It was a shock last night when I got the news that Irish singer Sinead O’Connor died. My German friend, Susanne, shared a link to a German news article with the headline “Sinead O’Connor ist tot!” (ist tot= is dead). I went looking for confirmation and quickly found it in The Irish Times, a very reputable newspaper to which I am a subscriber. Then I remembered that Sinead O’Connor had lost her 17 year old son, Shane Lunny, to suicide in January 2022. Based on her last tweets, it appears that Sinead was still very deeply distressed about his death.
Sinead O’Connor did a fabulous cover of Dolly Parton’s song, “Dagger Through the Heart”. She wrote in her book that this was one of her favorite songs. It’s brilliant!
At this writing, details of how Sinead passed away have not been made public. She was 56 years old, and things do go wrong in 56 year old bodies. However, it wouldn’t surprise me if Sinead decided to exit life in much the same way her son did. Unfortunately, suicide can be contagious, particularly among those who are vulnerable to mental illness, as Sinead O’Connor freely admitted she was.
A couple of years ago, I read and reviewed her book, Rememberings. At the time I read the book, it was the summer of 2021. COVID hysteria was in full swing, and I was struggling with feelings of depression that were worse than usual. I remember wondering if life would ever go back to “normal”… or some semblance of normal, anyway, as my life hasn’t been really “normal” in years. Between noticeable climate change, moving to Germany, and watching the neverending Trump dumpster fire from afar, things have been rather weird for some time. COVID just magnified all of that anxiety I already had and made it much more surreal.
I’m not ashamed to admit that there were some times during the height of the pandemic when I wondered if I wanted to go on living myself. Who wants to go through life wearing face masks everywhere and being “locked down”, surveilled, screamed at, and possibly even arrested for not complying? Many people were talking a lot about how we should all be living life differently, and some were suggesting that those changes should be forever. Other people were denying the pandemic and becoming violent when they were asked to take the most basic precautions. It was terrifying, and the overall mood legitimately caused me a lot of angst, especially given how hostile and aggressive people were in pushing their views– and I mean on both sides of the issue. There didn’t seem to be much moderation… and I was so very tired of it all. It made me feel HOPELESS.
Anyway, there I was in June 2021, reading Sinead O’Connor’s book. It was about time for my birthday, and Bill and I had arranged a weekend stay at a beautiful five star hotel in Heidelberg, Germany. Heidelberg is not very far from where we live, but it’s a wonderful city. We went there for the first time in 2008, and had a blast. So, even though we could drive there in less than two hours, I was happy to enjoy the weekend turning 49… the last year of my 40s.
As we were driving to Heidelberg, I was reading passages from Sinead’s book aloud to Bill. Some of her stories were absolutely hilarious! Some were moving. Some were tragic and infuriating. I was sharing passages from her book with friends. My former shrink, who is now a Facebook friend, even had a laugh at one of them. I asked him if he thought he’d read Sinead’s book. He said “no”. I thought that was kind of a pity. I think he’d enjoy her musings. But maybe reading her book would be too much like taking his work home with him.
I remember that weekend in Heidelberg with so much fondness. It was the most “normal” I’d felt in a long time, even though COVID measures were in place. I remember having to go through a pain in the ass rigamarole to get my COVID vaccination credentials in order, mainly because I live in Germany, but got shots from the United States. We had to prove we were fully vaccinated before we could check in to the hotel, and we had to wear masks everywhere. I know a lot of people didn’t think any of that was a hardship, but for me, it was. However– I hasten to add– I DID COMPLY with the rules, even if I wasn’t cheerful about them.
Sinead O’Connor was a big part of that great weekend, because her book was so engaging to me. She made me laugh. She made me cry. I felt things other than anxiety and depression when I read her book. And we had so much fun over that weekend in Heidelberg, even if a lot of what we did involved people watching and taking pictures.
