Wrecked

When I took my hands off the steering wheel, I immediately reached for the glove compartment. Did I have my latest insurance card? And where were my sunglasses? -- those cute white plastic framed glasses from the drug store. I was going to need them when I stood in the heat outside. Exchanging info. And waiting for the police.

Oh yeah, and my phone? It had been left at home. So I hoped I'd come up with some brilliant way to contact my mother for help. I should call my mother, right? I didn't even know her number by heart.

And I wondered where all the smoke was coming from. And why airbags deflated so slowly. And why my thumb was swelling, my arms were scratched, and my ears ringing. My mind hummed with these questions. Like a struck tuning fork.

"Are you okay? Do you need any help, hun?"

I stared at the middle-aged woman with short blond hair as I cracked my door ajar.

"I don't know."

I didn't know. How did this exactly happen? I had turned left across traffic onto Westheimer Road from a smaller side street. I'd spotted the traffic on both sides. There was a gap -- swiftly closed by a Jeep SUV that swerved from behind another car and sped towards my vehicle. He had right of way and I simply had not spotted him in his last minute sprint for freedom.

But that's all hindsight. At the moment, there was merely a big car's sudden silhouette. And then a flash of brilliant, pearlescent white as all of my neurons lit up the mental switchboard. Time sped up. Time slowed down. And I somehow ended up travelling from a nice afternoon out to an ambulance en route to a hospital where I'd be treated for minor injuries. And I still don't exactly know how it happened and what I was supposed to be doing when it was done.

This is my modus operandi. To try and figure everything out. Even when it's least appropriate or useful in situational context. I have this theory that everyone bears a personality signature -- and that these insights into a person's core behavior become more obvious in the midst of a crisis. Some people leap to help others. Some sit and cry or walk around in a rage. Others attempt to coordinate next steps. Not me. In the midst of a car wreck I obsessed on trying to understand the car wreck.

Back at the incident:

I couldn't find any up to date proof of insurance --- just an old card. And I had no phone, had misplaced the car key, and the cops were on the way. Back inside the vehicle, I kept on putting things in and out of my bag while observing my swollen thumb turn into a small, purple sausage. My windshield was cracked. Airbags floated like spent jellyfish.

"Excuse me."

I stepped out of the vehicle and met the SUV owner. He didn't believe me when I explained that my only proof of insurance was an expired card -- but that the policy was active and had remained the same. Frustrated, I handed him my driver's license and insurance info, headed back to my bludgeoned car, and realized that the smoking engine was still running. There was my key. In the ignition. How did it get there?

"Excuse me, sir. Do you need to make a call?"

The blond woman handed me a heavy, brick-like phone. Confused, I stared at it briefly and then started to dial my grandma's number. I'd love to know why I never thanked her for her help.

Sit Down

"Sit down."

Pause

"So anyways ..."

This was a fine example of parenting. While her father sat on the edge of a vintage sofa talking with an acquaintance in a funky, old-fashioned cafe, his two year old daughter played near a computer station. By herself.

Perched on sandals and toes, she stood alone atop the station's desk chair -- talking to a computer monitor while methodically pushing keys on the computer's keyboard. She was lost in her own unobserved reverie. Until.

"Get down from there."

Pause

"Okay, so what I meant was ..."

Her voice spread about the cafe like rippling waves in a reflection pool. She typed. Klack klack klack. Giggled. And gleefully bounced two feet above the ground.

One shoulder strap of her violet overalls swung loose as she shifted onto her toes and teetered on the age of a pocket-sized catastrophe. But her left arm remained still. Encased in a plaster case, her arm was the most inert part of her body. And like all children with broken limbs she was smiling and swinging back and forth -- two feet above a cool concrete floor.

"I told you, sit down."

Pause

"As I was saying ..."

Oblivious to him, she paid him no heed. Instead, she lingered briefly with her eyes a finger's width from the flickering monitor. Then jumped down, squealed with abrupt delight, and reached her free hand towards an electrical power strip.

Not Very Nice

Being a recent transplant, comparisons are inevitable. For instance, in Texas people aren’t really that nice. As a native Texan I have no problem saying that we’re not. Because we're not. Just mind the warning posted on the premises about concealed weapons and we’ll do just fine.

Yes, Texans can be ornery, but they are often polite -- our mothers beat it into us. And more importantly, they are friendly. You don’t have to be nice to everyone in order to be friendly to a few.

In California, it seems the opposite holds true. Don't get me wrong. It's a very nice place. In fact, from they day I moved until they day I left and in the thirteen years in between, I was consistently surprised by just how nice people were to each other in the Golden State.

