Every football fan in America has an opinion on Bill Belichick's decision to go for it on fourth down-and-2 from his own 28-yard line on Sunday night against the Indianapolis Colts.
There were two minutes left in the game, with Belichick's New England Patriots nursing a six-point lead after pissing away a huge lead against their most bitter, and undefeated rival. The head coach opted to go for it on fourth down, thus risking the Colts offense taking possession just 28 yards from the end zone.
To his credit, Belichick's the only coach in the NFL who would've had the stones to even leave us asking ourselves whether it was right to give the lord of quarterbacks Tom Brady one chance to gain two yards, rather than to punt and trust the Patriots defense to keep other-worldly quarterback Peyton Manning from marching the Colts 70 yards to win the game.
Those of us who were fortunate enough to have been paying attention when the greatest coach in NFL history was building a dynasty without raising his voice,or alienating everyone with a microphone or notebook, know how to determine the merit of Belichick's decision.
What would Bill Walsh do?
Walsh, of course, coaching the San Francisco 49ers to a series of Super Bowl titles. He created the West Coast offense that, for years, made the NFL an innovative, high-scoring place without it ever becoming some wild west shootout. Walsh built an entire team -- never paid more attention to the offense or the defense. So, his 49ers relied just as much on making sure they could muster a pass rush in the fourth quarter as they did on quarterbacks Joe Montana and Steve Young.
So, fourth-and-2 from your own 28 ... two minutes to go and you're nursing a seven-point lead? Punt, as the majority of Americans with any football IQ at all insist you should? Or, go fourth it and put the game away without ever giving the other team a chance to touch the ball and score?
WWBWD?
Walsh would've punted.
Yeah, sure, he was the greatest offensive mind of his time. And, without question, his offense was built with more ways to gain two, three yards than any offense in football history. Remember, the 49ers relied equally on 1,000-yard rushers Roger Craig or Rickey Watters as they did Montana, Young or Jerry Rice. Walsh's offense, in its infancy and lacking a true ground game, somehow managed to use the short pass successfully when other teams would've run a dive play straight up the middle.
Walsh still would've punted on fourth-and-2 with 28 seconds and a seven-point lead.
Walsh wouldn't have questioned his defense's ability to stop a great quarterback on a great team because he and his defensive coordinator George Seifert, who won Super Bowls after Walsh retired, just knew the potentially devastating effect of every player on a defensive unit realizing the coach would rather let the offense try to gain three yards against an unbeaten team than trust it to keep that team from marching 70, 80 yards.
Imagine Walsh ever ignoring defenders Ronnie Lott, Bryant Young, Hacksaw Reynolds, Fred Dean and the rest and saying, "I felt our best chance of winning was to go for the first down because, well, our defense was tired and probably wouldn't have stopped Manning if we'd punted." (OK. Belichick didn't say that, but some feel that's what he was thinking.)
No way.
Now, let's say Belichick has the No. 1 quarterback in the NFL on his team. The whole point of the fourth-down exercise the other night was to acknowledge the inevitability of Manning, the No. 1A quarterback in the game, getting the Colts into the end zone regardless of where the Patriots gave up the football. People figure that Belichick had so much trust in the legendary Brady that, well, if you're going to trust any quarterback to get those yards -- it'd be Brady.
Walsh had Montana, the greatest quarterback in NFL history. There was no better late-game, big play-or-lose quarterback in history. (He also had Rice, Dwight Clark, John Taylor and a bunch of talented tight ends.) When the 49ers coach had Young, he had a passer very, very close to Montana's equal who ran like a halfback. Walsh had quarterbacks who went directly to the Hall of Fame. So, the temptation to give Montana or Young the ball and know they'd gain those few yards would've equaled whatever Belichick felt considering Brady taking that snap Sunday.
There's absolutely no way that Walsh would've put the entire game and, perhaps, the entire season in the hands of even Montana or Young.
Consider that Walsh's West Coast offense allowed Jeff Brohm, Steve Bono and Matt Cavanaugh and Jeff Kemp to keep the 49ers playing at a playoff level when Montana and Young were injured. Keep in mind that, when he was playing, many skeptics felt that Montana was simply a system quarterback -- the right guy in the perfect offense. Remember that Young was on the verge of being a bust, like we figure Alex Smith or JaMarcus Russell are nearing bust these days, when he was with the Tampa Bay Bucs. Young didn't become Steve Young until Walsh got ahold of him and tweaked the West Coast offense -- and, more importantly, tweaked Young's game. Walsh knew the quarterback wasn't bigger than the rest of the team. Quarterbacks, even the best ones, are fallible. So, no ... Walsh wouldn't have let Montana or Young go on fourth down the other night.
Oh, it's impossible to continue without acknowledging that Walsh's team wouldn't probably have burned timeouts for no reason in the second half. That's where those who know Belichick's brilliant and that Brady's, well, Brady miss the point of the fourth down failure. Weird stuff happens on a football field, even to the greats. Sometimes the receiver grabs the ball two yards beyond the first down marker, then bobbles it and gets tackled short of a first down after a questionable mark by the official. If the Patriots had their timeouts, they wouldn't have had to consider that giving Manning's team the ball meant there was no way the Patriots were getting that ball back. Give Brady and the offense 30 seconds and three timeouts and the decision-making process changes.
Certainly, Walsh's teams were in a similar situation at some point. Walsh just wouldn't have over-reacted to having blown timeouts. He wouldn't have been thinking about his defense failing to stop the Manning and the Colts, so he wouldn't have even considered needing to get the ball back after the Colts scored and took the lead. Belichick's a brilliant coach, but Walsh was smart enough to know the percentages involved in going for it on fourth-and-two -- with or without timeouts.
Belichick's ego, likely, didn't have anything to do with the call. Sure, he thinks he's smarter than everybody else. But, he has proven himself to be just about as smart as any NFL coach ever. Belichick reads books...books that aren't about football. He's smart. Smart people don't study and study and study to prepare for every situation and then make a rash decision based on ego. Belichick made what he thought was a solid football decision at the time. Turned out that his decision was really, really risky and that it backfired.
Walsh would've punted the ball. And, most certainly, Walsh's ego was every bit as big as that of Belichick. Walsh just seemed to be a man who was so sure he was right that he'd have weighed the odds and gone with the chalk ... and punted the ball away. Then, he'd have known he'd put together a defense good enough to keep the Colts from marching 70 yards in a big hurry. When a football coach is as smart as Walsh knew he was, your ego would lead you to punt because you'd know everything would go exactly as you expected and desired.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
In the Event of an Erection Lasting More Than...
One would think a man my age would have, at least, given some thought to male performance-enhancing drugs.
One would've been wrong -- up until I started taking medicine for borderline high blood pressure. Toss the blood pressure medication on top of anti-depressant medication intended to deal with chemical depression and panic and you're going to wind up with a 53-year-old guy who has a sudden interest in his ability to ... perform.(Thank God, literally, that it's not an everyday concern at this point.)
The blood pressure medication is just intended to control the problem until I get fit and start eating right once more. One of my nieces, in her 40s, had a blood pressure reading of 190/90. She's worked it back down to normal. She's my role model. Until I'm off the medication, though, my performance is severely impeded.
Oh, why do they call them performance-enhancing drugs? A woman I know is offended by it.
"It's like you take the pill and crawl on top of a woman and just put on a show?"
Good point.
I've never considered being intimate to be me putting on some sort of man show. Of course, drug companies couldn't trot out 50'ish actors with white hair on those TV commercials during football games if they were calling Viagra or Cialis medicines intended to enable guys to get and maintain an erection(or what men actually call it).
Anti-depressants change how the brain releases serotonin and dopamine. So, anti-depressants make a crap shoot out of how a man will respond to something that normally feels good (or great...or even better). Until I got into the blood pressure meds, the anti-depressants weren't a performance issue.
