Wednesday, January 26, 2011

A Quick Wallow In Self-Pity

So, I should be doing a million other things. Hell, I have paying work! But life, she monkey with my head. I think I'm experiencing actual self-pity for the first time in my life. People who don't suffer from depression have a habit of referring to the black dog's bite in terms such as, 'you just like feeling sorry for yourself.'

Usually, when someone says, 'you're feeling sorry for yourself,' they mean, 'you are unhappy for reasons I do not care to understand.' But right now? I am having a very, very sad feeling that makes me wish I were an exterior party, so I could pat myself on the shoulder and say, "You poor bastard. They actually did screw you." I do, in fact, feel sorry for myself.

On Monday I was talking to someone at the mental health center, getting an uptake interview, and in the course of our conversation, my inability to read or write cursive came up, and I mentioned that at least one doctor had told me my handwriting was diagnostic for brain damage.

The guy who was interviewing me suggested very seriously that I should get an EEG. That brain damage might be my real problem.

I mentioned that to my dad. Who told me that was the least of it, that the way Mom drank and smoked while carrying me I probably had fetal alcohol syndrome and so on.

Today I was discussing my medication --

-- (The best part was right after I explained to the nurse about my painful spontaneous erections, and another nurse walked in and made it clear that I'd failed to use my inside voice. After that they kept me out of the main waiting room and in a little side area, where my hypermasculine aura could be safely contained so as to prevent an outbreak of Maenad-style hijinx.) --

-- at the other mental health clinic (whee!), and I mentioned that to the doc. He had me take off my glasses, asked if anyone else in my (extremely Northern European) family had epicanthic folds, and thusly determined that I did indeed have a likely dose of fetal alcohol syndrome. And that might be the real problem.

Okay. Look. I could accept just being crazy and fucked-up...

... but this feels different. It's so specific. I lost part of my mind. I am less intelligent and less capable of happiness because my mom couldn't stay away from the booze, or didn't know how important it was, or whatever. It feels as if someone did something to me. Took something from me. I don't feel upset with my parents, all that's been hashed over already.

I just feel sorry for the oaf. He coulda been someone, you know? Poor guy.


Glendon Mellow said...


6 years ago, I was as arrogant and clueless as I often am now. 6-years-ago-me would have laughed at people who said they had real friends via the internet.

6-years-ago-me didn't know you, Sean; or many other people I've come to appreciate as important in my life. To me, you are a contender. Always moving forward, incredibly diverse, and you know what? You already know yourself. Before this possible-news.

From the title of your blog, you often refer to yourself as the "Oaf". For me, and I'm sure many others, we look at you and this blog and see the "Renaissance".

You are someone, you know?

Glendon Mellow said...

Oh and I like the bug drawing.

Sean Craven said...

Thanks, Glendon. I missed this when you first put it up. It's not as bad as it sounds here; I just need to squeal because I'm caught in the fence.

Your good wished mean a lot, buddy.

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