Strangers who struck up randomly intrusive, but cheery conversation in grocery stores, on street corners, or in the elevator. Impromptu dinner party chats with brand new best friends about buttsex and its aftermath. And the best part of nice: deliberate commitments to vague future plans that never happened between new best friends forever who never actually were.

Californians just aren’t very friendly beneath that sheen of nicety. They might seem like they’re reaching out as one friend to another – but the cultural rubric is far more oriented around laissez faire notions of non-obligation and independence than in other parts of the country As a result it’s not easy to make friends in California.

Sure, if you’ve got family and roots, or are recently immigrated into a tightly knit ethnic enclave, then you have a decent shot at developing a rich and supportive social network in cities like Los Angeles or San Francisco. Otherwise, though, true and lasting friendship can easily become elusive. And life in the Golden State can be irredeemably lonely in the midst of so many smiling faces.

So, I think I’d take friendly over nice.

Even if it means living somewhere where people are gruff, conservative and more likely to assume the worst about me than the best. Like here in Houston. I must be adapting already. And if you don’t like it, you can shove it up your nice little ass.

Big Man, Little Dick

Life is full of disappointments.

The Point Of Self-Absorption

As practicing therapists, my uncle R-- and his wife B------ are great resources. Somehow, despite a long estrangement with my mother that distanced us from one another, they have consistently been the two members of the family I go to in a crisis. I have such a difficult time asking for help. But it is easier with them

I think it is because I trust their wisdom. That maybe, were they to reject my request, they would still give me the soundest advice for dealing with uncertainty. That maybe in those years of distance, they developed the insight and perspective that distance might lend.

I emailed them today -- hoping to give them a mental health update as well as ascertain if they had put together a list of any therapists I could call.

I often worry, when I try and sit down with people and discuss my mental health that I am received as being "somewhat self-absorbed" as C-------- put it. It's hard not to talk about mental health without a certain level of self-absorption. Mental illness attacks the very essence of one's identity and how one relates to total experience -- so how could any discussing surrounding developments, impacts, and needs come without talking a great deal about oneself.

I think that's the point.

From:	their.nephew@myfamily.com
To:	uncle.r--@myfamily.com; aunt.b------@myfamily.com
Subject:	Dinner Plans & Update
I forgot that I'm travelling to New Orleans on Thursday for a friend's wedding and can't make dinner this week. I'll be back on Sunday night. Would you like to get together before you leave for California so I can learn the ropes for dog sitting? I was also wondering if you'd had any luck with locating therapists?. I met with the Montrose clinic psychiatrist last Friday and it was a good meeting. After completing the patient intake evaluation he agreed that I have bipolar disorder (II) and deal with a great degree of anxiety -- but he also said that the irrational anger, emotional instability, and withdrawal indicated depression which should also be treated. Furthermore, I've had disassociation episodes, stupors, and moments where I just mentally and physically freeze up like an overloaded circuit -- sometimes for over an hour -- for many years (including the incident that led me to hospitalize myself 10 years ago and call you (Uncle R--) from the hospital. As a teenager I didn't really know what they were so I just called them "freak outs" and later "panic attacks" based on what some people in your field have said to me. I was even evaluated for epilepsy if only to rule that condition out. These have become increasingly pronounced over the years and I described a few recent episodes in detail to him and he confirmed what my friend in New Orleans had suggested. He said that it's true I experience anxiety and panic attacks. But that these specific incidents are anxiety induced catatonic episodes. A---- (friend in NOLA) and I talked on the phone after I met with him so I could get her second opinion of the medication regimen he was suggesting as well as his evaluation. She thought it was sound and he didn't sound like a quack. So that relieved me and I've committed to having him as my doctor. I think it's a great step forward for me. He's added Risperdal to my existing regimen of Lithium and Lamictal. Once we evaluate if Risperdal is helping to stabilize my moods as well as the catatonic episodes, he wants to add an antidepressant to the mix and see if all 4 medications will help get me to the other side of this mess. I think what's upsetting about all of this is the sense that much of the time I feel like I'm functioning normally and then any of the above issues will just swoop in out of nowhere and remind me that that things are not as "just ok" -- as I keep insisting to myself ... as if to just wish it all away. Like I was having a coherent, but stressful day last Thursday until I received the bad news about the termination of my mental insurance coverage. And I almost didn't show up because some switch inside me flipped and I began to detach from things and started to mentally slow down and withdraw as I was heading over. But it was good I showed up so soon because the conversation and focus pulled me out of what feels like sliding towards a mental black hole. And then by the end of the evening I felt fine as if all the above was just an illusion. Long email I know and I hope I don't sound to self-absorbed, but I guess I'm mentioning all this because it might help you in talking with colleagues? And also because you've shared your concern and are more than capable of engaging the above in ways that many wouldn't. And also because I don't have many people with whom I can truly discuss this and sometimes my episodes are scary. Hope to see you both next week and hope you're well in the meantime. Love, Jonathan