It has crossed my mind lately, though, that if I should wind up in postion to, er, perform...I'd be best served to at least consider a performance-enhancing drug.
So...I've considered it.
I'm told that Viagra (and its cousins) only get the necessary blood circulating down where a fellow needs it circulating in order to be adequately able to ... perform. How to describe it gently? Viagra makes it possible to get the show started...to get the performance on the road. A man told me that it doesn't do anything to give the performance a happy ending. If it is a show -- the show might have that big finish we all expect.
So, the warning explaining that, "In the event of an erection lasting more than four hours, see a doctor," actually means that the drugs get the guy up and running. It doesn't mean he's ever going to cross the finish line. So, it seems like Viagra could be a man's worst nightmare. (2, 3 hours ... performing and performing and ... nothing but, I'm guessing a really sore lower back and a woman with some questions.)
Honest, I don't want to write about this any more than you probably want to read about it. But, I heard somebody on TV say, "Write about what you love." So...sorry to those who think 53-year-olds don't think about this stuff, let alone do it, any more. We do and, when we aren't doing it, we think about it. It matters ... just not like it did at 21.
Since I take drugs that crush the libido of better men than me...I'm thinking about this stuff.
No. No. Actually, no, I don't think I have a decreased desire to...perform. The hydraulics just aren't operating correctly, so guys turn to Viagra or whatever.
And, once again, I'm back where I wind up whenever I think about man stuff -- completely confused. The mere thought of an erection lasting four hours makes me too dizzy to even continue writing.
One would've been wrong -- up until I started taking medicine for borderline high blood pressure. Toss the blood pressure medication on top of anti-depressant medication intended to deal with chemical depression and panic and you're going to wind up with a 53-year-old guy who has a sudden interest in his ability to ... perform.(Thank God, literally, that it's not an everyday concern at this point.)
The blood pressure medication is just intended to control the problem until I get fit and start eating right once more. One of my nieces, in her 40s, had a blood pressure reading of 190/90. She's worked it back down to normal. She's my role model. Until I'm off the medication, though, my performance is severely impeded.
Oh, why do they call them performance-enhancing drugs? A woman I know is offended by it.
"It's like you take the pill and crawl on top of a woman and just put on a show?"
Good point.
I've never considered being intimate to be me putting on some sort of man show. Of course, drug companies couldn't trot out 50'ish actors with white hair on those TV commercials during football games if they were calling Viagra or Cialis medicines intended to enable guys to get and maintain an erection(or what men actually call it).
Anti-depressants change how the brain releases serotonin and dopamine. So, anti-depressants make a crap shoot out of how a man will respond to something that normally feels good (or great...or even better). Until I got into the blood pressure meds, the anti-depressants weren't a performance issue.
It has crossed my mind lately, though, that if I should wind up in postion to, er, perform...I'd be best served to at least consider a performance-enhancing drug.
So...I've considered it.
I'm told that Viagra (and its cousins) only get the necessary blood circulating down where a fellow needs it circulating in order to be adequately able to ... perform. How to describe it gently? Viagra makes it possible to get the show started...to get the performance on the road. A man told me that it doesn't do anything to give the performance a happy ending. If it is a show -- the show might have that big finish we all expect.
So, the warning explaining that, "In the event of an erection lasting more than four hours, see a doctor," actually means that the drugs get the guy up and running. It doesn't mean he's ever going to cross the finish line. So, it seems like Viagra could be a man's worst nightmare. (2, 3 hours ... performing and performing and ... nothing but, I'm guessing a really sore lower back and a woman with some questions.)
Honest, I don't want to write about this any more than you probably want to read about it. But, I heard somebody on TV say, "Write about what you love." So...sorry to those who think 53-year-olds don't think about this stuff, let alone do it, any more. We do and, when we aren't doing it, we think about it. It matters ... just not like it did at 21.
Since I take drugs that crush the libido of better men than me...I'm thinking about this stuff.
No. No. Actually, no, I don't think I have a decreased desire to...perform. The hydraulics just aren't operating correctly, so guys turn to Viagra or whatever.
And, once again, I'm back where I wind up whenever I think about man stuff -- completely confused. The mere thought of an erection lasting four hours makes me too dizzy to even continue writing.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Male performance
A very, very close ... um ... friend said I should, "...stop writing on that damned blog." It can't be said that I don't listen to people who are smarter than me. So, I've not written in this space for months. My 13-year-old son Kellen, bless him, asked the other day, "Hey, why haven't you written anything on your blog?" I wouldn't have picked him to be the one who noticed I'd forsaken this spot.
Over the weekend, I received an anonymous "comment" regarding my last post here. After initially figuring the troll of all Internet trollers had stumbled on the months-old piece I wrote...I checked the comment to find it was the latest way sex-enhancing, male performance drug sellers have found to offer me Cialis, Viagra, more Cialis and more Viagra at discount prices.
Or, I suppose, someone who knows me well could've run across that Cialis-Viagra promotion and took into account my age and just felt it thoughtful to share it with me here. So, I gave some thought to whether or not I look like a guy who would need male performance enhancing products, "...at lower that prescription prices!!!!"
I worked at my newspaper job until after midnight Friday, then hit the sack about 1:15 a.m. As usual, I fell asleep at 2:45 a.m. Sleep comes hard for me. I arose at 7:45 a.m. to be in Martinez, 25-35 miles away, to cover an 8:30 a.m. news event as a freelance news writer for the Bay Area News Group. By the time I got back to my temporary quarters, I was tired. And, of course, it figures that I can't sleep normally at night, but I can nap a day away if given the opportunity.
Just as I collapsed in bed to watch college football games -- my favorite brand of football -- I heard Kellen's mom ask him if he wanted to go for a walk. Exercise would serve her well given that she has a pressure-packed job and no real down time. A walk with his mom would serve Kellen because, while he's unaware of it, I'm positive that almost-14-year-old boys should spend time with their moms -- and she wasn't going to sit with him and watch "The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3."
"Go with her!" I shouted from upstairs. Long story, but...they're relationship is strained and I want to help them repair it. He'll do just about whatever I say, so he got up to go for a walk. I heard his mom raving about some off-road trail in the hills of her upscale neighborhood. I heard Kellen groan. He'll run 5 miles, then skip rope on his own. He doesn't like to walk.
I felt good because everybody was accounted for and I was ready to doze off when ...
"Hey...you wanna come? Ted! You wanna walk, too?"
I thought I was dreaming.
"Uh...walk? Yeah. Sure. I'll come with you guys."
Kellen, his mom, their gay, male miniature dachsund and I headed to the rolling hills and the trail she's raving about. I figured she maybe wanted me to be a buffer to get her and Kellen talking. Or, maybe, she wanted somebody to be there in case she got tired and collapsed. Actually, I think she feared walking alone through the hills with only a miniature dachsund and 13-year-old boy.
The trail is nice. It's quiet in a town where quiet is a hot commodity. It's not a steep trail, well, some parts are steep. Mostly, it's a rolling trail. I told Kellen it'd be a great place for him to run.
After rushing to keep with his mom, Kellen and I hit the homestretch. He got bored and took off running with the dachsund. His mom fell to the rear. I walked in the middle, reminding myself that the trail would've been a real gift back when I was a runner. It occurred to me that it's so far off the road that even an aging, overweight, ex-runner could get a great workout with giving passers-by a laugh as they wonder why his face is so red or, more likely, whether he's jogging or walking.
Sunday afternoon, I decided I'd jog that trail. Kellen said, "Be careful!"
"Fuck you! Be careful? I think I can handle the trail just fine," I snapped. (Oh, my kids and I talk that way in private...me, more so, than the boys.)
Kellen reminded me that I'd tripped in a rut in the trail while walking and nearly sprained an ankle. I mentioned that I'd fallen down the last two stairs the night before, too, when he and my daughter Kyndall were in a screaming argument and I just wished I could drug them both and put them in bed.
"You fell down the stairs? Just be careful."
