Hernia 2: A Love Story. part 2

Please read part 1 of Hernia 2. A Love Story before reading on.

Hey! What did I just say? You won't know what the hell is going on unless you read the first part of this story!

Damn. No one reads instructions anymore.

THE RUN AROUND

Now that I had a possibility of getting financial backing to cure my ripped stomach muscles, I again contacted my original surgeon, to see if he could put in some recommendations with other surgeons who would accept my CICP program.

Being the generous guy he was (did I mention he also liked metal? That's pretty cool on its own), he faxed my information to another surgeon he knew, at a hospital that would accept my vagrant faux-insurence.

As per usual in this adventure, I waited a good while, and heard nothing back. Maybe they just forgot to call me, right? A few more days passed, and I finally called the referred surgeon's office directly to see about the silence.

"It looks like you were declined," the secretary told me.

"What was the reason?" I asked.

"Well, it says here that it's not life threatening, so he passed on your case."

Wonderful. Thanks for the concern, guys.

God damn it! Now what?

Well, I suppose I could just try to get an appointment with a specialist at another CICP hospital on my own, yes?

Pehaps. But adding to the dense corn-maze that is the current medical system, I am apparently not allowed to jump right to a specialist. Oh no. I have to see a clinic doctor, THEN I can see a specialist.

Man, hospitals and their hoops!

Okay, fine. Let's do that then. I'll play your games. (Because I have a choice).

I waltzed right into the clinic fully prepared like mustard. After waiting around again just to see a doctor so that they could tell me what I already knew, I eventually got my referral for a specialist.

Okay. Checkmark. Slowly but surely, I was making my way to the goal of surgery.

I played phone tag with the appointment center for a bit, and in the end, got myself a calendar date to see a specialist. Nice. Finally. (I'll wear my nicest Tux).

NOW THAT'S CUSTOMER SERVICE

All was hunky dory for the next few weeks as I anxiously waited, albeit in broken form, for my upcoming appointment.

(My guess is that something negative will happen next, let's see...)

Two days before the scheduled date, I received a message on my cell phone, likely from the appointment center probably calling to remind me of my meeting (yes, I'm sure you believe that that's what it was).

I checked the message, and indeed it was them... but... wait... WHAT?!?... CANCELLED???!!!

What the flying scrotal shit fucks!?

Two days before the appointment I had been waiting almost a month for, I was told via voice mail that they had cancelled it because the surgeons needed some information about the previous surgery.

What, and you couldn't have told me that when I scheduled the appointment?! You had to wait until the last minute to tell me, and not even give me the option of having my surgeon fax you some info?!

DAMN YOUSE!!!

And you're damn right I was pissed.

So I followed instructions like a good little boy, and had my previous surgeon's secretary fax my information to the appointment center (that, in its self, only took 3 to 4 phone calls). Once the fax was finally sent (two weeks later... sigh), I hounded the appointment center every week with messages regarding my cancellation, if they had received the fax, and when I could reschedule.

After even more weeks of only getting voice mails, I got a hold of an actual human being (I guess they just started hiring those), and learned that just as they cancelled the appointment with my specialist ( the one that already took me forever to get), they had changed their policies.

Oh goody! Now what?

By now you should know the drill.

You see, now I had to go see another primary care physician (I already did that, remember?) before I could try to get back in line to see a surgeon.

They just make this a pleasure, don't they?

Well, life got busy again, and I dealt with my quarter-sized opening in my stomach, as I had no other choice ( I like options). In the back of my mind, I kept thinking "I need to schedule yet another doctor appointment," but just never seemed to remember due to all of the other things I had going on.

In fact, if the hernia was not causing me any intense pain, to the point where I could even forget about it for a while, that was a good thing!

Maybe I can just get used to it, and live my life.

Sure, you do that.

But in the meantime, I was about to get a big reminder of my condition.

HOSPITAL HIJINKS

At work, weeks later (see how I easily gloss over huge amounts of time with those two words?), I was suddenly overcome by a feeling enormous pressure and pain in my stomach. The pressure was so overwhelming it was almost equivalent to the nerve-crushing pain I felt during my life-threatening incarcerated hernia I endured in fall '08.

This was most likely a not-so-good thing.

Again I recalled the words of warning, "If you feel anything like what you felt before, come right into the ER."

Try as I might to grin and bear it, to stay at work and just "power through it" like a macho über-mensch, I no longer could function well enough to do any vague semblance of a job, and finally had to make the big call.

"I need to go to the emergency room," I said, feeling guilty for leaving work when they needed my help.

I think I may have some guilt complexes, now that I think of it.

Another time. On to the emergency room.

As per the usual routine, I undressed and put on the ever fashionable hosipital gown and clutched my stomach in pain.

"At least they will be able to see what's going on, and pehaps, even take me in now and get it over with," I reassured myself between pulses of pain.

As I waited (I do a lot of that), the nurses and doctors did the tradtional stuff: blood tests, urine tests, condescending feigned interest in my situation, etc.

Once the tests came back, I was ready for them to give me the bad new about my stomach exploding, or the new hernia becoming incarcerated like the last one, but instead I was told that I was free to go home, and they would simply issue me a prescription for pain medicine.

Yes, that's it.

Seriously? Nothing wrong with me? Impossible! What about all of this sudden pain?!

Still in extreme discomfort, I hobbled out defeated, no answers, no imporvements, no appointments.

What the hell was wrong? This does not feel like "fine" to me.

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE CHUNNEL

The next day my stomach was back to normal, with no reasons or clues as to why.

I continued about on my daily routine, working on completing some personal projects, as well as less-interesting day-job obligations.

Then, out-of-the-blue about a month later, I got a voice message on my cell phone from a very business-looking number.

Listening to the message, I was absolutely shocked to learn that the appointment center actually remembered me, and had considerately scheduled me an appointment with a primary care physician within a week. (Isn't this the same appointment center that gave me the run around for months and would not return my calls?)

What the...

Where did this come from?

You mean I might actually be able to get this taken care of after all?

At this point, I'll believe it when it actually manifests.

HOW DOES MONDAY SOUND?

