Of the White Owl, Chimps and Nightly Anxiety Attacks

Twisting and turning in bed at night, my mind races and my thoughts turn random images, thoughts and memories. Usually they blend together as the clock ticks into the wee hours of the morning. Without fail, these innocent flailings of an unquiet mind turn into feelings of regret and humiliation. I never conjure up recollections that boost my ego and allow me to drift off to sleep with a positive self-image. If I work at it, I can think of things of which I'm proud. Whilst cleaning out some boxes the other day, I discovered a paper I wrote at UMass Boston about chimpanzee behaviour. It really kicked ass. And I'm also happy with myself for digging Impy and Fluffy and two other kittens out from under my neighbor's back stoop. There may even be a couple of other things. Over 34 years, you're bound to do something right on occassion...even by accident.

But every night, after my late night phone call, some reading, and perhaps a little World of Warcraft, the curtain goes up on a stage production that has been around longer than, "Cats." It's basically a series of seemingly disconnected vignettes. But there is a coherent theme that runs through the whole show. Every stupid, mean, embarrassing and/or bizarre thing I've ever done is tossed up for my extended, heartfelt consideration. And you never know what exactly is up next, you just know that it will be bad. There will be knots in the stomach, light-headedness, chest tightness and shallow breathing; a nice anxiety attack.

Back in the late '70's, my family would vacation at a place called, "The White Owl" in New Hampshire. I have many fond memories of spending some summer nights in a cabin with my brother, mother, father, and sister. But instead of focusing on that, I replay the time that I shit in the White Owl swimming pool. Granted, I was five, but the guilt and humiliation is still there. Some old woman pointed her boney, white finger at me and yelled, "He just did it, he crapped in the pool!" I got out and ran my fat little ass off, my sister was running behind, trying to catch up. But I was five years old! Granted, if I shit in a swimming pool when I was 30, that would be something to feel guilty about.

Then there was the time I was speaking at the Hotel Wisconsin in Milwaukee. Back in 1992, I was the Chair of the Socialist Party's Health Care Commission. I got pegged the night before the convention to speak about health care issues. "Great," I thought, "I know this stuff every which way." Without hesitation, strangely enough, I agreed. The next day, whilst I was speaking, someone took issue with one of my facts. Instead of letting it go, I argued with him. You don't do that, man!

And so many other things, many of which are too dark and personal to write on the enormous bathroom wall that is the Internet. Two suicide attempts, for example, caused terrific pain for those who made the mistake of loving and caring about me. I don't mean to whine. I'm accutely aware of how lucky I am. Most of my problems, if not all of them, are of my own creation. The source being my mephitic mind. Are you able to regulate the self-loathing ideation that seems designed to keep one in a state of anxious social catatonia? To a slight degree, I can redirect my brainwaves to a place where I can turn my angst into anger. If I start thinking about politics and capitalism, my acrimony refocuses outward. The other night, I had a dream about Anne Coulter. I was yelling at her, and she was making an ass out of herself by simply relating her opinions. It was a nice break from the kind of nightmare where I wake up and feel awful about myself. And when I'm not dreaming, I'm in a state of almost constant consternation and vexation at what the United States is doing in the world and at home. The only person I hate more than myself is that douchebag, motherfucking cunt George Bush (and friends).

So on that level, I can take my mind's eye off of myself and have it gaze at other outrageous nonsense that inspires righteous anger instead of mewling snivels. After all, invading a country for no reason is far worse than shitting in a pool, at any age.