So...off I went...jogging slowly, listening to a sports-related podcast about poker. I'm not a poker guy, but ESPN writer Bill Simmons is a witty guy and so is Norman Chad, the poker expert.
I squeezed through the tiny opening that leads from the street to the trail. I was off!
It struck me immediately that the trail isn't a little hilly. It's not a series of rolling hills. When you're jogging, it's a slow, climb to around and to nearly the top of the grassy hill. There are two more tight turns and uphill climbs. By the time I reached what I remembered thinking Saturday was a beautiful grove of trees ... I thought about walking. Walking? I thought about quitting. Walking on a jog is quitting in my book.
I looked ahead and noticed that the hilliest part of the trail is actually a portion I'd overlooked walking. Kellen and I were so happy to be headed back to the street that I didn't notice we were climbing up the trail to reach an access road.
I noticed the climb, even before my Achilles tendons began to ache, on my jog.
When I stumbled into the house, Kellen was watching the 49ers game. I realized that the run through the trail was my attempt at answering the question about whether I was a guy who looked like he needed Viagra or Cialis. That trail was the type terrain I'd have sought out, over and over, to run on in my 20s. Heck, I'd have veered straight to the top of the hill -- then back down to the trail -- just to feel the burn in my lungs and revel in the notion that I'd catch my breath in seconds.
The jog, I decided, proved I wasn't a guy who looked like he would necessarily be on the downside physically. No, I mean, I ran the whole damn trail ... so I decided I was OK. If I could do that...I could believe I'm a ways from needing my performance enhanced artificially.
Kellen looked up from the game.
"You make it all right?"
Little bastard!
"Yeah. I made it. I'm here, right?"
What did he mean? Oh, he wanted to know if I'd quit and started walking.
"I jogged the whole way...the hills are steeper when you're jogging, though!"
Over the weekend, I received an anonymous "comment" regarding my last post here. After initially figuring the troll of all Internet trollers had stumbled on the months-old piece I wrote...I checked the comment to find it was the latest way sex-enhancing, male performance drug sellers have found to offer me Cialis, Viagra, more Cialis and more Viagra at discount prices.
Or, I suppose, someone who knows me well could've run across that Cialis-Viagra promotion and took into account my age and just felt it thoughtful to share it with me here. So, I gave some thought to whether or not I look like a guy who would need male performance enhancing products, "...at lower that prescription prices!!!!"
I worked at my newspaper job until after midnight Friday, then hit the sack about 1:15 a.m. As usual, I fell asleep at 2:45 a.m. Sleep comes hard for me. I arose at 7:45 a.m. to be in Martinez, 25-35 miles away, to cover an 8:30 a.m. news event as a freelance news writer for the Bay Area News Group. By the time I got back to my temporary quarters, I was tired. And, of course, it figures that I can't sleep normally at night, but I can nap a day away if given the opportunity.
Just as I collapsed in bed to watch college football games -- my favorite brand of football -- I heard Kellen's mom ask him if he wanted to go for a walk. Exercise would serve her well given that she has a pressure-packed job and no real down time. A walk with his mom would serve Kellen because, while he's unaware of it, I'm positive that almost-14-year-old boys should spend time with their moms -- and she wasn't going to sit with him and watch "The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3."
"Go with her!" I shouted from upstairs. Long story, but...they're relationship is strained and I want to help them repair it. He'll do just about whatever I say, so he got up to go for a walk. I heard his mom raving about some off-road trail in the hills of her upscale neighborhood. I heard Kellen groan. He'll run 5 miles, then skip rope on his own. He doesn't like to walk.
I felt good because everybody was accounted for and I was ready to doze off when ...
"Hey...you wanna come? Ted! You wanna walk, too?"
I thought I was dreaming.
"Uh...walk? Yeah. Sure. I'll come with you guys."
Kellen, his mom, their gay, male miniature dachsund and I headed to the rolling hills and the trail she's raving about. I figured she maybe wanted me to be a buffer to get her and Kellen talking. Or, maybe, she wanted somebody to be there in case she got tired and collapsed. Actually, I think she feared walking alone through the hills with only a miniature dachsund and 13-year-old boy.
The trail is nice. It's quiet in a town where quiet is a hot commodity. It's not a steep trail, well, some parts are steep. Mostly, it's a rolling trail. I told Kellen it'd be a great place for him to run.
After rushing to keep with his mom, Kellen and I hit the homestretch. He got bored and took off running with the dachsund. His mom fell to the rear. I walked in the middle, reminding myself that the trail would've been a real gift back when I was a runner. It occurred to me that it's so far off the road that even an aging, overweight, ex-runner could get a great workout with giving passers-by a laugh as they wonder why his face is so red or, more likely, whether he's jogging or walking.
Sunday afternoon, I decided I'd jog that trail. Kellen said, "Be careful!"
"Fuck you! Be careful? I think I can handle the trail just fine," I snapped. (Oh, my kids and I talk that way in private...me, more so, than the boys.)
Kellen reminded me that I'd tripped in a rut in the trail while walking and nearly sprained an ankle. I mentioned that I'd fallen down the last two stairs the night before, too, when he and my daughter Kyndall were in a screaming argument and I just wished I could drug them both and put them in bed.
"You fell down the stairs? Just be careful."
So...off I went...jogging slowly, listening to a sports-related podcast about poker. I'm not a poker guy, but ESPN writer Bill Simmons is a witty guy and so is Norman Chad, the poker expert.
I squeezed through the tiny opening that leads from the street to the trail. I was off!
It struck me immediately that the trail isn't a little hilly. It's not a series of rolling hills. When you're jogging, it's a slow, climb to around and to nearly the top of the grassy hill. There are two more tight turns and uphill climbs. By the time I reached what I remembered thinking Saturday was a beautiful grove of trees ... I thought about walking. Walking? I thought about quitting. Walking on a jog is quitting in my book.
I looked ahead and noticed that the hilliest part of the trail is actually a portion I'd overlooked walking. Kellen and I were so happy to be headed back to the street that I didn't notice we were climbing up the trail to reach an access road.
I noticed the climb, even before my Achilles tendons began to ache, on my jog.
When I stumbled into the house, Kellen was watching the 49ers game. I realized that the run through the trail was my attempt at answering the question about whether I was a guy who looked like he needed Viagra or Cialis. That trail was the type terrain I'd have sought out, over and over, to run on in my 20s. Heck, I'd have veered straight to the top of the hill -- then back down to the trail -- just to feel the burn in my lungs and revel in the notion that I'd catch my breath in seconds.
The jog, I decided, proved I wasn't a guy who looked like he would necessarily be on the downside physically. No, I mean, I ran the whole damn trail ... so I decided I was OK. If I could do that...I could believe I'm a ways from needing my performance enhanced artificially.
Kellen looked up from the game.
"You make it all right?"
Little bastard!
"Yeah. I made it. I'm here, right?"
What did he mean? Oh, he wanted to know if I'd quit and started walking.
"I jogged the whole way...the hills are steeper when you're jogging, though!"
Monday, September 07, 2009
Panic Attacks Are Like This: A Grim Reminder
If enough time passes, we forget how things really feel.
Yes, I'm sure that we forget.
I wrote a lot last spring about my life-long struggle with severe depression and drop-dead scary panic attacks. Until Sunday at about 2 p.m., I only thought I knew what the most bone-chilling, mind-altering panic attack feels like because I had the worst panic attack I've had in 15 years or more.
The medication I take is supposed to stop the panic attack that leaves me convinced I'm dying, probably having a stroke or a heart attack. I thought they were doing a good job keeping generic feelings of panic from the off-the-cliff, scared-shitless free fall that a real panic attack brings. As it turns out, I guess I was just kidding myself and that, if all the life circumstances were right (or, actually, wrong) that I can still get hit with an inexplicable wave of panic that, oh, let me describe the feeling while it's fresh.
