May is Mental Health Month

…and it’s time for a Jiffy Brain Lube…

I’m okay on the physical side. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d probably come in with an 8. I’m 167 fully clothed, don’t drink or smoke, and I watch my calories.

On the downside, every calorie in my mouth is a fat calorie times 2 because I sit around all day thinking up justifications for sitting around. My killer abs are losing definition and that is depressing, man.

The old golf game is showing signs of wear as well. I’m on the brink of miscounting my strokes but I’ll hold off and see what happens. As long as the suckers I play with are worse than me, happy talk reigns.

Upstairs, I’m not so certain. I’d probably come in at a 5 on the old 10 point scale. My brain has definitely shriveled, with the invertible results, forgetfulness, lying to cover the forgetfulness, and excuses for calling my wife Hillary.

But these are minor inconveniences. Many people suffer from deep-seated mental health problems, depression, manic-depressive episodes, panic attacks, anxieties, and stress. Many are on medications which alleviate the symptoms but leave them lethargic.

Mental health professionals know that depression and many other ailments are easily treatable, and the best approach is often a combination of medication, therapy, and a strong circle of family and friends. In fact, some professionals believe that the single most effective treatment component is the latter.

That’s why Mental Health America (MHA), previously the National Mental Health Association, is emphasizing a program it calls Get Connected. The three elements of the program are:

• Get Connected to Family and Friends
• Get Connected to Your Community, and
• Get Connected to Professional Help

Humans are imperfect at best, but my experience tells me all of us know our internal mechanisms, mental and physical. We feel that pain in the back, that little muscle twinge. We also feel that fleeting moment of sadness and we know well the prolonged effects of our sadness.

On the other hand, we are quite imperfect when it comes to admitting our feelings even when we know admission is critical to recovery.

Sometimes a simple phone call or a mouse click can get the process started. Here are a few sources of help, for yourself, a friend, or a family member. Just do it.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

National Mental Health Information Hotline

San Francisco Mental Health Services

Bay Area Mental Health Advocates

 

Technorati Tags: Self Help,Mental Health,Suicide Prevention,National Mental Health Month

 

Help Prevent Child Abuse

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month.

About 3,000,000 cases of child abuse are reported annually in America. Between 97 and 100 thousand of those cases involve children under the age of two.

The types of child abuse are many.
• Physical abuse of all kinds
• Sexual abuse
• Abandonment
• Constant criticisms
• Absentee parent or parents
• Exposure to drug or alcohol use
• Failure to provide adequate nutrition, clothing, shelter, or schooling

A majority of children who suffer abuse grow up to be abusive parents. Abuse is a vicious cycle.

A large number of abuse victims also end up as alcoholics, drug addicts, and prison inmates. I once taught night classes at a prison. Almost every inmate in my classes had been sentenced for a drug or alcohol-related crime and most had been the victims of abuse as children.

Educating adults seems to be an effective method of reducing the incidences of child abuse if a child abuser can be reached, but oddly those who most need education and counseling do not respond to advertising campaigns for the simple reason that most don’t read newspapers or watch educational programs. Public service announcements are also largely ineffective in attracting potential counseling clients.

Moreover, almost all child abusers will deny that their actions rise to the level of abuse, and without observing someone actually attack a child, counselors operate at a disadvantage in investigating child abuse cases.

Even those who understand the impact of their actions are often too ashamed to seek help.

How can an ordinary citizen do his or her part in reducing child abuse? Very little, it seems. In our litigious society, we run the risk of contending with a lawsuit, or worse, a physical attack if the abuser learns our identity or even suspects it.

Perhaps the best we can do is serve as an example within our communities by treating our own children, and all children with whom we come into contact, gently and with the respect they deserve as human beings.

Children are like tiny mimes. They emulate our behaviors, our facial expressions, our reactions to them. If we lose our temper and strike our child or constantly demean it, the child will emulate those behaviors for most of its life. We can save them from a life of unhappiness by acting appropriately.

Or maybe we can make a difference if we volunteer with a child abuse agency. Here is a starting point if you wish to help a child.

Fried Day

When I was a paid apparatchik instead of a volunteer alien spacecraft spotter, we used to sit around and dream up funny names for this, that, or the other things. We once created names for the days of the week we believed described those days better than the traditional names.