Lentil Soup

2 cups brown lentils
1 1/2 tsp salt
12 cups water
1 pork sausage link (uncooked)
3 large unpeeled carrots
2 yellow onions
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon Better Than Bouillon chick stock
2 cloves garlic
1 table spoon grated ginger
1 red jalapeno finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon ground ancho chili powder
3 small unpeeled yellow potatoes, quartered and sliced
1 1/2 cups of sliced crimini mushrooms
Freshly grated parmesan cheese

Slice unpeeled carrots and sausage lengthwise into quarters, then chop into 1/4" wide pieces. Add carrots, sausage, lentils, salt and bouillon paste to 12 cups water and bring to a simmer. Simmer for approximately 1 hour or until lentils are begin to soften but are still undercooked. Finely chop onions and caramelize in frying pan with 3 tablespoons of olive oil for approximately 20 minutes. Add to soup when translucent and browned add to soup. Press to cloves of garlic in a garlic and add to soup, along with ginger, ancho chile powder and chopped re jalapeno. Stir and taste broth mixture. Add more salt if more saltiness is desired. Prep potatoes by quartering lengthwise and chopping into 1/4" wide pieces. Do not peel. When lentils are nearing readiness (see above), add potatoes and mushrooms. Cook for an additional 15-20 minutes until potatoes are tender and lentils are cooked and yield to pressure without being mushy. Serve with freshly grated parmesan cheese to taste.

Makes 8 portions

Listen To Your Mother

Even in the presence of committed support I hesitate to reach out. My instinct is one of wariness and I generally test people's commitment before making myself vulnerable. This level of distrust is pervasive in my life: work colleagues, people I date, friends, even family -- let alone strangers I meet for the first time.

This behavior is the 900 lb. elephant sitting in the middle of my living room. But I'm not stupid. I know it's there and have known it all along. Large and hulking -- a brooding, leathery place of resistance I just don't have the strength to heave it off the floor and push it out the door.

But that's the point. I don't have the strength. And I've rarely trusted anyone enough to ask them for help.

I was chopping cucumbers and avocado on a red plastic cutting board last night. I was staring at the edges of my kitchen's white formica counters -- where chocolate brown formica creases ran. I caught the flashing of stainless steel slicing back and forth. I gathered and separated only to gather again and again.

My mother was seated across the counter. It was sultry inside -- the kind of heat that comes from two people wanting to save money by adjusting the thermostat to the limits of comfort.

We'd been discussing money. How we'd split the bills. Where my cash flow was headed. What was fair. Then in the midst of what was a calm, constructive conversation, I started with confidence but ended up sobbing.

"I'm trying to be careful with my money so I have a buffer in case something goes wrong. And I don't know what I'm going to do if it does ... I'm so vulnerable ... I've never been this exposed before. I'm so vulnerable and scared and I don't know what to do ... how to fix it ... how I'm going to get to the end of this and what's going to happen ... and I'm frightened, Mom. I'm scared."

I wanted to crawl away to someplace dark and safe as tears trickled down my cheeks. But there was nowhere to go. So I just balled up my fists and pulled them close to my chest as if that action would defend me from my fears. And I closed my eyes, as if avoiding any glimpse of Formica would shield me from this unnatural and uncomfortable exposure.

Then I opened my eyes and saw my mom, teary-eyed herself, stand up and walk around the counter to me while saying:

"Jonathan, it's going to be ok. It's alright, sweetie. This isn't like 20 years ago. I'm a different person. You have a strong family. I'll be there for you. The whole family is here for you and we will help you get through this. You can rely on us. We're not got to leave you in lurch. You've got everyone here and close by now. Me, your grandmother, your uncle and aunt. L-- & C--------. Everyone."

"This is why I wanted you to come back."

I finished preparing dinner and we brought warm bowls of homemade lentil soup and cool summer salad to coffee tables in the living room. I grabbed the DVD remote, pressed play, and we watched the final episode of Six Feet Under Season 2 -- the one where Nate, whose life has been turned upside down, finally has to reach out to his mother for help before brain surgery and sobs in her arms saying: "I'm so scared."