After jumping through the medical croquet hoops and seeing the primary care physician they had scheduled me for (I'll spare you the details of the observations I had on the people in the waiting room), I was told to re-call the appointment center the next week, and the doctor himself would put in a recommendation for me.

Nice!

Well...

In theory.

The next week came about (as they do), I called the number and got an appointment with a specialist the very next day.

Yes, the next day.

Were things suddenly working in my favor? (Don't answer that).

While waiting to see the specialist, I talked with a very nice intern who asked me some questions about my situation.

After giving her my long dramatic story, she looked a bit surprised and said, "why didn't you get in here sooner?"

I shook my head and smiled. "That's what I've been trying to do the whole time".

She smiled, acknowledging my struggle.

"Wow, you really have been given the run around, haven't you?"

Once the real surgeon did a quick examination of my broken stomach wall, he said, "well, I do my surgeries on mondays, so I think I could do the 28th. Does that work?"

The 28th? Really? That was only a few weeks from then. Damn that's... actually pretty fast.

I have to say, to my own surprise and disbelief, it looked like this was really going to be taken care of for good.

Honestly, I really felt that I would be living with this broken stomach wall my whole life. Dramatic as that may sound, I've said it before, the hopeless empty feeling that had been with me since discovering this well-funded abdominal sequel felt profoundly true.

And if I've learned anything in the course of studying myself and others, it's that our emotions are more powerful than any grounded logic or reason.

THE AB BONE'S CONNECTED TO THE... EVERYTHING

It's interesting how much we take our bodies for granted. As I slowly recover from this crazy adventure of the gut, I have no choice but to see how much my stomach muscles affect every little movement I do. Why? Because it hurts like a bitch.

The simplest task, like sitting up, standing, walking or laying down becomes a wince-inducing reminder of the body I rarely acknowledge.

And worse still, at least at this point of my healing, I can't even laugh without going into extreme pain. Something I do a decent amount of anyway, (yes, I like to laugh at things), I have to mentally condition myself against doing. So much for watching any movies I might find humorous.

Don't even get me started on coughing. Worst. Pain. Ever.

THE IMPACT

As I discussed in the last essay, The Depression Panacea, I closely link myself and my personal happiniess with what I do, more specifically, what I create.

Not being able to work, or get creative projects done makes me extremely restless and slightly (or exaggeratedly) depressed.

This very thing happened last time when I spent almost a week in the hospital for the emergency hernia. I recall getting very depressed, locked in my old people prison, having no access to my studio or the other creative tools I use daily. I felt worthless, all while healing my body after a near-death experience. Realistically, I should have been thankful that I was alive due to the advances in medical technology, and I was... for an hour or so. Then I began feeling worthless and guilty for not getting anything accomplished.

Which relates to where I am right now.

I'm restless, a bit depressed and even feeling slightly guilty due to my lack of accomplishements during my recovery.

Though my recorvery has taken longer than I had planned (how do you plan for physical healing anyway?), I have trouble allowing myself the emotional space to allot for the continual pushing back of my getting-things-accomplished. It make no difference to me whether I'm just wasting time playing a video game, or recovering from stomach surgery. If I'm not getting anything done, I feel guilty and beat myself up for it.

THE VIEW FROM HERE

Until I went through the ordeal of the last year, I never gave two shits about health care. And why would I? If it doesn't directly affect me, how can I feel a personal connection to it?

Well, personal connection solved!

Dealing with the emotional, physical and mental trials of the last year have placed new emphasis on my personal health and well being. Not to mention the access I can and cannot get to be treated, or just be seen by a health care provider.

Oddly, my adventures coincide nicely with the national debate on just such topic, though I have no interest in turning this into a political screaming match.

All I really want to know is am I actually done with this shit, once and for all?

Or will I find myself on a looping conveyor belt of stomach surgeries?

As with the first one, I'm hoping that this is finally behind me and I can move on, with my stomach now filled with high tech lasers and cybernetics.

But if you follow the movie industry, production companies love trilogies.




Related blogs: 
Hernia 2: A Love Story part 1
Too Early For Suicide?
2008: The Worst Year Of My Life
Touching Death In The Crotch


Enjoy reading this blog? Please socially bookmark this page, or post it on your Facebook, and most of all comment with your personal stories, observations, or violent objections.

Visit the all new DeprecationWear online store! Sarcastic, self-deprecating and elitist merchandise. Click HERE to see my wares!



buy unique gifts at Zazzle

Tags: health healthcare hospital medical system reform surgery recovery sarcasm

Hernia 2: A Love Story. part 1

I woke up in a groggy haze in a hospital recovery room. As the nurse tinkered with whatever was in my IV, she asked me to breathe deeply.

OW! Fuck that hurts!

I gritted my teeth at the intense pain coming from my stomach.

This was the part I had been dreading for so long, the recovery. It was as if I'd done this before. Wait, I have done this before. It's deja vu.

Why the hell am I going through this again?

Good question.

As my eyes continually closed and opened in my anesthetic fog, the answer came to me when the surgeon came to discuss the procedure.

Apparently, my stomach resembled swiss cheese, with one large hole, and a smattering of other small ones all over.

I had eleven hernias.

Man, that's metal. My hernias go to eleven!

Join me, won't you, through a year-long journey fraught will emotion, desperation, run arounds, setbacks and near-death experiences.

This is Hernia 2: A Love Story.

TOUCHING DEATH IN THE CROTCH

Say, this hernia thing sounds familiar doesn't it?

If you've read back into my growing essay catalog, you may have come across an essay called Touching Death In The Crotch, which has a similar premise. If you want more detail on that situation, I recommend you peruse that, however I'll also sum it up quickly for you right here.

In August of 2008, I found myself in the emergency room with the worst stomach pains I'd ever experienced.

It turns out my pain-inducing tummy-buddy was an incarcerated abdominal hernia. (Shit, and I was all prepared to be a mother). Think of your intestines getting kinked like a hose, then caught in your stomach wall. Interested?

The doctors told me that if I would have waited any longer, my intestines would have ruptured, and I would most likely have gone to your uncle's farm up north with Mr. Kitty and grandma.