Had lots of time away from the office and lots of time with the kids. That's a recipe for good times. My oldest son, my youngest son and I watched college football on TV all day Saturday. Great times, you know? Still, I woke up Sunday morning feeling groggy and anxious. I took the meds and, usually, that gets me going because the chemicals in my brain balance up and I just settle into a less-than-ideal day.
Then, oh, around noon...I started thinking that maybe I'd forgotten a medication. Effexor is powerful stuff and I take about as much as a human can take. If I forget it, I feel it real fast. But...I didn't think I'd forget to do something I've done daily for a long time. I took a tranquilizer that, normally, levels me out. Sadly, it's not enough to get me so high that I sit around and sing and sleep. I still didn't feel good. And, I geniunely felt like I did when things were bad and bleak and dark every day.
So, I lay in the bedroom watching "The Gilmore Girls." That usually brightens my day, but this time just made me realize, there is no Lorelai Gilmore and if there is -- I'd never find her because I'm a loser and I'm old and...I'd forgotten how you just start sliding into a pit of despair when real panic is near.
My youngest son wanted to go play catch. He's always testing his throwing arm, re-training it to throw in a way that's healthier for him. As I got off the bed, I felt weird...like I was having an outer body experience or something. I felt just shitty -- not bad or groggy, but so shitty it occurred to me that, "Maybe the medications making me sick and I'm dying!"
By the time the boy had grabbed his glove and found a glove for me, I was disoriented and then it hit me...a wave of thoughts that included real, tangible thoughts about suicide and death. I don't look any different when all this happens, but boy...am I a mile inside my own head when it goes on. I was breaking into a full sweat on the drive to the park. I was really thinking, "I should just kill myself. I can't take this any more." In the old days, I'd have thought I was having a heart attack.
As we played catch at the park, I couldn't speak. My body was there, but my mind had taken control. I was sweating. My heart was pounding and I was convinced that this is where my world ends. This is where my world ends. This is where my world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whisper...in front of my youngest son.
Then, I calmed a bit because playing catch allowed me to simply focus on him...I'd forgotten that panic comes in waves. So, on the way back home, another huge wave hit me and it felt like there was an electrical storm in my brain. I had a headache and was wiping sweat off my neck and forehead. I got home and changed shirts for the first of three times Sunday that I perspired so heavily that I had to get a dry t-shirt.
And, for the next 4, 5 hours...it took 100% effort to keep from thinking about suicide and death and the lack of meaning in my life. I'd forgotten that just knowing things are tough and feeling like I'm dying or should die is entirely different. And, I'd forgotten how hard it is to act normal around my kids when my head's exploding. All the pressure in the world kind of masses right in the middle of my forehead and that leads to a dizziness and nausea.
By 3:30 p.m. my attitude had gone from, "Relax...man..panic comes and it goes, dude" to "Fuck this! I can't take it! What if this is it? What if it's all back to stay?" So...I took my kids out to let them drive the car in a deserted parking lot...because it allowed me to just sit and suffer quietly. Later, I worked a full sweat cooking and eating dinner. Every bone and muscle ached and I kept thinking, "Oh, what if it's all back? I'm 52. I can't run and feel better. It came out of the blue...what caused it? What caused it?" And, the fight that just makes it worse went on and on.
The meds I take give me little muscle twitches. No big deal...until Sunday when my legs were twitching all the time. I though, "Maybe I did forget some medication?" I took a little more...then, I took some more...then I gave the pills I have to my kids' mom and said, "I can't explain it, but keep these no matter what I say, OK? I'm having brutal panic attacks." She got it because she's seen the brutal attacks that last for days and weeks.
Now, I'd taken anti-depressants...then taken a tranquilizer...then taken another tranquilizer...and I was still scared, really scared...and sweating...my brain was misfiring. And, that's when my daughter wanted to go play catch with a football at the park. Hey...that's a big deal, you know? So, I went and...again...I was reminded how hard it is to even pay attention to my own children when the panic attack is just coming at me in waves. The younger ones don't know much about how I deal with the booming panic, although my youngest son has had booming panic attacks himself. I was reminded that their older siblings lived with me just balled up under the covers in bed or taking a 7-mile run at the oddest time...they could tell I was in full panic. The younger kids can't...so, when they argued and I said, "Really, I can't TAKE this tonight," they figured I was posturing.
I spent the night drugged...and tolerating the waves. I tried to go to sleep and woke up when sweat dripped off my hair onto my neck...or off my neck onto my chest. I turned on the air conditioner...then started to freeze.
Today, I was reminded that the booming panic is a lengthy affair. Yesterday it hit. Last night I fought it. Today, I feel like I ran 10 miles and wrestled a collegiate champion at the 7-mile mark. Everything aches and I still can't focus. I'm thankful I'm bunking at my kids' mom's house because she knew not to expect anything from me beyond the desire to please and be quiet.
I worked tonight and sat there thinking still scary thoughts. I'd forgotten how that one second when panic hits and unleashes 24 hours of fury really changes everything for awhile.
And, I was reminded how I got to be wildly reliant on prescription drugs. Man, I'm telling you, when I felt like I felt when I was thinking about death and suicide while I played ball with my son...man...nobody wants to risk feeling like that if he can get his hands on pills to keep the feeling away.
I even got up late last night to go online and check for symptoms of stroke or brain tumor. It was that bad. I watched a movie with my son and started a sentence and just went blank. That scared me, but when panic really hits...everything's scary.
I don't have a brain tumor...just like I didn't have any medical condition I studied in my 20s.
No...I just had the kind of panic attack that I've spent my adult life living to avoid.
Yes, I'm sure that we forget.
I wrote a lot last spring about my life-long struggle with severe depression and drop-dead scary panic attacks. Until Sunday at about 2 p.m., I only thought I knew what the most bone-chilling, mind-altering panic attack feels like because I had the worst panic attack I've had in 15 years or more.
The medication I take is supposed to stop the panic attack that leaves me convinced I'm dying, probably having a stroke or a heart attack. I thought they were doing a good job keeping generic feelings of panic from the off-the-cliff, scared-shitless free fall that a real panic attack brings. As it turns out, I guess I was just kidding myself and that, if all the life circumstances were right (or, actually, wrong) that I can still get hit with an inexplicable wave of panic that, oh, let me describe the feeling while it's fresh.
Had lots of time away from the office and lots of time with the kids. That's a recipe for good times. My oldest son, my youngest son and I watched college football on TV all day Saturday. Great times, you know? Still, I woke up Sunday morning feeling groggy and anxious. I took the meds and, usually, that gets me going because the chemicals in my brain balance up and I just settle into a less-than-ideal day.
Then, oh, around noon...I started thinking that maybe I'd forgotten a medication. Effexor is powerful stuff and I take about as much as a human can take. If I forget it, I feel it real fast. But...I didn't think I'd forget to do something I've done daily for a long time. I took a tranquilizer that, normally, levels me out. Sadly, it's not enough to get me so high that I sit around and sing and sleep. I still didn't feel good. And, I geniunely felt like I did when things were bad and bleak and dark every day.
So, I lay in the bedroom watching "The Gilmore Girls." That usually brightens my day, but this time just made me realize, there is no Lorelai Gilmore and if there is -- I'd never find her because I'm a loser and I'm old and...I'd forgotten how you just start sliding into a pit of despair when real panic is near.
My youngest son wanted to go play catch. He's always testing his throwing arm, re-training it to throw in a way that's healthier for him. As I got off the bed, I felt weird...like I was having an outer body experience or something. I felt just shitty -- not bad or groggy, but so shitty it occurred to me that, "Maybe the medications making me sick and I'm dying!"
By the time the boy had grabbed his glove and found a glove for me, I was disoriented and then it hit me...a wave of thoughts that included real, tangible thoughts about suicide and death. I don't look any different when all this happens, but boy...am I a mile inside my own head when it goes on. I was breaking into a full sweat on the drive to the park. I was really thinking, "I should just kill myself. I can't take this any more." In the old days, I'd have thought I was having a heart attack.
