants us to understand that it is the disease that pushes Esther over the edge, not Esther’s mother, or Buddy, or sexism, or 1950s conformity, or economics, or traumatic events.

Seventy years before Plath wrote her novel, Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote The Yellow Wallpaper in which a woman is driven insane by the expectations and constraints placed on her as a woman at the time. Plath directly addresses the expectations and constraints placed on Esther in 1950s America, but Esther’s illness isn’t a literary device. It’s a real disease that comes on top of everything else, and not all professionals can be trusted to help. In fact, some might do more harm than good.

So what is the bell jar in this context? That is Plath’s remarkably accurate way to describe clinical depression. It comes down over you, blocking you off from the rest of the world and distorting your impressions of it. Even after the depression lifts, the bell jar continues to hover overhead, and it might descend on you again.

Plath finished college and won a Fulbright Scholarship. She married a fellow poet, taught for a while, got some of her poetry published and had two children. Sadly, she found herself trapped in the bell jar again on February 11, 1963. She suffered from depression, but she was so much more than a mere depressive.