You know, "fucking dead".

After almost a week of recovery in the hospital re-training my body to walk, and defecate, I enjoyed a pill-popping couch-based pain and depression party at my dad's house. (How nice of him to throw a party in my honor).

After a month or so, I was back to my normal, self-loathing, sardonic, near-sucicial self.

It was an incredibly dramatic and life-changing event that I could now put behind me for good.

Right?

Well, mirroring the modern movie business, the first hernia did so well that it demanded a sequel.

THE DISCOVERY

With my near-death experience behind me (snicker), I got back to the normal grind (sans bump).

I found a new job at a restaurant, which was rather timely, as I was about to go broke.

A manly badass scar running down my lower abdominal wall was a constant reminder of my Great Stomach Rebellion. (Or an extremely un-manly cesarean scar).

It served as a relic of a terrible historical disaster, keeping my self-image and emotions in check. Thanks Hernia™!!

Jump to Superbowl Sunday in February '09. (Do that).

I was working at my restaurant for a special football party. (No, no. American football). Over the last several days I had developed a gnarly cold, and a deep chest cough. Ignoring the cheering from the party by engrossing myself in a book about the history of American secularism (I like to participate, you know), my cough became extremely severe, feeling like a butter knife scraping against my lungs.

The next morning as I stepped out of the shower (yep, totally naked), I just happened to glance at my stomach as I dried myself with an old towel.

What the hell was that?

Was that a slight bulge under my scar?

Was it just, maybe, perhaps, the way the light was hitting me?

Oh shit, that's really a bulge.

Oh my god. Not again. Not again.

Seriously?

I just fucking did this a few months ago!

In an emotional panic I called my dad up and told him the bad news.

You know what I needed at this time in my life, especially after a recent ended relationship, a near-death surgery escapade, almost going broke, and then my cat dying?

Another huge setback.

IT'S HOPELESS

The next few weeks were probably my lowest low, damn near ever (which says a lot considering 2008). I had just been through an absolutely traumatic situation not more than a few months ago, which I believed to be completely taken care of, and now it was back.

Emotionally, it felt as if this was going to be my life path, what I was going to expect for the rest of my days, which is a bit of an exaggeration of the situation, but still felt overpoweringly true. (Stupid irrational emotions!).

I felt helpless, and I wanted to give up.

In everything I did, I could feel it. It expanded when I ate, leaving me fearful of an internal rupture or explosion. Digestion was ever more present as I could feel my insides working in a way that was strange and uncomfortable. Sleep brought no respite from the hernia either, as from time to time I would succumb to massive, painful pressures in my abdomen, waking me up out of a pleasant dream, and sending me into hysterics, questioning whether I should be speeding down to the emergency room again, or just wait it out.

The doctor's words repeated in my head on autopilot, "If you feel anything like what you felt before, come right down to the ER, don't wait. Watch for swelling, discoloration..." basically I was becoming a paranoid hypochondriac.

Every little sound, or feeling from my gut scared the shit out me. Almost dying from the last one, I was easily frightened for the second round.

I felt broken in almost every way. I was afraid to lift anything, drink alcohol or coffee, or even socialize (which I don't do much of as it is, so I guess that is kind of a moot point).

To drive the impact home, I would not be able to move to another position at my day job, due to lifting requirements, nor could I find a new job for the same reasons.

Basically I was trapped within myself, limited and confined to constant worry and fear. I was afraid to really live.

"Why keep on living if I'm just going to be continually beset by shit time and time again without a chance to really build my life back up again?" I thought.

This would bring me to my almost-end-point, when I began to (seriously this time) contemplate suicide.

THE REAL PROBLEM

On my last hernia, the emergency one, I received a ridiculously lucky deal when the hospital waved the entirety of my near $60,000 bill due to my sub-poverty financial status, leaving me with only a few thousand dollars owed. This was an extremely fortunate situation, for once. (Obviously).

I spoke to the surgeon who performed my last operation, and asked him if he would be able to help me again, and though he said he would be glad to do it, he gave me some disappointing news.

This new hernia was not an emergency, or immediately life threatening, therefore I would not be able to work with the financial department at the hospital to negotiate such a steep slash to the price. It was an elective surgery, therefore, no aid.

He told me if I were to get some insurance he would do it in a heartbeat, but alas, I live the pathetic life of a college student, sans school.

So here I was still reeling from the impact of the previous year, I was hit again, and had no way to financially take care of it.

Was I going to be stuck with this forever?

I can't afford health insurance, at any price, and wouldn't I be denied anyway due to this being a pre-existing condition? Stupid fucking insurance companies!

What about my dad? Couldn't he help?

If my situation would have happened a few years ago, perhaps he could have. Sadly for both of us, he was hit quite hard in the economic recession that year, and lost all of the money that could have gone to making me unbroken. (What's his money for, if not for me?)

Fuck! How the hell am I going to fix myself?

This absolutely hopeless. Might as well kill myself. (And I did. The end).

OKAY, SO I'M INDIGENT

For a good while, I avoided researching anything about my hernia, or looking for solutions to fix my problem. The overwhelming helplessness and depression caused by the appearance of this second physical problem prevented me from bringing myself to do anything about it. I couldn't even face it.

Productive? No.

Human? I suppose so.

My mother, feeling like she was unable to do anything for me during my emergency situation, was determined to help me this time. After some phone calls to her sister, she informed me of a few programs that may exist in Colorado for broke losers like me. (She didn't actually say broke loser, though that would have made this section more humorous).

After a long, confusing search through user-unfriendly government websites and databases, cursing to the heavens about how anyone looking for medical help could ever even find it, I finally stumbled upon what I was looking for:

*Cue angelic choir*

The Colorado Indigent Care Program, or CICP.

Basically it acts as health insurance for homeless people or those who make shit money (hey, that's me!). Honestly people, this is the kind of health insurance we should all have. No annual fee, and you will never pay more than 10% of your total income in a year.

How awesome is that?! (Make a pie chart).

I thought to myself, "Why would anyone want to make a decent income and pay for shitty health insurance, when they can be broke, and get on this awesome program?"