My favorite name was Fried Day. This was the day we scurried around cleaning up work we had left undone over the past week. Mostly, we would pass our unfinished work along under the tag “For your review and comment,” or some other equally inane label, knowing full well that the damned thing would fall on our desks again on Moans Day, the day we suffered the residues of Fried Day, Sad day, and Some Day.

As mid-afternoon of Fried day rolled around, we’d begin to get antsy, glancing at the clock every few seconds, checking another clock to make sure the other one was right, asking the secretary for the time of day, and in general making a nuisance of ourselves.

Finally, when the clock hit five p.m., we’d bail out and head for our favorite dive where we’d proceed to get fried. We’d endure our hangovers on Sad Day, but head for “our” dive later in the afternoon. The following day, we’d assemble at “our” place again and promise ourselves that Some Day we’d grow up as we downed a few and joined in a Karate version of “Tequila Sunrise.”

Some Day was always a day away.

Felice Navidad

That means “Merry Christmas” doesn’t it? Whatever. It’s one of my favorite songs. Some others—Jingle Bell Rock, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and the one about Santa being up on the rooftops or something like that.

But my all time favorite is the First Noel because I was forced against my will in the 6^th grade to recite the song while a Christmas pageant unfolded behind me. The pressure was too great. I forgot most of the lines. But the song stuck and today, my early humiliation has become a treasured memory.

These days, Christmas is a time to celebrate shopping malls and internet catalogues. And, of course, the corner liquor store, as pints, fifths, and quarts of booze rapidly disappear from the shelves. Every day of the year is perilous, but we can expect a surge in drinking during the holiday frenzy with a concomitant increase in booze-related mishaps. We no longer worship Jesus but a double shot of VO.

To give you an idea of booze-induced insanity, I once consumed enough rum balls at a booze-free on-premises office party to feel a buzz. And then, fully primed, headed out for happy hour, which lasted until the bar closed.

If you want to read some startling statistics, check MADD’s website. Here’s a very brief summary:

• Last year, almost 18,000 people died in alcohol-related traffic crashes.
• Three in every ten Americans will be in a drunken driving accident some time in their lives.
• In 2003, there were an estimated 159 million alcohol-impaired trips.
• In 2001, about one person per minute was injured in an alcohol-related crash.

Given the prevalence of alcohol-impaired people on the roads at any given moment, the miracle may be that more people aren’t killed.

And given that several American icons are constantly in the news over their own drunken driving and subsequent escape from the consequences, it’s no wonder young Americans drink and drive. As much as we celebrate the myth of our individuality, we are merely followers in real life. And that can be dangerous.

A recent highly-publicized drunken-driving death was front page news in Hawaii this morning. The Honolulu Advertiser reported that a well-known playwright had a blood-alcohol level three times the legal limit when she drove the wrong way on a freeway at 3 a.m. and rammed a car head on, killing herself and seriously injuring the driver of the other car.

One wonders about the motivation of this woman until it dawns on us that she was simply too drunk to have a motive. Booze robs the brain of reason.

How do I know these things? I’ve driven drunk more times than I can count and been involved in several accidents when I was so drunk I didn’t even realize what had happened until a passenger informed me that we had just been involved in a head on collision. The other driver left the scene. He or she was obviously drunker than me. The accident didn’t teach me anything.

With boozing so prevalent, somewhere, someday, someone reading this will be killed in a drunken driving accident. You’re safer in Iraq than you are on the roads in America, especially during the season of merriment.

As I write, there are seven more days until Christmas. Some of you may prefer another name, Hanukah, perhaps, or the generic Holiday Season. It’s each person’s call. The meaning of the season can be summed up in many ways. I prefer “sobriety on Earth and good will toward men and women.”

You might think about trying my own approach to a sober lifestyle. For more than twenty years, my preferred drink has been a double Diet Coke on the rocks. I’ll take a caffeine habit over a booze habit any day.

The President’s alcohol addiction

Check this link for an ABC story headlined Bush: ‘I Doubt I’d be Standing Here if I Hadn’t Quit Drinking Whiskey.’