As we played catch at the park, I couldn't speak. My body was there, but my mind had taken control. I was sweating. My heart was pounding and I was convinced that this is where my world ends. This is where my world ends. This is where my world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whisper...in front of my youngest son.
Then, I calmed a bit because playing catch allowed me to simply focus on him...I'd forgotten that panic comes in waves. So, on the way back home, another huge wave hit me and it felt like there was an electrical storm in my brain. I had a headache and was wiping sweat off my neck and forehead. I got home and changed shirts for the first of three times Sunday that I perspired so heavily that I had to get a dry t-shirt.
And, for the next 4, 5 hours...it took 100% effort to keep from thinking about suicide and death and the lack of meaning in my life. I'd forgotten that just knowing things are tough and feeling like I'm dying or should die is entirely different. And, I'd forgotten how hard it is to act normal around my kids when my head's exploding. All the pressure in the world kind of masses right in the middle of my forehead and that leads to a dizziness and nausea.
By 3:30 p.m. my attitude had gone from, "Relax...man..panic comes and it goes, dude" to "Fuck this! I can't take it! What if this is it? What if it's all back to stay?" So...I took my kids out to let them drive the car in a deserted parking lot...because it allowed me to just sit and suffer quietly. Later, I worked a full sweat cooking and eating dinner. Every bone and muscle ached and I kept thinking, "Oh, what if it's all back? I'm 52. I can't run and feel better. It came out of the blue...what caused it? What caused it?" And, the fight that just makes it worse went on and on.
The meds I take give me little muscle twitches. No big deal...until Sunday when my legs were twitching all the time. I though, "Maybe I did forget some medication?" I took a little more...then, I took some more...then I gave the pills I have to my kids' mom and said, "I can't explain it, but keep these no matter what I say, OK? I'm having brutal panic attacks." She got it because she's seen the brutal attacks that last for days and weeks.
Now, I'd taken anti-depressants...then taken a tranquilizer...then taken another tranquilizer...and I was still scared, really scared...and sweating...my brain was misfiring. And, that's when my daughter wanted to go play catch with a football at the park. Hey...that's a big deal, you know? So, I went and...again...I was reminded how hard it is to even pay attention to my own children when the panic attack is just coming at me in waves. The younger ones don't know much about how I deal with the booming panic, although my youngest son has had booming panic attacks himself. I was reminded that their older siblings lived with me just balled up under the covers in bed or taking a 7-mile run at the oddest time...they could tell I was in full panic. The younger kids can't...so, when they argued and I said, "Really, I can't TAKE this tonight," they figured I was posturing.
I spent the night drugged...and tolerating the waves. I tried to go to sleep and woke up when sweat dripped off my hair onto my neck...or off my neck onto my chest. I turned on the air conditioner...then started to freeze.
Today, I was reminded that the booming panic is a lengthy affair. Yesterday it hit. Last night I fought it. Today, I feel like I ran 10 miles and wrestled a collegiate champion at the 7-mile mark. Everything aches and I still can't focus. I'm thankful I'm bunking at my kids' mom's house because she knew not to expect anything from me beyond the desire to please and be quiet.
I worked tonight and sat there thinking still scary thoughts. I'd forgotten how that one second when panic hits and unleashes 24 hours of fury really changes everything for awhile.
And, I was reminded how I got to be wildly reliant on prescription drugs. Man, I'm telling you, when I felt like I felt when I was thinking about death and suicide while I played ball with my son...man...nobody wants to risk feeling like that if he can get his hands on pills to keep the feeling away.
I even got up late last night to go online and check for symptoms of stroke or brain tumor. It was that bad. I watched a movie with my son and started a sentence and just went blank. That scared me, but when panic really hits...everything's scary.
I don't have a brain tumor...just like I didn't have any medical condition I studied in my 20s.
No...I just had the kind of panic attack that I've spent my adult life living to avoid.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Penney For My Thoughts
Sports aren't anything like real life. Fans like to talk about how the games are a microcosm of the lives we lead -- with the same ups and downs -- but, they aren't.
That's, actually, why I'm still a big sports fan. If sports mirrored life, I'd know by mid-season how things would turn out.
If sports were like life, this overweight and out of shape pitcher named Brad Penny wouldn't have come from imposed retirement to pitch an absolutely magnificent game for the San Francisco Giants tonight ... under intense pressure against the defending world champions. No, if sports were like life...Penny would've gotten hit around, gotten tired in a hurry and been banished to showers to consider what to do next. The guy hadn't pitched well all season and not at all for nearly two weeks. Hell, he's gotten progressively worse for the last two seasons ... and after that precipitous slide to being fired by the Boston Red Sox, real life would've delivered him a swift kick in the ass tonight.
If real life were like sports, a guy would lose his job ... somehow hurt people close to him ... fall in debt ... and then just try a lot harder and inexplicably have life turn on a dime to the point he went from the outhouse to the penthouse in one night...in 2 1/2 hours. If living day to day was like playing a game, no one would have to tell the guy things will work out if he just has more faith or if he just fights the good fight ... or if he takes a second job at Wal-Mart. Hell, no...if sports were like life...the poor schmuck could turn things around -- AND everybody would cheer out loud.
I watched the ballgame tonight with my youngest son and, when asked, told him, "I'm sure Penny will get his ass beat. He lost his last game 20-11 in Boston. He's lost 6, 7 mph off his fastball and you know you don't get that back...ever."
We watched though, the boy and I, because sports aren't like life and...anything can happen and quite often does. Penny not only pitched brilliantly in a 4-0 victory...his fastball hit 96, 97 mph ... he'd gotten better by doing nothing but looking for a job. His belly hangs over his baseball pants and he sweats profusely...but, all a baseball pitcher needs is to get things together on one night and everything changes.
Life's not like that at all, so I enjoy watching sports and imagining what life would be like if it bore any resemblance to the games I watch.
That's, actually, why I'm still a big sports fan. If sports mirrored life, I'd know by mid-season how things would turn out.
If sports were like life, this overweight and out of shape pitcher named Brad Penny wouldn't have come from imposed retirement to pitch an absolutely magnificent game for the San Francisco Giants tonight ... under intense pressure against the defending world champions. No, if sports were like life...Penny would've gotten hit around, gotten tired in a hurry and been banished to showers to consider what to do next. The guy hadn't pitched well all season and not at all for nearly two weeks. Hell, he's gotten progressively worse for the last two seasons ... and after that precipitous slide to being fired by the Boston Red Sox, real life would've delivered him a swift kick in the ass tonight.
If real life were like sports, a guy would lose his job ... somehow hurt people close to him ... fall in debt ... and then just try a lot harder and inexplicably have life turn on a dime to the point he went from the outhouse to the penthouse in one night...in 2 1/2 hours. If living day to day was like playing a game, no one would have to tell the guy things will work out if he just has more faith or if he just fights the good fight ... or if he takes a second job at Wal-Mart. Hell, no...if sports were like life...the poor schmuck could turn things around -- AND everybody would cheer out loud.
I watched the ballgame tonight with my youngest son and, when asked, told him, "I'm sure Penny will get his ass beat. He lost his last game 20-11 in Boston. He's lost 6, 7 mph off his fastball and you know you don't get that back...ever."
We watched though, the boy and I, because sports aren't like life and...anything can happen and quite often does. Penny not only pitched brilliantly in a 4-0 victory...his fastball hit 96, 97 mph ... he'd gotten better by doing nothing but looking for a job. His belly hangs over his baseball pants and he sweats profusely...but, all a baseball pitcher needs is to get things together on one night and everything changes.
Life's not like that at all, so I enjoy watching sports and imagining what life would be like if it bore any resemblance to the games I watch.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
She's an Outlaw Now
"Now remember, when things look bad and it looks like you're not gonna make it, then you gotta get mean. I mean plumb, mad-dog mean. 'Cause if you lose your head and you give up then you neither live nor win. That's just the way it is."