(Oh yeah, people like to buy stuff. Never mind).

After several annoying tries to go down in person and sign up for the program (I had to come back again at 7am and wait in line just to have an appointment) I was finally processed and officially able to do something about this emotionally, and physically crippling hernia.

I felt lucky to finally be on this super cheap program, something which made it financially possible to take care of this second Abdomination (heh heh, wooo! Good one me!).

Now I should go see a specialist, and get my surgery right?

YEAH!

Nope.

To be continued in part 2...



Related blogs:
Too Early For Suicide?
2008: The Worst Year Of My Life
Touching Death In The Crotch

Enjoy reading this blog? Please socially bookmark this page, or post it on your Facebook, and most of all comment with your personal stories, observations, or violent objections.

Visit the all new DeprecationWear online store! Sarcastic, self-deprecating and elitist merchandise. Click HERE to see my wares!



buy unique gifts at Zazzle

Tags: health health care hospital surgery recovery sarcasm

Surgery, New Subscribers And Thanks

GOING IN FOR SURGERY

Tomorrow (Monday the 28th), I'll be going in for hernia surgery.

I'm looking forward to having pain every time I have to sit up and go to the bathroom, or the excruciating process of simply trying to lay down.

Yes, I've gone through this before already. Last year. So I figured, "why not make it a yearly routine?" I like to keep myself humble, you know. (And this blog is proof of how well that is working.....).

The point being, chil-dee-ren, is that, depending on the amount of meds I will be injected with, or the pain I will be "enjoying", I may not get to writing a new essay for next week.

I will have my laptop with me, and though I'll be moaning and groaning like a whiny baby, I do aim to get some more essays done. However, I promise nothing.

Once I'm feeling better, I'll have a story to share on the hernia thing (and yes, it is actually more interesting than an essay on hernias sounds. Really).

NEW SUBSCRIBERS

In the last few days, I noticed a small influx of new subscribers to the RSS and email feeds of King Of Deprecation!

Again, it's a small amount, but enough to take notice of.

I can only assume that part of it may come from linking from my newly-created Envinity blog, though in my often ego-pandering imagination, it's due to complete strangers who just happened upon this blog and thought to themselves, "wow, this sure is insightful, witty, honest and humorous! I've learned valuable things about myself and people in general that I previously took for granted! Thanks Niko!"

Alas, no one says that.

I'm probably just seen as a self-important asshole, as opposed to a purveyor of fascinating life lessons and social observations.

Sigh.

I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who has recently added my pathetic feed to your weekly reading list, and even more so, thank you to those who have stayed subscribed the whole time, and actually read the pseudo-intellectual, sarcastic and self-mocking garbage you get from me!

Thank you very much!

I'll be back soon, but in a much more feeble, elderly way.

In the meantime, here are some entertaining older essays to read while I'm in a drug coma:
Self-Perception: What A Beautiful Thing!
Adventures In Guerilla Psychotherapy
Colorado Women's Expo. A Celebration Of Stereotypes!
Ted Nugent: Anti-American Hypocrite
Leave Your Honesty At The Door
Crazy Drummer Guy, And Vegan UnGuitarist




Enjoy reading this blog? Please socially bookmark this page, or post it on your Facebook, and most of all comment with your personal stories, observations, or violent objections.

Visit the all new DeprecationWear online store! Sarcastic, self-deprecating and elitist merchandise. Click HERE to see my wares!



buy unique gifts at Zazzle

The Depression Panacea

At the beginning of 2009, I was at the lowest spot I've ever been. The year of 2008 had destroyed me from nearly every front imaginable, and 2009 had welcomed me with the passing of my cat of fifteen years.

Needless to say I was a tad unhappy.

I blamed this feeling on the specific events of the previous year: the ending of a relationship; my body almost killing me, literally; almost going completely broke; and nothing worthwhile to show for any of it.

But the more I pondered my own mire of sorrow and desperation, I began to recall that these feelings did not start with the obvious events of the year prior.

No. In fact, even during the good moments of my last relationship, I can still remember feeling as if something was not right. Sure the relationship had its share of red flags, but at the time it was still fun and exciting.

In reality I had been on a long downward slope of unhappiness for the last several years.

So what was going on with me?

Why was I still unhappy during moments of supposed happiness?

How far back did my depression go, and what caused it?

More importantly, what actually makes me happy?

LOOKING TO THE PAST

As a young, carefree child, I spent hours drawing landscapes with colored pencils, creating elaborate death traps for skateboarding stick figures, and recording multi-hour ramblings on cassette tapes that was, in my mind, an entertaining variety radio show.

I can recall building things with Legos while laying on the floor telling myself stories, or creating an epic, and usually hyper-violent movie scenario for my action figures to play out, complete with in-depth character connections and full background histories.

I rarely played sports, and the few times I joined the neighbor kids in anything requiring some ounce of athletic skill, I reaped the chastising-based rewards of my lifelong disinterest in sports.

This only helped to turn me continually inward, relying more and more on my own imagination as the primary means of my entertainment and satisfaction.

Music was also a big part of my life at the time, and I spent many moments of my free time dreaming of becoming a famous rapper (sorry, that's what I liked at the time). I wrote down lyrics, wrote trite melodies and chord patterns (C'mon, I was a kid), and created logos and album covers for myself, which continued for several years, even as my musical tastes drifted into pop, and then rock.

Music was always a place I wanted to be, but there were so many other creative things I did at the time that there was no need to focus on just one.

"So, Niko. That's really neat that you did a bunch of stupid things as a child, but what does that have to do with your depression?"

Thanks for the sarcasm friend.

What I'm trying to illustrate is that during this time of my life, I was constantly inspired, much more positive, and had a fairly optimistic outlook on life and my future.

...And then puberty hit.

MOMMY, WOW! I'M A BIG KID NOW

My transition into adulthood (which is a constant journey, not a destination) has been a rocky and challenging path (as I imagine it is for so many of us).

Now that I was a hormone-throbbing young man, my emotions took me in stranger, and much more dramatic directions at the drop of a hat. And boy did people drop a lot of hats (clumsy fools).