I remember sitting at a wonderful Heidelberg restaurant called Chambao on the night after my birthday. Because it was June and COVID restrictions were in place, we opted to sit inside by a window. At the time, those who weren’t vaccinated weren’t allowed in most establishments. Consequently, Chambao’s patio area was packed. The inside was almost empty. I remember the first bite of that dinner, and how tantalizingly delicious it was. It was the first really excellent food we’d had in a long while… which I know sounds very spoiled, given how much people have suffered over the ages. In my review, which I linked in this paragraph, I wrote that “my tastebuds were exploding”. It was a reminder that there are still good things in life worth waiting for and savoring. And I instantly started enjoying things more, and living life, rather than just wanting to “fast forward” through the bad parts, or just quit working altogether.
I finished Sinead O’Connor’s book, and we headed back to Wiesbaden, taking a brief detour to an awesome German city called Speyer. Speyer is also not that far from where we live, and we probably ought to go there and explore it more. But going there in 2021 was a revelation that there are still things to discover and enjoy, and the world is still out there… and a lot of it, in spite of what’s in the news, is still good. When I got home from our weekend, I bought a bunch of Sinead’s less popular albums and got to know her better. I should have “met” her a lot earlier than I did. She was phenomenal.
I still worry about things beyond my control. I worry about Donald Trump getting back into office and turning the United States into a dystopian, fascist, nightmare. I worry about my body turning on me and having to make decisions that I’ve been putting off for years. I worry about Bill and my mom, and the prospect of someday losing them. As Sinead’s sudden end has shown us, no one is guaranteed tomorrow.
Well… I don’t know how or why Sinead O’Connor died yesterday. I have my suspicions. If I’m right about my suspicions, it’s just one more reminder that mental illness is a real, and it can be deadly. I know she had many people in her life who loved her, in spite of her difficulties with mental illness. My sincere condolences go out to those who actually had Sinead in their daily lives and will miss her very unique and unforgettable presence. I have no doubt that having her around could be very difficult at times, but I also have no doubt that she rewarded her loved ones with warmth, creativity, unusual insight, and true hilarity.
I obviously didn’t know Sinead as a regular person, but she really did help me survive the pandemic. At the very least, her hysterical stories about her fantasies of having sex with Mormon missionaries and the nun who drew a penis on the chalkboard at her school gave me a reason to keep going (and if you want to see those anecdotes, have a look at my review). I hope wherever she is today, she’s finally at peace.
RIP Sinead O’Connor– December 8, 1966- July 26, 2023
I recorded this cover of Sinead O’Connor’s version of Elton John’s “Sacrifice” 9 years ago. I’ll probably redo it today, but for now, here’s a musical tribute.
Something came up yesterday that I feel like addressing in today’s blog post. I’m going to write about it today, because I realize that sometimes people must read my posts and wonder if I’m in need of “help”. I hope this post comes across as basically respectful and clears up some confusion. I also want to offer some perspective to people who may not understand, but would like to try.
I’ve mentioned it many times before in my blog, but I’m going to mention it again. I have a long history with major depressive disorder. I do not take medication or see a therapist for it these days, but there was a period of about six years during which I did seek treatment. That was back in the late 1990s, when I really needed help. It was the first time I ever sought treatment for depression. I wasn’t even sure I was truly depressed, since I’d always had kind of a bent toward being cranky, pessimistic, and sad. I thought it was just another situation during which I had said or done the “wrong” thing and I was to blame, yet again, for things not going the right way.
My experiences with being treated for depression were largely positive, although I didn’t like my psychiatrist very much. I am grateful to him for prescribing medication that helped me change my life and convinced me that clinical depression is a *real* thing. But I had problems with him, because he used to fat shame me, and he treated me like a child, even after I’d earned two master’s degrees and gotten married.
The psychologist, on the other hand, was wonderful. He helped me immensely. Even today, he is a friend.