-- Clint Eastwood as Josey Wales
"The Outlaw Josey Wales"
----
Parents never talk about the times when their kids do things so shocking that it leaves mom or dad speechless and grasping for something to say that won't make everything 100 times worse than they were before they realized their son or daughter figured out that they don't have to do anything they're told ... ever.
Parents don't even like to hear tell about stories where kids figure out that they're not subservient at all. Cripes, they're Clint Eastwood in "The Outlaw Josey Wales," and they realize that they're "gonna get mad-dog mean" because they want to live and they want to win. And, they decide that they can't live or win unless they get their way. And, their way sure as hell ain't their parents' way!
My 11-year-old daughter and I had our duel at dusk yesterday. Her youngest brother played the mortician who, upon seeing the Josey Wales character about to draw down and try to kill his foe, rushes to safety and only peeks out the window to get an early idea how big a casket he'll be making. She was doing her homework in the living room and her brother wanted to watch the baseball game there on the high-definition TV. That's where Lone Watie solemnly said in the 1976 film: "Get ready, little lady. Hell is coming to breakfast."
I asked why she felt compelled to scream at the top of her lungs -- over moving into another room...while she was doing her homework...because her brother asked nicely if he could watch a game on hi-def...
She screamed something about something about whatever was on TV that she wanted to watch because, she claimed, it would never be on hi-def ever again in her lifetime. Then, she made the wild claim that baseball games "are always replayed over and over." And, she said that the brother had explained her homework and, thus, she was "almost done."
I'd never been to that point, the point where my kids were going to test my will as a parent. The older boys did what they were told and I never told them to do much they couldn't tolerate. The younger brother is a prince. No confrontations -- because, most times, he knows that life's hard enough already.
I told Kyndall she was going into the family room and doing her homework so that Kellen could watch the game on the big TV. I said it all calm like...figuring I was Clint Eastwood in this production. When Kyndall didn't move, I became concerned. When she said, "No! I AM NOT moving," I remembered the scene from "Josey Wales" where the guy asked Wales how he knew which bad guy in the bunch to shoot first.
"Well, that one in the center: he had a flap holster and he was in no itchin' hurry. And the one second from the left: he had scared eyes, he wasn't gonna do nothin'. But that one on the far left: he had crazy eyes. Figured him to make the first move."
Kyndall had "crazy eyes" -- and she'd already made the first move.
She'd done something like this before, but her mom was around, one of her older brothers was there. So, all it took to get her upstairs and into her bedroom was a reasonably placed swat on the butt. I've only given a few swats in my life as a dad and I've hated every one. In fact, I tried to make a point of calming down and telling them to just stand still, take the swat and get it over with so we could go on about our lives. I told them, every time, I hated even one swat because it was my last resort.
"Look, Kyndall, you know where this is headed," I said. "If you don't move...I'll give you a swat...you'll get mad and you'll wind up in your bedroom with no TV instead of in the other room with a TV. Now...get up..."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
In the movie, Lone Watie had what he called, "my death face." Kyndall had her death face yesterday when I pulled her out of the chair. She started pulling away, making it impossible for me to calmly explain why the swat I was going to give her would give me no sense of relief. "I'm not going out there...I was just doing my homework...you're not swatting me...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" That's about the time she twisted right into a full-on, flat-palm on the ass swat that I sensed stung her more than any swat I'd ever given had stung her brothers.
That's usually the point where my kids and I stop and consider what Josey Wales said when he decided not to kill or be killed.
"I ain't promising you nothing extra. I'm just giving you life and you're giving me life. And I'm saying that men can live together without butchering one another."
And, a dad and his daughter can get along without those made-for-bad-movies outbursts that young girls always have when they're trying to get their way. Previous to the point that I swatted Kyndall, I'd always thought that no girl would ever act out like that...or scream like that...or push back against her dad like they do in those movies. Well, I guess I actually figured that I wasn't the type dad who would ever be confronted with that type outburst from that type of daughter. Until right then, though, I didn't know if I had that type of daughter.
Kyndall screamed, then started to cry...then sat back down in the chair and grabbed her school books.
"I'm not moving!" she grunted.
Her brother went back into the family room. He's heard enough arguments in his house to last him a lifetime. My choices were few. I could let her have her way and encourage her to go mad-dog mean every time the wind blew the wrong way. Or, I could try to reason with the most unreasonable individual I'd ever confronted. And, finally, I could just impose a father's will on her...by any means necessary...knowing there was almost no physical act I was willing to perpetrate beyond that swat. I recall briefly thinking, "It wouldn't take much for me to pull her out of that chair and leave a bruise on her arm...then what?" She must've been reading my mind.
I didn't lose my head. She didn't lose her's either. When I grabbed her arm, gently but firmly, she threw her homework into the air dramatically and it when flying. She was screaming and I said, "Look...I'm taking your books upstairs in your bedroom and you can either follow me or I'll drag you up there." She, apparently, knew I had no intention of dragging her anywhere...or she was daring me to try.
She stood with her hands on her hips as I came back down from putting her homework in her room. "This is unfair," she shouted. "Why do I have to move?" I, then, reminded her that she was doing complicated homework that Kellen had helped with only seconds before. There was a chance that I could salvage a parenting moment, you know? Appeal to her reasoning ability...get her to think, "Yeah, I need my brother for this Algebra and I'm gonna need him to help with homework all year...he can have the big TV." She's in advanced classes for the first time. Things are tough. I thought, "Please, God...let her realize the value of Kellen's ability to solve her homework problems."
As I walked toward her...she took a step toward me.
"Why? I don't understand! Why do I HAVE to move? It's not fair!!!!"
Plumb mad-dog mean stared me in the eyes. The story goes on like that awhile. She eventually went upstairs. I said, "Be sure to slam the door!" She slammed it ... three times, really hard. Then, oh, after work, about four phone calls and eight hours later, I carried her gently from my bed into her bunk and kissed her as she mumbled, in her sleep, "I love you daddy."
-- Clint Eastwood as Josey Wales
"The Outlaw Josey Wales"
----
Parents never talk about the times when their kids do things so shocking that it leaves mom or dad speechless and grasping for something to say that won't make everything 100 times worse than they were before they realized their son or daughter figured out that they don't have to do anything they're told ... ever.
Parents don't even like to hear tell about stories where kids figure out that they're not subservient at all. Cripes, they're Clint Eastwood in "The Outlaw Josey Wales," and they realize that they're "gonna get mad-dog mean" because they want to live and they want to win. And, they decide that they can't live or win unless they get their way. And, their way sure as hell ain't their parents' way!
My 11-year-old daughter and I had our duel at dusk yesterday. Her youngest brother played the mortician who, upon seeing the Josey Wales character about to draw down and try to kill his foe, rushes to safety and only peeks out the window to get an early idea how big a casket he'll be making. She was doing her homework in the living room and her brother wanted to watch the baseball game there on the high-definition TV. That's where Lone Watie solemnly said in the 1976 film: "Get ready, little lady. Hell is coming to breakfast."
I asked why she felt compelled to scream at the top of her lungs -- over moving into another room...while she was doing her homework...because her brother asked nicely if he could watch a game on hi-def...
She screamed something about something about whatever was on TV that she wanted to watch because, she claimed, it would never be on hi-def ever again in her lifetime. Then, she made the wild claim that baseball games "are always replayed over and over." And, she said that the brother had explained her homework and, thus, she was "almost done."
I'd never been to that point, the point where my kids were going to test my will as a parent. The older boys did what they were told and I never told them to do much they couldn't tolerate. The younger brother is a prince. No confrontations -- because, most times, he knows that life's hard enough already.