He goes on to say …”beer and wine and all that.” And he reveals that he quit drinking over 20 years ago cold turkey.

After I read Martha Radatz’s article, I thought about his remarks. The parallels between his story of alcohol abuse and mine, and millions of other Americans, are startling, even down to his reasons for leaving a self-destructive life style.

The difference is that none of us ever became President of the United States and never will. Even so, there is absolutely no question that our decisions improved the quality of life all around us.

Does Bush’s confession change my opinion of his presidency? No. The differences between someone’s private life and his or her capabilities and competence can be miles apart. In Bush’s case, he is a good man for having enhanced the lives of his own family and for instilling a ray of hope in a teen who confessed her struggle to break her addiction. The President, whether we admit it or not, whether we like him or not, showed great compassion toward this young girl.

But he’s a classic case of someone who has risen far above his Level of Incompetence. It’s unfortunate that his compassion hasn’t extended to the 3,000,000 or more children abused every year in our country. If only he would push for ironclad legislation to punish child abusers, our country could perhaps then be called “a compassionate country.”

And if only he would end this insane war in Iraq. Bush seems unable to escape logic-tight thinking. In the “logic tight compartment” thought mechanism we all learned about in Psych 101, everything is a subject in and unto itself. There are millions of dots, but none are ever connected. Reasoning thus occurs within a million tiny self-contained bubbles. This may help explain how a person can be kind in one case and cruel in another.

I sense that trait about Bush even as I commend his encouraging words to that young girl. Am I guilty of logic tight thinking? Maybe. But then again, I would hope an American president would possess more brains than me. God! I hope so. If not, we may be in for a bumpy ride.

Living on barfly time

These are some memories that came to mind in the shower as I ran through a series of vocal exercises in preparation for an appearance on a new television program, “Singing with the Falling Stars.” I’m hoping to be paired with Britney.

Once upon a time, a few buddies used to entice me into a bar now and then. We had some preferred spots in a variety of places in the Bay Area.

Geographically, starting South and moving North: San Bruno, San Francisco, Sausalito, San Rafael, Larkspur, Ignacio, Novato, Petaluma.

Turning East: Vallejo.

Then South: Pinole, Oakland (turning East again) San Ramon Village, Pleasanton, Tracy, Manteca.

There are probably more that have disappeared among some pickled brain cells.

Now that I reflect, we covered a rather wide ranging area, but we didn’t make them all in a single night or even in a month. We had several groups, and as a frequent traveler, I’d look up a member or two when in town.

One was a customer service agent for Qantas at SFO. We met in San Rafael but he moved to SF and then to San Bruno. His wife would become disgusted at our antics and blame me for pouring unwanted alcohol down his throat.

And then, another guy I met in San Rafael. Preferred turf: Sausalito, San Rafael, and Larkspur.

Not to forget a few members of our work group. We had favorite spots from Ignacio, Novato, and points North and East.

A couple of us drove to Boise, Idaho, one summer and stopped for awhile in Tahoe and Reno. There, a skimpily-clad cocktail waitress lured me into losing every penny in my pockets on the slots. To top it off, she poured so much free booze in me that I couldn’t find my way out of the casino. When we reached Boise, I placed a contrite call home for living and eating money.

Those were the days when the sights, sounds, and smells of the booze scene were like soothing opiates. The minute we walked in a bar (lounges were for prissy sissies), the odor of stale cigarette smoke and booze-sloshed booths and floors was a natural high.

After a couple of drinks, the world became tolerable. Everyone was a friend. We were intellectual giants, solving all problems. Someone always described the latest brain surgery advance. Me? I was the laugher. Hey, two drinks, who gives a shit?

Evenings always ended in mushy sentimentality as we wandered around saying things like, “I love you, Charlie,” even though we hated Charlie’s guts when we were sober. We were too snorkled to know what a woman was much less make a connection.

Some evenings ended in a few slow-motion blows and hard feelings, forgotten in the following day’s miseries, nausea at the top of the scale, arid cells crying for gallons of cold water, and headaches that responded to nothing.

More than once, I sat in an all day meeting wearing black Top Guns in a state of catatonic inertia, afraid a single word or the slightest movement would result in the mother of all vomitus discharges. When the work day ended, we’d repeat the fun. Amazing how quickly the brain forgets a hangover.