In essence, the influx of new chemicals in my body plus time and experience, had changed me into a new person, far removed from the optimism of my child-like self of days gone by. I was now a brooding, overly-introspective teenager whose emotions governed and clouded his entire perspective on existence.

So, is this the source of my depression? Simple Biology?

Yes and no.

In the sense that I was now capable (as if it was intentional) of feeling super-human mood-swings, yes, it started there. But was it the source of the hollow, lackluster sadness that grew on me like a fungus in recent years? No. But it sure provides a nice canvas to paint on.

Sure I still spent many an evening curled up in the fetal position on my bed, most likely on the phone with a girl who would never love me, while somber, atmospheric music drifted out my speakers, melding perfectly with the bleak glow of my black light and lava lamp.

(Oh you poor high school kid, your life is so hard. Here, have my pretend sympathy).

But on the upside I also had plenty of creative projects to keep me busy. I was in about every possible music program in high school from marching band, to jazz band, to symphonic band (which I really loved). I also took several art classes, in the end becoming quite interested in 3D computer art (also very fun). To round it all out I took an acting class (eh...), I played in a metal band with some friends, and I continued to hone my own songwriting skills by working on long, self-involved keyboard compositions.

I led quite a busy life at the time, looking back.

Despite being melodramatic and emotional about every stupid little thing, I really had a lot going on in my life to be excited and proud of.

THE DESCENT BEGINS

The juxtaposition of my early post-high school life and the mile-a-minute marathon that was my high school routine was not immediately apparent to me.

At first I had a job working in the music department of the long-defunct Media Play (which was quite fitting). I would go clubbing twice a week ritualistically, and began playing with a little band called Dunwich Horror, a tongue-in-cheek black and death metal cover band, which featured the brothers Thomas and Daniel Drinnen (which later became Urizen).

I kept myself quite content (as much as I can be) and busy with projects, yet slowly over time, my personal outlets for self expression would begin to drop off the radar, as I became a singularly-focused person.

Around the same time of the above shenanigans, I had begun my early recording experimentation with digital music, taking songs I had been working on since I was 14 and 15 years old, and bringing them into the present with amazingly sort-of-okay results!

Omitting several important steps for you readers, this project eventually became my personal band Envinity (then called Envy).

As time progressed, I cut off the remaining avenues of creativity leaving just my personal music as my single outlet for my imagination, emotion and experiences.

Over the next several years I was lucky enough to release two albums, Sweet Painful Reality in 2002, and Empyreal Progeny in 2004. I hadn't picked up a pencil, brush or drawing program in years, (although I did started getting into Photoshop and graphics for my albums), and my toys were long since put away. Everything I did was now almost 100% focused on Envy, including the way I structured my life.

Envy (now Envinity), was all I had, and had now come to represent me as a whole.

Without really knowing it, there was no longer a separation between my art, and the person I was.

YOU ARE WHAT YOU DO

Though I'd known this for quite some time, I recently came face to face with the notion that I have trouble defining myself outside of what I do.

If I were asked to describe what makes me ME, I'd begin telling you things that I've done, created, or thought of. None of these being who I am as a human being.

Given that most of my life was spent being creative or imaginative (even if it wasn't always very good), I had built up a connection between who I am, and what I do. There was no difference. I had become the things I create. "Who is Niko?" Well, let me show you this new thing I did.

Going back to the last few depressing years in question, what was I producing at the time? What was I working on?

Well, there's the problem.

For someone who is apparently defined by what I do, I was not being very well defined.

I had the beginnings of my eventual 3rd album (coming soon), which I was very excited about, but it was far, far from completion. To further distance myself from creatively-driven actualization, it seemed at the time that the project would never see the light of day.

"Okay, so this new thing you were working on was a long way off, but weren't you still playing live shows with your band? Isn't that something tangible and creative?"

Well friend, the live version of Envinity had sadly disintegrated into a near-comical facsimile of the grand vision I had started out with, pushing me further down the path to personal depression and frustration.

If indeed Envinity was all I had, and its gains and outputs represented my gains and outputs, I had nothing. The whole thing was turning into something I hated, and therefore so was I. It had nothing new to show for itself, vicariously, neither did I.

I did not put it into focus at the time, but I recall wondering why I could feel so worthless and unhappy when I had other things in my life that should have made up for that. I had no idea why I felt so down.

I had no idea, at this time, that my creativity connects directly to my identity, and also my emotions.

THE DEPRESSION PANACEA

At the start of 2009, finally realizing this seemingly obvious connection between my moments of satisfaction and purpose in life, and my amount of personal creative output, I made a pledge. And no, not one of those flimsy new year's resolutions that no one ever remembers or follows through on.

I vowed to myself, that I would make 2009 the most creatively saturated year I'd ever experienced.

With newly ignited interest and cautious optimism, I quickly jotted down a list of every project I'd ever fantasized about doing, designing, or being a part of at any point in my lifetime. From the most grandiose, to the absolutely stupid and silly.

As I stared at the ever growing list of potential ideas, I began to see how much I had limited myself in the last several years. Here I was with the mindset that I was ONLY a musician, and yet my list told me otherwise. So I guess I'm not just a musician anymore eh? Then what am I? (Besides an occasional ass?).

As we head into the fall of '09, I'm glad to say that my personal life-experiment has showed some wonderful signs of positivity.

I'm on my way to finally finishing the project I started almost five years ago for Envinity (which is good in and of itself), but to add to that, I've also found a new interest in writing about philosophy and psychology from my sarcastic, self-deprecating perspective, which I've been fairly consistent on since April.

Not to mention my awesome T-shirt store, which is something I've talked about doing for years.

There are also a handful of other side projects which I will begin very soon, and I'm very excited about finally getting to them (as many of them were things I've wanted to do since I was a teenager, or even a small child).

Have I done everything off of my 'to do' list this year?

No.

But you know what?

It's okay.

I'm already doing more for me than I ever have, and I'm now the busiest I've been since my long gone high school days.

It's stressful, it's overwhelming, and I love it.