I told Kyndall she was going into the family room and doing her homework so that Kellen could watch the game on the big TV. I said it all calm like...figuring I was Clint Eastwood in this production. When Kyndall didn't move, I became concerned. When she said, "No! I AM NOT moving," I remembered the scene from "Josey Wales" where the guy asked Wales how he knew which bad guy in the bunch to shoot first.
"Well, that one in the center: he had a flap holster and he was in no itchin' hurry. And the one second from the left: he had scared eyes, he wasn't gonna do nothin'. But that one on the far left: he had crazy eyes. Figured him to make the first move."
Kyndall had "crazy eyes" -- and she'd already made the first move.
She'd done something like this before, but her mom was around, one of her older brothers was there. So, all it took to get her upstairs and into her bedroom was a reasonably placed swat on the butt. I've only given a few swats in my life as a dad and I've hated every one. In fact, I tried to make a point of calming down and telling them to just stand still, take the swat and get it over with so we could go on about our lives. I told them, every time, I hated even one swat because it was my last resort.
"Look, Kyndall, you know where this is headed," I said. "If you don't move...I'll give you a swat...you'll get mad and you'll wind up in your bedroom with no TV instead of in the other room with a TV. Now...get up..."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
In the movie, Lone Watie had what he called, "my death face." Kyndall had her death face yesterday when I pulled her out of the chair. She started pulling away, making it impossible for me to calmly explain why the swat I was going to give her would give me no sense of relief. "I'm not going out there...I was just doing my homework...you're not swatting me...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" That's about the time she twisted right into a full-on, flat-palm on the ass swat that I sensed stung her more than any swat I'd ever given had stung her brothers.
That's usually the point where my kids and I stop and consider what Josey Wales said when he decided not to kill or be killed.
"I ain't promising you nothing extra. I'm just giving you life and you're giving me life. And I'm saying that men can live together without butchering one another."
And, a dad and his daughter can get along without those made-for-bad-movies outbursts that young girls always have when they're trying to get their way. Previous to the point that I swatted Kyndall, I'd always thought that no girl would ever act out like that...or scream like that...or push back against her dad like they do in those movies. Well, I guess I actually figured that I wasn't the type dad who would ever be confronted with that type outburst from that type of daughter. Until right then, though, I didn't know if I had that type of daughter.
Kyndall screamed, then started to cry...then sat back down in the chair and grabbed her school books.
"I'm not moving!" she grunted.
Her brother went back into the family room. He's heard enough arguments in his house to last him a lifetime. My choices were few. I could let her have her way and encourage her to go mad-dog mean every time the wind blew the wrong way. Or, I could try to reason with the most unreasonable individual I'd ever confronted. And, finally, I could just impose a father's will on her...by any means necessary...knowing there was almost no physical act I was willing to perpetrate beyond that swat. I recall briefly thinking, "It wouldn't take much for me to pull her out of that chair and leave a bruise on her arm...then what?" She must've been reading my mind.
I didn't lose my head. She didn't lose her's either. When I grabbed her arm, gently but firmly, she threw her homework into the air dramatically and it when flying. She was screaming and I said, "Look...I'm taking your books upstairs in your bedroom and you can either follow me or I'll drag you up there." She, apparently, knew I had no intention of dragging her anywhere...or she was daring me to try.
She stood with her hands on her hips as I came back down from putting her homework in her room. "This is unfair," she shouted. "Why do I have to move?" I, then, reminded her that she was doing complicated homework that Kellen had helped with only seconds before. There was a chance that I could salvage a parenting moment, you know? Appeal to her reasoning ability...get her to think, "Yeah, I need my brother for this Algebra and I'm gonna need him to help with homework all year...he can have the big TV." She's in advanced classes for the first time. Things are tough. I thought, "Please, God...let her realize the value of Kellen's ability to solve her homework problems."
As I walked toward her...she took a step toward me.
"Why? I don't understand! Why do I HAVE to move? It's not fair!!!!"
Plumb mad-dog mean stared me in the eyes. The story goes on like that awhile. She eventually went upstairs. I said, "Be sure to slam the door!" She slammed it ... three times, really hard. Then, oh, after work, about four phone calls and eight hours later, I carried her gently from my bed into her bunk and kissed her as she mumbled, in her sleep, "I love you daddy."
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Ruining My Daughter's Life
Kyndall Eva Sillanpaa was 6 years old when last she lived under the same roof as her old man. The father wasn't good for much except loving her to pieces -- and that hasn't changed. Kyndall, however, has changed dramatically and with each passing second of a life filled with drama, angst and a dad who's all of a sudden back sharing her digs in order that he might not lose what's left of his mind and ever dwindling self-esteem.
Kyndall Eva Sillanpaa is 11 years, 5 months old now. The only time she really reminds her father of the early years, before he somehow figured he could live away from her without falling into a depression that would haunt him constantly, is when he gets home from work late at night. He finds her sound asleep in his bed. It's a bigger bed than the single bed, with accompanying trundle bed, that she just had to have 2, 3 years ago. The old man's bed is in the guest room, along with a TV that's bigger than the TV in Kyndall's room where she's tormented by her single bed. When she's asleep, she's got the same angelic look on her face that she used to have during waking hours back when her favorite TV shows were "Blues Clues" and "Dora the Explorer" and not "America's Best Dance Crew" and that ridiculous program where pinheaded Paris Hilton chooses a best friend.
Waking hours? Everything's different for Kyndall and dad.
She wakes up tired. The father used to roll out of the sack and find her engrossed in playing with her Barbie dolls or making a fort out of blankets and chairs. Now, he finds her crashed in front of the TV and notices she ate a pizza flavor Hot Pocket for breakfast.
There was, the old man's sure, a time when Kyndall didn't respond to the slightest perception of a slight by giving her brother Kellen, he's 13 1/2, the Stink Eye and screaming, "Kellen! You are SUCH an ASS!" She inherited her temper from her mother and her form of self-expression from her dad's mom. Rough combination to handle if you happen to cross Kyndall.
It was one thing for dad to just know his only daughter, his baby girl, wore a bra. He knew because he heard about it and belched, "Why does she need a bra?" Now, it turns out, she is under the impression that under garments should be worn at all times...under clothes, under pajamas.
"I know I'm no expert on bras," the dad has told her, acknowledging the most dads don't talk about bras, "but, my mom told me that nobody should wear underwear to bed. You have to let your body breathe."
The first 12 times Kyndall heard that story, she rolled her eyes and made a sucking sound through her teeth. The dad knows the sound...and he recognizes and "You are just an idiot" roll of the eyes, having perfected it and handed it down.
When once it was enough to hang multi-colored beads in her doorway and hope that someone -- anyone -- would come into her room to play ... she closes her door tight every time she goes in her room. It sort of bugs the old man.
"Look...I know girls are different than boys and that stuff," he said Sunday, "I'm going to want you to leave your door open a little though. I just wanna know what you're doing, Ok?"
Actually, forgetting she's 11 and not 6, the old man walked in on her while she was getting dressed. He didn't see her partially clothed. She was utterly mortified, though, and he now figures that if the door's open most of the time -- he'll remember not to go in without knocking if it's shut tight.
There are two kinds of time now that Kyndall's 11. There's the time of day, or night, that the rest of the world abides by. Then, there's Kyndall Time...whereby she can define, "I'm almost ready," or "I'll do it in a minute." The old man has been perennially tardy in life, but he's never had to wait for a girl to put the finishing touches on her eye makeup before a theater performance.
When she gets mad, it's still possible for the father to get her to give it up and smile. But, that was always the case before he left and she was tiny. Now, she will dig in her heels and shout, "That really makes me mad. Leave me alone," and the dad has to go all hard-ass on her and give her a lecture to which she pays no attention. He's given it 3, 4, 5 times in a month. Really, she's not listening.