I stopped taking antidepressants in 2004. I had a number of reasons for taking that step. Sometimes, I miss taking medication for depression, but I don’t miss having to see doctors regularly. I don’t miss having painful discussions with people about things from the past, especially when they judged me, as the psychiatrist had. But I can’t deny that Wellbutrin SR made me feel a lot better physically and emotionally. I had to take a lot of it, though. Apparently, I have a very efficient liver. What can I say? I come from a long line of drunks. đ
So what do I do to stave off depression now? I mostly write or make music. Sometimes I write things that sound serious or dramatic. Such was the case a couple of days ago, when someone read my post about those guys who temporarily invaded my home last week. I wrote about wanting to “just die”. A reader got concerned and confronted me about it on social media.
I’m going to admit that when I first read the lengthy comment on my link, my first reaction was annoyance. That is, in part, due to my curmudgeonly personality, which is a feature of my chronic depression. But then it occurred to me that the person really meant well, and that’s a good thing. I also wanted to address the comment immediately, because I didn’t want people to get alarmed or stir up drama. The last thing I needed after last week was a visit from the Polizei because someone got worried after reading my blog.
You might think this isn’t necessarily something I needed to worry about. However, several years ago, a former Facebook acquaintance of mine got a visit from the cops because someone hacked her page. The hacker wrote a post that indicated that she might harm herself. Her friends and relatives, naturally, got very upset. They tried to call her, but she wasn’t answering her phone, because she was sleeping. Someone called the police. The cops came over and made her send her kids to someone else’s house for the night. They even threatened to send her children to foster care.
That situation isn’t really the same as my situation. I had written a passive comment or two about “wanting to just die”. And the truth is, having chronic depression often causes me to think about my eventual death and realizing it will be probably be a relief. When you’re dead, you don’t have any problems, and you don’t cause any problems. You’re just a part of history. We all die. I do think about that reality and, sometimes, even kind of look forward to it. But simply making that statement doesn’t mean I’m in a crisis or contemplating suicide. It’s just a statement of truth for me.
Having chronic depression means that I don’t often enjoy life that much, and I tend to be pessimistic. I can and do have fun sometimes, and many people mistakenly think I’m “happy” because I have a good sense of humor. But some of the most depressed people I’ve ever known have been hilarious. A lot of them are artistic, too… incredibly gifted in music, art, drama, comedy, dance, or writing. You’d think it would be a joy to have that artistic bent, but in my experience, it can make people feel things very intensely, which can lead to extreme highs and lows or, in my case, much milder highs and lows.
I assume that most people see me in a negative light. I ruminate on the past and realize that I’ve been in a lot of situations with people that ended negatively. I never go into situations wanting them to end badly, nor do I want to cause problems for people. At the same time, I don’t want to be someone’s doormat, either. So I struggle to find the sweet spot of being friendly, but assertive.
Last week, I spent four days with two strange men in my home. They didn’t speak my language, and they were doing work that was loud, messy, and disruptive. They didn’t seem to care that their work was affecting me. In fact, I picked up distinctly contemptuous vibes from them. I felt helpless, and being around them brought me back to an awful time back in the late 90s, when I was seeking treatment for depression.
During those days, I lived with my parents. I didn’t want to live with them, and I was trying to work my way out of the situation I was in. But I had some setbacks. First of all, I got sick enough with cellulitis one day that I had to go to the emergency room. I had no insurance, so the bills wiped out the money I’d been saving. Secondly, my parents were putting tremendous pressure on me to move. I wasn’t welcome in their home. My father was an alcoholic control freak who would do things like come into my bedroom and use the toilet, which he then didn’t flush. I mentioned this to my psychologist, who was aghast. He said, “Just like a dog… marking his territory!”
Well… last week, I felt the same way I did when I came home from work one night in the late 1990s, and found concentrated urine in the toilet in the bathroom. There was absolutely no reason for my dad to use that bathroom. We had two others in the house, and one was in his picture framing shop. My bedroom was in an out of the way corner of the house. He would have had to go out of his way to use that bathroom, and with him, my mom, and me in the house, it’s not like there was ever a line to use the other bathrooms.