Honestly, I love it.

Sure, I'm not sunshine and rainbows 24/7, but that's not me regardless. However, I am more satisfied with myself, more energetic, more positive (let me stress the word MORE, meaning a matter of degree only) than at any point in my life that I can recall.

If I am a person who is truly defined by what I do, then I've embraced that understanding and have given myself ample creative outlets, both short term and long term, in order to exist through. And it is only through putting my all into something I create that I truly feel alive.

I don't know if my realizations will work for anyone else, but I can tell you this:

It feels great to be alive again.



Related blogs:
I Resent Your Happiness
Too Early For Suicide?
72 Degrees In The Head, All The Time 
2008: The Worst Year In My Life


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Tags: philosophy psychology life creative creativity goals self deprecating music art happiness happy depression cure

Passion Or Practicality?

There is a girl at my restaurant who I've found a particular interest in analyzing, and I'm sure you can guess why.

I'm attracted to her. (Well, so far)

She's only a few years younger than I, quite pretty, a decently witty head on her shoulders, spunky, fun to be around, in a relationship...

... Wait, what was that last part?

Shit. She's in a relationship.

... And has a new born.

Ehhhhhh... This is not sounding as good anymore.

So much for that "opportunity" eh? Such is my luck.

Besides, I'm sure she's plenty happy in her current relationship.

... or is she?

What do you say we find out together? (We should hold hands)

CONTRAST CREATES EMOTION

I was admittedly a bit disappointed that one of the few girls I find some spark of interest in, is off the market. Not to mention the kid. (I should not have mentioned that).

So, I took particular interest the day her boyfriend came into the restaurant with their baby.

I watched from afar from behind my laptop, as I pretended to be working on one of my brilliant and insightful blogs for... some site that no one reads.

(No, I'm not a stalker. I'm just obsessive. Isn't there a difference? Please?)

Right away, I was a bit surprised at the boyfriend's jockiness. Not the type of guy I had thought she would be dating. In his defense, not having actually talked with him, he did not exactly look like a super-douche, just, well, as I said. A bit on the jocktacular side. He could be cool. Who knows. (I don't want to know).

As soon as she saw the pair enter the door, she lit up and smiled.

(Damn it. Look how happy she is. I hate other people's happiness)

She immediately kissed and coddled the child, then looked at her boyfriend with a very socially polite smile and simply said, "hey".

No hug, no kiss, just "hey".

I raised an eyebrow.

The boyfriend sat down at an empty booth and placed the baby carriage on top of the table, so that they could admire and lavish affection on the child.

As I kept watching, from my distant, secret lair of social-ineptitude, my eyes couldn't help noticing her odd body language.

The entire time, she stood at the opposite end of the booth, never sitting down with him, not even for a moment (the restaurant was dead by the way), throwing him only matter-of-fact facial expressions, and slight nods while talking.

"Maybe that's just how she is with people", I thought.

Then she turned to the baby with a bright, beaming smile full of love and exuberance.

"Hmmm..." I pondered.

After his meal, she once again hugged and kissed the baby with an affectionate radiance. On his way out, she addressed her boyfriend with a simple, "bye".

Not in a sarcastic way, nor in an "I'm angry at you" way, just, well, bland.

Lifeless.

I pretended to go back to my blog, but instead I opened up a new file and wrote down what I just saw. This suddenly got interesting.

LESS IS MORE

Noticing that interesting display, and feeling particularly saucy, I decided to probe her about her relationship.

So, when we were talking one afternoon at work, I purposely put her on the spot and asked her point blank and calmly, "So, would you say that you have a passionless relationship?"

She flashed through about twenty quick expressions before flustering through multiple half-finished, defensive responses.

"What? What do you... no... I mean, I don't know what you mean... why would you ask that? I don't understand..." she said, with lots of head shaking and facial expression changes.

I reiterated my question, as I had the feeling she knew exactly what I was asking, but was trying to avoid it.

There is something slyly enjoyable about making people uncomfortable with bold questions.

"Is there a lot of passion is your relationship?" I asked again, very calmly with a slight smile.

"Well, I mean.... we love each other...." she said with a confused, yet also suspicious look.

"Thats not what I asked" I said with a smirk.

"What do you mean? I don't... what are you asking?"

She knew exactly what I was asking.

"I don't understand why you're asking me this," she said, as she conveniently walked away to check on one of her tables.

I smiled to myself. So that answers that question.

This was getting to be quite fun. For me, at least.

THE GRAND CANYON

The last straw in my observing her relationship from afar like a creepy stalker, came when her boyfriend, child and boyfriend's family showed up for lunch.

She waited on the table, and everything seemed just fine.

After lunch, the folks and baby took off (I assume the baby drove separately), leaving the boyfriend to hang out at the restaurant.

I just happened to be standing nearby when I caught a quick exchange between the two, something about the boyfriend apologizing for something. I know not what happened, or whether it was a big deal, like calling her "snatch" during the meal (why don't women like that?), or perhaps his parents just forgot to tip.

I never did find out.

Whatever it was, she seemed relatively okay about it, which is good (for them, not as much for me), then he went off to the bar for a beer, and to watch a game, as she continued cleaning up her tables.

And this is where my "hmmm..." becomes, "HMMMM....".

She grabbed some food and sat down in a booth.

No, not with her boyfriend, but with some fellow female servers.

"Maybe he's already gone, that would makes sense," I rationalized.

I did a quick scan of the restaurant, and saw her boyfriend sitting by himself in the lounge up front, watching tv.

HMMMM....

Now everyone has a different way they like to interact, and when you live together, I'm sure the "fun" of seeing the other person is a bit diminished (or augmented or suspended. Strike that, it's a C#dim7). But when she's off the clock, and the person she claims to be in a romantic relationship with is there to see her (why else would he be at that restaurant eh?), why would she stay far away from him?

Later on, she did eventually join him at the bar, but by this time he had struck up a converstaion with a gentlemen about whatever awesome game was on tv (sarcasm), and she sat next to him, not saying a word, silently starring off into space, with the occasional glance toward her boyfriend's converstaion.