The younger of her three brothers noted quite rightly that Kyndall is impervious to the point of being uncaring about the needs of others. Sadly, it's Kyndall's world and he's stuck living in it. Some days...he gets to dance around in the magic dust that swirls up around her wherever she goes. Other days, he brushes past her and she falls to the ground screaming, "Daaaaaaaaaaad! Kellen hit me and knocked me over!"
On Friday night, a Sillanpaa Male Night at the Movie (we shoved "Vision Quest" into the DVD player) was interrupted repeatedly by Kyndall and her friend singing songs from "42nd Street," "Cats" and, at one point, "Crazy For You" from "Vision Quest." When she wants to sing...she sings. The dad takes some blame. He told her long ago to sing whenever she wanted. As his years in self-imposed exile grew, there were times when the only thing that pleased him was hearing her sing. Hearing her sing in a huge house with vaulted ceilings, while he was watching a movie, seemed far less endearing to him.
She's touchy now. The old man actually helped her learn some hip hop moves for a recital when she was 5 years old. Now, if he says, "Man...Kyndall...let your personality shine when you sing! Sing songs you love...all kinds of songs..." she interprets it to mean he doesn't like her singing in the soprano voice she's learning and she'll snap, "Geez...I'm just messing around! Can't I even mess around! Geeee-awwwwd!"
The old man's confused, but still clear-headed enough to know that there won't be talk of boys, boyfriends, dates...anything like that...for a good long time. When her friend mentioned boys fawning over her in 7th grade, the dad told the younger brother, "Kyndall can't have a boyfriend until she's in ninth...no...10th grade."
The brother took the cue.
"Kyndall...are you going to be in 9th grade when I'm in 11th grade?" he asked.
"Yes...you will...you two will be in high school together for two years," the dad said. "She won't be on her own until you graduate. I don't know if you can handle her, but you'll have to try."
"Dad...I thought Kellen was going to De La Salle High School?" Kyndall asked. "Isn't that school just for boys?"
The dad confirmed as much, but added that Carondolet High School is right across the street from De La Salle -- and it's an all-girls school.
"He can go to the all-boys school and you can go to the all-girls school," the dad said driving back from the mall.
Dead silence from the back seat.
At that point, the father lost all sense he had any real control. If his daughter goes ballistic or sings just to sing -- he can deal, he can handle it. But...when she goes silent, goes stealth -- he knows she's just thinking of ways to out-think him. And, clearly, he fears she will succeed more often than not.
Kyndall Eva Sillanpaa is 11 years, 5 months old now. The only time she really reminds her father of the early years, before he somehow figured he could live away from her without falling into a depression that would haunt him constantly, is when he gets home from work late at night. He finds her sound asleep in his bed. It's a bigger bed than the single bed, with accompanying trundle bed, that she just had to have 2, 3 years ago. The old man's bed is in the guest room, along with a TV that's bigger than the TV in Kyndall's room where she's tormented by her single bed. When she's asleep, she's got the same angelic look on her face that she used to have during waking hours back when her favorite TV shows were "Blues Clues" and "Dora the Explorer" and not "America's Best Dance Crew" and that ridiculous program where pinheaded Paris Hilton chooses a best friend.
Waking hours? Everything's different for Kyndall and dad.
She wakes up tired. The father used to roll out of the sack and find her engrossed in playing with her Barbie dolls or making a fort out of blankets and chairs. Now, he finds her crashed in front of the TV and notices she ate a pizza flavor Hot Pocket for breakfast.
There was, the old man's sure, a time when Kyndall didn't respond to the slightest perception of a slight by giving her brother Kellen, he's 13 1/2, the Stink Eye and screaming, "Kellen! You are SUCH an ASS!" She inherited her temper from her mother and her form of self-expression from her dad's mom. Rough combination to handle if you happen to cross Kyndall.
It was one thing for dad to just know his only daughter, his baby girl, wore a bra. He knew because he heard about it and belched, "Why does she need a bra?" Now, it turns out, she is under the impression that under garments should be worn at all times...under clothes, under pajamas.
"I know I'm no expert on bras," the dad has told her, acknowledging the most dads don't talk about bras, "but, my mom told me that nobody should wear underwear to bed. You have to let your body breathe."
The first 12 times Kyndall heard that story, she rolled her eyes and made a sucking sound through her teeth. The dad knows the sound...and he recognizes and "You are just an idiot" roll of the eyes, having perfected it and handed it down.
When once it was enough to hang multi-colored beads in her doorway and hope that someone -- anyone -- would come into her room to play ... she closes her door tight every time she goes in her room. It sort of bugs the old man.
"Look...I know girls are different than boys and that stuff," he said Sunday, "I'm going to want you to leave your door open a little though. I just wanna know what you're doing, Ok?"
Actually, forgetting she's 11 and not 6, the old man walked in on her while she was getting dressed. He didn't see her partially clothed. She was utterly mortified, though, and he now figures that if the door's open most of the time -- he'll remember not to go in without knocking if it's shut tight.
There are two kinds of time now that Kyndall's 11. There's the time of day, or night, that the rest of the world abides by. Then, there's Kyndall Time...whereby she can define, "I'm almost ready," or "I'll do it in a minute." The old man has been perennially tardy in life, but he's never had to wait for a girl to put the finishing touches on her eye makeup before a theater performance.
When she gets mad, it's still possible for the father to get her to give it up and smile. But, that was always the case before he left and she was tiny. Now, she will dig in her heels and shout, "That really makes me mad. Leave me alone," and the dad has to go all hard-ass on her and give her a lecture to which she pays no attention. He's given it 3, 4, 5 times in a month. Really, she's not listening.
The younger of her three brothers noted quite rightly that Kyndall is impervious to the point of being uncaring about the needs of others. Sadly, it's Kyndall's world and he's stuck living in it. Some days...he gets to dance around in the magic dust that swirls up around her wherever she goes. Other days, he brushes past her and she falls to the ground screaming, "Daaaaaaaaaaad! Kellen hit me and knocked me over!"
On Friday night, a Sillanpaa Male Night at the Movie (we shoved "Vision Quest" into the DVD player) was interrupted repeatedly by Kyndall and her friend singing songs from "42nd Street," "Cats" and, at one point, "Crazy For You" from "Vision Quest." When she wants to sing...she sings. The dad takes some blame. He told her long ago to sing whenever she wanted. As his years in self-imposed exile grew, there were times when the only thing that pleased him was hearing her sing. Hearing her sing in a huge house with vaulted ceilings, while he was watching a movie, seemed far less endearing to him.
She's touchy now. The old man actually helped her learn some hip hop moves for a recital when she was 5 years old. Now, if he says, "Man...Kyndall...let your personality shine when you sing! Sing songs you love...all kinds of songs..." she interprets it to mean he doesn't like her singing in the soprano voice she's learning and she'll snap, "Geez...I'm just messing around! Can't I even mess around! Geeee-awwwwd!"
The old man's confused, but still clear-headed enough to know that there won't be talk of boys, boyfriends, dates...anything like that...for a good long time. When her friend mentioned boys fawning over her in 7th grade, the dad told the younger brother, "Kyndall can't have a boyfriend until she's in ninth...no...10th grade."
The brother took the cue.
"Kyndall...are you going to be in 9th grade when I'm in 11th grade?" he asked.
"Yes...you will...you two will be in high school together for two years," the dad said. "She won't be on her own until you graduate. I don't know if you can handle her, but you'll have to try."
"Dad...I thought Kellen was going to De La Salle High School?" Kyndall asked. "Isn't that school just for boys?"
The dad confirmed as much, but added that Carondolet High School is right across the street from De La Salle -- and it's an all-girls school.
"He can go to the all-boys school and you can go to the all-girls school," the dad said driving back from the mall.
Dead silence from the back seat.
At that point, the father lost all sense he had any real control. If his daughter goes ballistic or sings just to sing -- he can deal, he can handle it. But...when she goes silent, goes stealth -- he knows she's just thinking of ways to out-think him. And, clearly, he fears she will succeed more often than not.
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