The way those guys treated me last week reminded me of my dad, peeing in the toilet and not flushing, leaving it for me to discover and deal with. It was blatantly disrespectful. You might realize that when your own father treats you with contempt, it makes you question the reasons for your existence. Here I was in 2023, sitting in my own home, a rental… and these two guys were acting in the same incredibly disrespectful way toward me, putting their tools on my freshly oiled teak furniture, sitting on my new cushions, and putting their sock clad feet up, while blaring music.
Now, I could have marched over to my landlord’s house and demanded that he do something. In retrospect, maybe that’s what I should have done. But I knew that would slow down the progress of simply getting them done with the job and out of my house, hopefully FOREVER. I also didn’t want to cause problems. I never do. So I reacted in a passive aggressive way, which isn’t the best way to be, I’ll admit. And I had yet another thought of how relieved I’ll be when I’m dead, and I don’t have to deal with this crap anymore.
Stating that, however, does NOT mean that I need an ambulance, or to talk with a suicide counselor, or anything else of that nature. Like I said… I write and make music for my mental health. Some people hate what I do. Some have even dared to offer me “constructive criticism” on my posts. I always encourage those people to just keep scrolling.
Generally speaking, I only post my links once on my Facebook page. The vast majority of people don’t click the link, so most people don’t read my comments about my inevitable death. But they might read the comments left on Facebook. At this writing, I have 383 friends. An inflammatory comment on Facebook can lead to some big time unnecessary drama and alarm. Fortunately, the reader who was concerned was kind enough to delete the comment when I explained that I prefer a PM or even better, a comment on the actual blog post, rather than a Facebook comment on a concerning post. Because people love a good drama, and some people want to be a hero when there’s no need for heroism.
Something else I want to mention… It’s certainly not wrong to express concern for someone who writes or says something that seems “disturbing”. But immediately assuming someone is in need of “help” because they mention something taboo can have a pretty terrible effect on free thought and expression. I don’t consider myself a great artist or writer, but part of what I do requires free expression. I would hate to censor myself because of fear that someone might misunderstand and summon help when none is required.
But even if I really was feeling suicidal… it is kind of my life, isn’t it? Which isn’t to say concern isn’t ever warranted… but I always feel like people tend to act in a disingenuous way sometimes when a person has simply had it with living and dares to express it out loud. They feel better for calling the cops, or whatever… saving the person’s life. But that means the person gets hauled off to a psych ward, where they pretty much lose every shred of dignity. And after the person is “okay” again, the helpers sort of drift off… maybe until the next crisis arises. Or maybe not.
Anyway, for those who might have been concerned, rest assured, I’m fine. I feel a lot better now that the work is done, and I’ve been able to unpack it somewhat. And no, I’m not thinking of doing anything drastic. There’s no cause for alarm.
And now, I must close this post, because I need to get dressed. Bill is taking me out to lunch.
For more reading on chronic depression, click here.
Today’s post might make the most sense to people who actually know and like me. Most of the people who read my blog, don’t actually know me in person. As I’ve also learned in the past, some people who read my blog might have met me offline, but they dislike me. In spite of my training in social work, I know I don’t have wonderful people skills. I’m not one of those people who is a friend to everyone. That’s more Bill’s department. When I’m mistreated or disrespected, I tend to react in an angry way.
This week has been very challenging for me. Once again, I’ve been mostly trying to mind my own business, and have inadvertently offended someone for just being myself, living in my own space. But… I swear, it’s not my intention to cause people problems. I really just want to be left alone. As long as you show me basic respect and consideration, I won’t intentionally give you any problems.