Good times. Monday, Tuesday happy days.

READING BETWEEN THE SPACES

It's a series of bread crumbs like these that add up to a loaf. (Not the pinchable kind).

So why is she with him?

From what I've seen, I think I can safely say that they don't have a lot of passion. Since the baby is involved, I'm thinking the boyfriend represents safety, dependability, familiarity and comfort, which is fine if that is what you want.

And maybe that's what she wants.

Yet part of me keeps thinking, "Maybe she just doesn't know what is out there," and by "out there" I am referring to me.

But why would she want to be with someone like me? Do I represent any of those traits? Not really, or at least not in the same ways. I'm guessing she sees me as too weird, strange, silly, self-important, professorial, elitist or something to that effect to be considered relationship material.

Even if she did find some sort of oddly-placed interest in someone as opinionated and self-critical as myself, would I want the responsibility of caring for a child? I'm sure I could do it, but would I want it?

And why am I even making this an issue? Chance for opportunity: zero.

PASSION OR PRACTICALITY?

What this all comes down to is a simple question. What matters to you? What is important in a relationship? True, you don't always have to have only one or the other, but most people will offer MORE of one than the other.

So what do you want?

It's easier to stay in a slightly boring, but easy-going relationship, then it is to look for a new one, or sadly, to sustain the high-energy, super-passionate ones (why do those have to fizzle out so quickly?).

And maybe placing passion as a "must have" on my list will keep me forever searching, and never finding. I guess I'll just have to deal with that.

Now I just need to decide if I want to show her this blog or not. It could bring up some interesting reactions (which is completely worth it), or possibly make things incredibly awkward at work from here on out (not as much).

What do you think?

Ah, fuck it, I'll go for the risk. That's the only choice with any passion.



Related blogs:
Soul Mates
A Spoonful Of Relationships Will Cure What Ails Ya!
You Should Meet My Friend Niko
(Mis)Perceptions Of Love
The Lust Complex

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Tags: love relationships philosophy.psychology stalker happy passion passionate practical comfort stability

New DeprecationWear T-Shirt: Indifference

Deary me, where is my head? With all the shenanigans and goings-on I forgot to let you know about my brand new DeprecationWear T-Shirt:

Indifference by deprecation

Indifference by deprecation

As you can see from the images above, you need this shirt. Your complete lack of emotion for anyone and anything can now be known from across the room, requiring even less effort from you to convey your apathy!

Enjoy! (well, you're indifferent, so, feel what would be closest to 'enjoyment' for you)

Related blogs:
New DeprecationWear T-Shirt: Prayer


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Gardening With God

There is a needlework plaque hanging on a guest bedroom wall at my dad's house. This plaque, put up by my dad's wife, is a simple nicety about one of her favorite hobbies.

However, upon seeing it, I was instantly put through a range of emotions and philosophical tangents.

The plaque reads: "One is closest to God in the garden."

I'm sure many people would read this warm, Hallmark-wall-medallion and give it a simple little smile, then move on. My fate would not be so easy.

WHERE ARE THOSE OLD BOTANY BOOKS?

It was late, and I should have been heading into a nice cushy sleep on my vacation, but because I over-think everything (literally everything, it sucks sometimes), instead I had to frantically jot down all of my thoughts and digressions, all due to a glance at a simple hobby-promoting wall-hanging.

What I began thinking was, 'what is the real intention of this plaque?' and 'what implied interpretations of its message are likely?' (Yes those are actual things that keep me up at night. Maybe I should get into a relationship or something).

Is it saying that working with plants gives one a feeling of spirituality?

Or is it trying to tell me that the one true path to being with God (the true God nonetheless), is through horticultural cultivation?

Is it? Shit! Why didn't anyone tell me sooner?!

But if gardening is indeed the way to be closest to God, what about church? It seems pretty pointless with the news of this revolutionary theological enlightenment on a wall plaque, yes?

And then I thought about who created the wall hanging. Isn't that plaque likely sewn by someone who already is a garden enthusiast? I would say, probably yes. I can't imagine a model-train enthusiast reluctantly sewing this plaque with a remorseful tear in his eye, contemplating all the time he wasted on his, enjoyable, yet non-godly hobby.

Which got me thinking that if this person already had a passion for working with plants, and also a belief in a supernatural creator being, it would be fairly obvious that they would feel, subjectively, that they were closer to that intangible feeling of oneness with the universe when they were focused on something they were extremely passionate about.

Does that mean that I can't be as close to this God because I like to compose music? I saw no plaque for that. To take things at face value (it's funnier), we can see that one person's creative passion is more favored by this supreme creator than another's. And according to the glaring absence on the wall, my personal passions are not among them.

Now I'll never achieve enlightenment!!

Any yet, were I a religious man, I would probably argue that no else could understand how it feels, in that wonderfully dream-like moment when I compose a new musical idea or song. The feelings are, in my experience, eqivalent to nothing. (No, not "nothingness". I mean I can not find anything to compare them to, like Sinead O'Connor). The process is really amazing, and cathartic. Honestly, like nothing else I've been a part of.

Therefore, I'll argue that God can only be achieved through musical composition. And I'm right.

Case closed.

Case reopened...

So if my dad's wife feels a strong spiritual connection while gardening, and I could feel the equivalent of that, through making music, and my dad could get that via writing a novel, what's the connection? As I sat in the bed, my hand cramping up from writing all of my mental vomit onto the page, I moved this concept from specific, to global, which led me to the unifying theme of the the wall plaque:

The personification of God.

That is some insight into how my mind works, when a silly grandma's-house needlework wall-hanging brings me into the concept of how people psychologically project themselves into anthropomorphizing God.

Dude, you wanna party with me sometime? (I sure can live it up... mentally.)

FRACTIONS OF FACTIONS

Throughout history, gods of all kinds (including "The God". You know, the ONE?) have justified, sanctioned and even ordered some of the most cruel, shameful, and over all anti-human events on record. Usually leading the charge were angry, obsessive, or power-hungry men who were magically spared the skeptical questioning or absolute horror and shock of society, because their cause was backed by God with a hearty thumbs up. Hence good. (Yea genocide!!)