Sometimes things got ridiculous. A close work group friend was a brilliant and capable gay woman who didn’t drink. She thought her orientation was the reason men were promoted ahead of her.

One day, a sympathetic boss ‘splained it to her. “You need to engage in executive talk.” His message? “If you want to get promoted, go out with the boys and get drunker than a skunk.”

One morning, for no apparent reason, I awoke and never had another drink or smoked another cigarette. The most amazing thing happened. My bar friends faded away.

Before long, I could see the sky, smell the air, taste the food. The yellow nicotine stains disappeared from my fingers. My nose and chin became a normal human hue rather than an advertisement for Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

My unscheduled absences and sick leave ceased. I saved loads of money on deodorants and mouthwashes, not to mention expenses under the category of “give everyone doubles.” Sobriety was a strange experience.

Occasionally, I run into some of my old pals. One will always ask, “How about a drink, Bobby.” Another one still in the clutch of adolescence will spout defiantly, “Have a drink, Bob. You’re spoiling all the fun.”

When someone makes a statement like that, I become eternally grateful once again that I decided to grew up.

Non-Preachy Addendum: This isn’t a confession or a plea for drinkers to give it up. Few people are interested in confessions and even fewer in advice or attempts to make them feel guilty.

Hey, when it comes to personal behavior, I am of the libertarian persuasion.

Do what you want as long as it doesn’t harm an innocent person. Wanna smoke pot? Why would I object? Wanna have a little sex? Be my guest. Porno? Go ahead. I’d rather do it than watch it. But to each his/her own. Have fun. I’ll be your designated driver.

The Celebrification Effect

What is it about celebrities that drives everyone ga-ga? Besides an accident of genetics that endows them with the ability to wiggle their hips, sing off-key, get drunker than skunks, or dance with the stars, what exactly is it that celebrities bring to the table? Are they morally and ethically superior to ordinary humans? Have any of them replaced a big rig transmission or invented a new way to prevent heartburn?

We all agree that celebrities infuse a pleasant fantasy into our mundane lives. Who wouldn’t want to look like a beautiful goddess or a handsome Adonis? Lord knows, I would settle for one-tenth of a DNA strand from someone who looks like K-Fed. But why?

Why aren’t we satisfied in our own skins? Another of those pesky questions only scholars can answer.

Public celebrity has a powerful effect on both the celebrity and those who recognize him or her as a celebrity. Us plebes want to get near them, touch them, take pictures of them, try to get their attention by saying intelligent things like “I just love your performance in Two Headed Boy meets Marina Cougar Babe.

Others more determined or more demented may sneak into their homes, jump in their cars, hang out in places where celebrities have been known to shed their panties (does anyone wear them anymore, anyway?) and even steal their identities, as if having a well-known name coats them with sparkle dust.

But celebrity also can exert a pernicious pull on a person who has it. Many celebrities become enthralled with themselves. Big egos follow, sometimes with disastrous consequences. Remember Leona Helmsley, the hotel honcho who said “Only the little people pay taxes?” She later spent some time in jail on tax evasion.

Britney is a recent example of a celebrity who is full of herself. Yes, she’s a boozer and a reported druggie. But she’s also a grown woman (well, she has an adult body at any rate) with two children. She is perfectly capable of making decisions in favor of them instead of her own pleasures of the moment.

My assessment is harsh, yes. Certainly, the stuff has a physical and psychological hold that I am unaware of. But the original decision to infuse her body with crap was hers and hers alone.

Unlike many of the 2,000,000 less-fortunate men and women who inhabit our prison system, most for drug or drug-related offenses, this privileged individual still walks free. To paraphrase Leona, “Serious jail time applies to the little people.”

Once upon a time, in another life, we had a work-release crew of prisoners around for cleaning up. These men were fairly open about their lives and their crimes, a little braggadocio, I guess. In this sense, they were stuck in the adolescent stage of life. One even said, “When I grow up, I wanna be…” He was probably joking, but his words rang true.

Therein, I think, resides the basic persona of many celebrities. They are stuck in adolescence. Unfortunately, so are many who adore them.

Almost unnoticed, we have become the United Celebrity States of Nacirema.