Last night, Bill and I were talking about the workers who have spent the whole week putting in new windows. We started to piece together what happened. I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that those guys were from somewhere in eastern Europe, and at least one of them has a very old fashioned and disrespectful view of women. They were sent over to put the windows in a home that my husband is paying a lot of rent for, but as he had to work, and the landlord had his own stuff to attend to, they were left alone with me. Consequently, I was on the receiving end of their evident misogyny. Maybe they would have been better behaved if they’d thought I was more “fuckable”.
On Monday, I told our landlord that, because of our dog, I didn’t want the window guys leaving the front door open. I don’t actually think Noyzi would run away, but we did have a tragic incident happen three years ago when we tried to adopt a different dog. He was brought to us in a pet taxi, taken out of the car, and put on the ground with no collar or leash. Before we had a chance to so much as pet him, he took off running, and wound up getting killed on the Autobahn, which is located very close to our home.
Not only was it devastating for us to watch the dog run off and get killed, but it also created significant financial and legal issues, not for us, but for the dog rescue and the pet taxi driver, as well as the person who hit the dog and anyone in the car with them. There was a lawsuit and an insurance claim, and we were left with the horrifying memories of a dog we had only wanted to love, being killed on a high speed highway. I simply wanted to prevent that scenario from happening again.
We have always been very careful about not letting our dogs run loose, but ever since that incident, we’ve been especially aware of what can happen if the dog gets out. That’s why I was very insistent that the front door stayed closed. It’s called responsible dog ownership, but also, I am keenly aware of the liability issues of letting a dog run amok. Noyzi doesn’t usually run out the front door, but he is a shy dog who scares easily. Animals aren’t always predictable. I didn’t want to take the risk, especially since there were strangers in the house.
I don’t think the landlord understood this reasoning, as we haven’t really told him about the incident with the dog that got killed. There hasn’t been a reason or a real opportunity to talk to him about it. It happened the day that COVID-19 shut down the world. I haven’t found him to be the best listener– at least not to me. Anyway, I did mention to him that I wanted the front door closed, but he either didn’t tell the window guys, or he did, and they didn’t heed the request.
The window guys also left chocolate out where the dog could get to it. Again, bless Noyzi for being a very good boy who doesn’t eat things that aren’t his. Not all dogs are like that, though. I don’t know where those guys come from, but it’s very possible or likely that they come from a culture that doesn’t value dogs. Clearly, they had no respect for my dog, who is a member of this family and this household. Noyzi could have gotten sick if he’d eaten the chocolate.
The first day they were in the house, they repeatedly left the door open. I finally tried to ask them to keep it closed, but the older (apparently sexist) guy very abruptly cut me off, saying he doesn’t speak English. That response, quite correctly, made me angry– not because he didn’t speak English, but because he clearly didn’t care what I had to say. He continued to leave the door open until the landlord finally asked them to keep it closed. To their credit, they did honor that request. However, they continued to be disrespectful to me by blaring their music, leaving messes, and acting like they were the only ones in the house. They were at the landlord’s house last week, and I didn’t see them acting that way when he was getting his new windows installed.
After a day or two, the landlord came over with the carpenter who is supposed to come here today. He made a comment to me that now makes me wonder if the window guys complained to him about me. The landlord said in kind of a firm way that the work “needed to be done.” I never had a problem with the work being done. I didn’t want to be in the way, and in fact, mostly stayed upstairs, once those guys went downstairs.
On the first day they were in the house, I played music in my living room, to help drown out their crappy Schlager music. I figure, since this is my home, that was my right. But other than that, I mostly stayed upstairs. On the second day, when they were still upstairs, I even sat at my table wearing headphones, instead of playing music on my HomePod.
On day three, there was a noticeable change in their behavior. It became even more rude, inconsiderate, and disrespectful. The guys came over and just walked into the house without even ringing the doorbell. I did unlock the door for them, but I would expect that upon first arrival at a home that isn’t theirs, they would at least announce themselves by ringing the bell. It’s basic respect, professionalism, decency, and good manners.
