Brentrance and Blue Monday

As we approach the one-year anniversary of the Inauguration of Dunces, the case has never been stronger for retrocession. I am not talking about the actual retrocession in 1846 involving the return of the land to the Commonwealth of Virginia that was part of the original District of Columbia; nor the proposed retrocession of D.C. (as it exists now) to Maryland.  I mean approaching Her Majesty the Queen, acknowledging that our attempt at self-governance has taken a horrid turn, and re-joining the United Kingdom. 

Granted, we would have to deal with Theresa May for at least a while…but she (unlike the current American Chief Executive) can pass the oddly formidable sanity challenge.  Better yet, with Labour gaining electoral strength, the odds are better than 50/50 that we will have Prime Minister Jeremy Corbyn as our Head of Government soon enough.  Frankly, this is a good deal at thrice the price…which I suppose would be in pounds sterling.

In other news, we are approaching “Blue Monday” which some claim to be the most depressing day of the year.  There is a simple yet scientifically unsound mathematical formula that allegedly “validates” this hypothesis; it involves (among other variables) the weather, debt levels, and the end of the Holiday season.  Let’s be reductive, yet no less accurate, and just call it the third Monday in January.

While the present author appreciates the whimsy inherent in attempting to identify and quantify the nadir of our national mood, as someone who has written about mental health, I would like to remind you, dear reader, that this can be a tough time of year for those who contend with issues such as depression.  So, be kind. And if you are personally dealing with such matters, please reach out to someone – a friend, a family member, a loved one, a medical professional, a crisis hotline, anyone…in this era, there is someone out there who is accessible to you and who will listen.        

In solidarity.

For Those Who Care: A HoCo Campaign 2018 Update

Truth be whispered, what the ancient Greeks called “dusthumía” is attempting to gut-punch this author, repeatedly, this morning.  Not that corres-depondence (I see what I did there) equates to bad writing. This essayist is not inclined to punish the readership with twaddle, Heaven forfend!

Nope, just need to keep pressing some keys.  Besides, fuck the ancient Greeks. Couldn’t even be bothered to develop a rudimentary Metro system. If they did, I reckon Pheidippides would still be alive today.

Campaign News:

County Exec Allan Kittleman announced, to the shock of none and the dismay of several, his bid for re-election.  Meanwhile, a straw man sets up another straw man (See: Greg Fox).  Of course, I shouldn’t be too hard on Mr. Fox.  Depending on who emerges out of CC 5, he might be remembered as the Cincinnatus of West HoCo. But I seem to have shifted to the Romans, so let me get back on track.

CC3 is looking like an embarrassment of riches on the Democratic side, with Christiana Mercer Rigby already in the race and Steve Hunt poised to enter the fray very soon.  Should be an engaging primary in the months ahead.

CC4.  As attentive readers know, this is my home district.  Byron Macfarlane recently announced his candidacy. If a poll was commissioned tomorrow, there is no doubt in my mind that he would be the front-runner in the Democratic field by a healthy double-digit margin.  That is not to say that Deb Jung (the other D in CC 4 who has filed to date) is a slouch, she is not.  That is to say that Byron is well-known with a significant reservoir of support throughout the County in general and in District 4 specifically. 

State’s Attorney:  Rich Gibson.  By a country mile.  His website can be found here: http://richgibson.net/

Of course, the Band Known as Team 13 re-filed together.  Such a lovely place, such a lovely slate (with apologies to Mr. Henley, Mr. Frey, and sure, Mr. Felder). 

So what about D12?  Stay tuned…wait…not yet.

Oh yes, I believe the Columbia Democratic Club is having an important meeting tonight.  To those who ask, “Will you be there?” I reply, “Is there an open bar?”  If there are caipirinhas, I am all in. But I have now drifted from Greece to Rome to California to Brazil, so I should stop here.

Stay tuned, as more will follow (?)

On Depression and Packaged Goods

I generally abhor the confessional-style of writing, so please bear with me.

Several years ago, I was diagnosed with dysthymia.  It is perhaps better known by the less-snappy moniker, “persistent depressive disorder” which the Mayo Clinic defines as a “continuous long-term (chronic) form of depression.”  It is not adjacent to awesome.

Having possessed a ruthless penchant for melancholy for many years, I wasn’t surprised when the verdict was handed down.

Unlike the popular depiction of depression as being a dark cloud that hovers above one’s noggin, I have a slightly different take on it.   It comes across as more insidious.  Fans of Tolkien know of Grima Wormtongue, the character who provided ill counsel to King Theoden of Rohan. Depression, as least as I know it, operates in a somewhat similar manner.  It whispers.  It prods.  It suggests.  The messaging is rarely, if ever, life-affirming…even though it sometimes passes under the guise of “well meaning.”  It plays on resentments and fears, and it does so flawlessly.

“You can’t do this project. Why would they even ask you? You should focus on what you do best.”

“You’ve been working hard.  You deserve some quiet time, why not stay in your home office all weekend?”

“Vacation?  You have too much going on.  Who wants to spend time traveling? Between client projects and class assignments, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy it anyway.”

I know I shouldn’t indulge the disquiet, but I do.  A check of my Pandora account will show artists like Elliott Smith on heavy rotation. 

Oh the list goes on as this grim counselor is ever-present and always ready to offer its perspective.

In terms of behavior, I am generally able to push past the siren song and accomplish what needs to be done, more so at the job than in my personal life.   That said, it is exhausting, which feeds into the inclination to disengage in a (typically futile) effort to recover.  Of course the fatigue endures, which makes me less likely to run, write, meditate, or do anything else that might conceivably improve my state of mind.  Coupled with anxiety issues, well, double the lack of pleasure, double the dearth of fun.

Medications?  On and off them for years. Some worked for a while.  Others gave me disquietingly vivid dreams (see: sleep, lack thereof). I am taking something now, and it seems to be helping me stave off the lower lows.

Counseling helps.  Having someone to talk through the issues and challenges helps take off some of the edge.  It can offer a positive anticipatory effect (“today is tough, but at least I can talk with Dr. X tomorrow”) and real world advice on how to handle the rougher patches.

So why this topic? Why now?  I don’t know. Perhaps the recent loss of my Dad triggered something.  Perhaps I am square in the midst of a mid-life existential crisis.  Perhaps I am scarfing too many Little Debbie Zebra Cakes. 

It would be easier to say I am writing for some high-minded, altruistic reason, to help others who suffer similarly.  But honestly, at this point, I am just trying to stay above the waves and this blog is a piece of driftwood that I grabbed.

That seems sufficient for today.  Anyway, for the good of our Republic, don’t forget to vote.

Stay tuned, as more will follow.