In modern times, one quick look at all of the different denominations branching from, or connected to Christianity is absolutely mind-boggling. Some factions demand that you adhere to archaic rituals and live in a manner exacting of ancient peoples, and others are extremely wishy-washy and liberal, saying that "as long as you at least believe in God, you can pretty much do what you want," (Within reason of course... wait, did I just say reason?).

From an outsider's perspective, I often wonder why there are so many slightly different takes on what should be a fairly to-the-point philosophy. You are all basing this off of the same book right? (Well, except for the Mormons). So why all the disagreement?

People all over the world have radically different ideas of what and who God is (or if God is single or has extreme mutilple personality disorder). Does it not strike you odd that each god or gods that come from a particular part of the world, or group of people, seem to represent that group's cultural ideas and views on the world? It's almost as if it was the people that created the gods, not the other way around. (Of course there is no way that could be true, so calm down and enjoy that slice of pie).

Although, if there really was a god, (just one we'll say), you'd think that his message would have been a bit more clear, and above all, universal. Not transalted through the social, man-made ideologies and situations of that time and culture.

Ha ha, no. Just kidding. That is foolish. Of course the only way to know what God REALLY means is through loose interpretations and personal biases.

EVERYTHING IN MODERATION

I've had some experience dealing with what I call moderate or abstract Christians. These individuals vaguely believe in the "Christian God", Jesus, a soul, afterlife etc, but usually only the touchy-feely portions. (You know, the "nice" parts?). Many times these mushy-pseudo-religious people do not actually follow the Bible (they may have only read it when they were young), and don't really go to church (or perhaps only on the rare holiday). And yet, they seem to have a decent amount of "insight" regarding spirituality.

Personally, I've heard them make multiple pronouncements about Who and What God is without any real basis.

"I think that God would have no problem with this or that," or,

"if God is love, which I think he is, then he will love me no matter what I do."

Even when I bring up specific, negative examples of The God Of The Bible's opinions and actions, or scriptually-based contradictions they will usually be unfazed, responding with, "Well, I don't believe in all that stuff" Hmmm.....

If you don't "believe in all that stuff", where are you getting your ideas on spirituality from? You appear to believe in things that sound very Christian, yet you do not subscribe to, or even know about the things that Christianity is based on.

How nice for you.

And there is that dead giveaway in your language, buddy-boy, about the origins of your personal understanding.

"Think".

Everything they say is usually done through the ownership-phrase "I think". Not "I know", or "I've read". "I think", implying personal interpretation. Which is what we humans do best.

Again, how did you come to this information? Need some change? Here are two cents: you wanted to feel good about whatever it is you do and say, so, obviously, God should feel the same way. Why? Cause that makes you feel good. The two of you are luckily on the same page. How convenient.

LET'S GRAB A BITE TO EAT

Let's say you and I were meeting up at a restaurant for a bite to eat (pretty cut and dried so far). You arrive early, grab a table and start looking over the menu. When the server comes by, do you think it would be a tad presumptuous to order for me, without knowing what I wanted? Sure you might know me a bit, and think, "Niko likes gyros, so I'll order him that", or "Niko likes some of the things I like, and I'm going to get baklava, so Niko will want baklava too," but what if I wanted a Greek salad today? You don't know, because I never actually told you.

Seriously. Don't order yet.

So let's pretend there is a God (and he wants a salad. I just know). To presume you know the mind of a being that has shown you no direct evidence of particular opinions or desires, is to me, arrogant.

We all have an innate desire to feel a connection with the vast, distant universe. To feel like we know the will of something greater than us, yet something that still involves us. However, our minds can only ever know our own minds. So it's those people that claim to be a mouthpiece and "speak for God" that makes me most worried. (By the way, if God is all powerful and has something to say, he could just say it himself).

So when people make pronouncements about the mind and will of God, what are they really saying? I've found that it is the people with the strongest personal agenda to advance that most often claim to have God directly on their side.

BIASED OBJECTIVITY

As you all know by now, I dislike a lot of things. And not liking a lot of things, as I do (or don't), I very feel strongly about the plethora of things I don't like, and in most cases, have a long list of itemised and officially-notarized reasons contributing to my opinions on something. Because my views are so "documented", so to speak, it feels as if these views should be completely objective, as if everyone should have these same opinions, after all, they are so obvious, aren't they? (Yes).

If my views feel universal (and they do), then there must be something to them (there must), and it can feel as if the conscious universe itself shares in my hard-edged elitist ideas (it does). If it feels that way, it must be that way (I already said that), and POOF!... it is that way.

WOW! IT IS!!! I WAS TOTALLY CORRECT!!!

It's funny (ha ha ha ha! See?) how God seems to confirm the things that we already want to be confirmed, and disavow the things we want to have disavowed. Again, quite convenient. And with so many different beliefs and views in the world, this higher force must have a few billion different, equally strong, equally conflicting opinions. Seems plausible.

For instance:

Do you hate gays, liberals, democrats, or fictional children's books with a flaming (pun) passion? I bet your God hates them too.

Do you feel that the highest virtue in life is to love all people, all the time, everywhere? I bet your God loves everything too.

Think that you're a good person? I have a feeling your God has created a personalized super-awesome-happy-place for you... after you're dead.

Think that Terry is a awful person? Yep, your God feels that way too, and probably created an all-bad-all-the-time place just for Terry... after he's dead.

Like anchovies? Because your God loves 'em!

Hate anchovies? God finds them an abomination!

Do you enjoy gardening?

Well, in that case, I have a house warming gift for you.



Related blogs:
The Inefficacy Of Prayer
All Truth Is Relative... And Equally Not
The Feel Good Fix
Self-Perception: What A Beautiful Thing!

Enjoy reading this blog? Please socially bookmark this page, or post it on your Facebook, and most of all comment with your personal stories, observations, or violent objections.

Visit the all new DeprecationWear online store! Sarcastic, self-deprecating and elitist merchandise. Click HERE to see my wares!



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Tags: god religion spirituality personal personify projection sarcasm philosophy psychology christian believe belief