On day four, I noticed that the guys were even less professional. They put their equipment on my furniture, and used my patio table and chairs. On day three, they sat their sweaty asses on my new cushions, which I removed before they arrived yesterday, and yesterday, I caught them both with their feet up on my chairs. I got photos of one of them kicking back in the yard. Where I come from, this is blatant disrespect. If my husband had been home, or the landlord had been supervising, I feel pretty sure they wouldn’t have been doing that shit. They knew I saw them doing it, too, although I’ll bet they didn’t expect me to take photos.
Whose house is it, anyway?Even though we’re renting, that’s still my furniture that dickhead has his feet propped up on.
So yes, I was pretty angry… I feel stressed and anxious when people come into my home, but I truly do try to cooperate. All I ask for is common courtesy and consideration. Those guys acted like I had no rights at all.
Honestly… I love living in Germany, and Bill has a good job that he enjoys. But I am really getting tired of being a renter and having to tolerate this kind of disrespectful, intrusive bullshit. I do understand that good help is hard to find, and these guys did do competent work. But the way they behaved while working in my home was unacceptable and inexcusable. I am still very upset about it, although the windows are at least done.
All I want is to be left alone. I don’t go out of my way to cause problems for people. I feel like I should be able to be in my own home without having handymen coming in and acting like total barbarians as they take over the house. I probably wouldn’t have minded that they camped out on my furniture if they had been courteous enough to ask. But they just took liberties. I wonder what they’re like when they have sex. They probably act the same way… with a total lack of consideration and decorum.
My first instinct yesterday was to yell at those guys to get off my furniture and go eat lunch in their truck. But I realized that if I did yell at them, they’d just tell our landlord that I refused to let them work. Because I did not confront them at the time, we got the work done. I’m sure they didn’t realize I got photos of them loafing in the backyard, sock clad feet on my chairs. I don’t know if the landlord will care. I know I would, if I was paying people to do a job for me, especially if their atrocious behavior was also negatively affecting people who were paying me.
I’m sure the landlord doesn’t think I do anything important with my time. Maybe that causes him to have less respect for me, the way our ex landlady apparently had less respect for me. As long as the bills are paid, I don’t see why it’s anyone’s business what I do all day, anyway. But, as anyone who follows this blog knows, I do actually do some things during the day. Maybe they aren’t things that other people think are important, but they’re important to me. It was a sacrifice for me to give up my quiet and privacy so that this work could be done on a house that I don’t own, but we pay a lot of money to rent.
I don’t know what I’m going to do the next time a big job needs to be done. I came very close to losing my shit this week. I wouldn’t have wanted to leave those guys alone in the house, either. They didn’t have respect for my home or possessions when I was here. Imagine what they would do if no one was watching them.
I feel anxiety about the guy coming today, too. I know moving isn’t the answer… but this week has made me want to move. Or just die, maybe. Dying would mean I don’t have to deal with this shit again. Seriously. I just want to be left alone. It’s really all I ask. If I can’t be left alone in my own home, I just don’t know what to do.
Anyway, those workers obviously needed to be supervised by someone with a penis. I get the sense that the older guy, who was blatantly rude to me, treats the women in his life like shit. I hope and pray I never have to see his face again. He probably told our landlord that I was acting like a hostile bitch for no reason, and the landlord just believed him, even though we’ve lived here for going on five years. I don’t act bitchy to people unless they give me good reason. Not honoring simple requests, blaring awful music, taking liberties with my possessions, leaving messes, acting like my dog and I are intruders in our own home, loitering in my backyard and in front of the house at the end of the day… those are all good reasons for me to be bitchy, in my opinion.
Bill says he is going to have a chat with our landlord about this… I’m sure the landlord just wanted to get the work done and, as usual, it seemed easiest to just inconvenience me and expect me to keep sweet. And when I wasn’t sweet, they just assumed that I’m the whole problem. Story of my fucking life since birth! Maybe I should have complained the minute they barged in without ringing the doorbell or parked their asses on my chairs. But, at that point, I just wanted the pain to end.
I’ve been having some health issues lately that make me think I probably should seek out a doctor’s services. But honestly, I think I’d rather just be beamed up out of this existence. I’m tired of being a problem to other people. And I realize it’s kind of disturbing and weird for me to write that, and maybe it’s strange for other people to read it… but it’s kind of how I feel right now. Welcome to chronic depression and anxiety. Those men treated me like I was less than nothing in my own home. Now, I feel depressed, hurt, and frankly, enraged. That’s no way to spend a Friday.
Happy Mother’s Day, everybody. I know not everyone loves this holiday, but if you do celebrate Mother’s Day, I hope it’s a nice one for you. I don’t mind Mother’s Day much anymore. My mom and I get along pretty well, and I’ve come to terms that I’m a “mom” to dogs. I don’t really think of my dogs as my kids, although they are kind of my babies. At least I don’t have to send them to college. đ
I’m kidding about the last part. I think I would have enjoyed sending an adult child to college, even though it costs so much. On the other hand, it’s nice to be debt free… and not having to pay for student loans anymore.
Younger daughter sent us a couple of videos. In one, she talked about how so many people her age are forgoing motherhood. It’s very obvious that she loves being a mom, and she’s very good at the job. I admire her patience and dedication to being there for her children. It’s more than she got from her own mom.
Something surreal happened the other day. I was sitting here looking through old blog posts and I found one in which I mentioned Heather B. Armstrong (nee Hamilton), author of the very popular blog Dooce, and a couple of books. I was never a regular reader of Dooce myself, but I knew about Heather because she was an ex Mormon and had grown up in Bartlett, Tennessee (near Memphis), which is where Bill’s dad lived for years before he passed. I think it might have even been May 9th when I looked at that post, not realizing that I would be getting shocking news about her that very day.
On May 9th, it was announced that 47 year old Heather Armstrong had died by her own hand. She reportedly suffered from depression and alcoholism, which was likely made worse by the toxicity of the Internet. Her writing had enchanted and delighted millions of people. She was even dubbed “Queen of the Mommy Bloggers”, because she was a Mommy Blogger before it was “cool”. At a time when blogs were mostly for people to trade among friends and family members, Heather Armstrong made it a place where anyone could have a voice. Dooce.com took off, and soon, scores of people were reading Armstrong’s thoughts on living, loving, marriage, and motherhood.
But Dooce.com had also excited mean spirited people who harassed her on a site called GOMI (Get Off My Internets), an “anti-fan” blog launched in 2008 by New York based blogger, Alice Wright. I had never heard of GOMI before I read about Heather Armstrong’s suicide, but apparently, a very special class of haters hang out there. They make a habit of reading blogs and trashing the writers.
Aside from garden variety clinical depression and alcoholism, Armstrong also had very severe postpartum depression after she had her older daughter in 2003. It was so bad that she needed to be hospitalized. In 2009, Armstrong published a very well-received book called It Sucked and then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown and a Much Needed Margarita. In spite of her experiences with postpartum depression, Armstrong had another daughter in 2010. Then she divorced her ex husband, Jon Armstrong. She was in another relationship with Pete Ashdown, a two-time Democratic candidate for the U.S. Senate in Utah, at the time of her death.
Heather Armstrong had reportedly quit drinking for awhile before her death, but then relapsed into alcoholism. She continued to write, although her posts– which had been almost daily for years– became a lot less frequent. Some readers were unnerved by the content of her most recent posts, which revealed a downward spiral.
I think a lot of people were shocked and saddened by Armstrong’s suicide. Even though I wasn’t one of her fans, I had heard of Dooce, and realized its success was what a lot of bloggers strive for. Many aspiring writers looked up to Heather Armstrong as a role model, but I think other people just thought of her as a dependable friend. And now she’s gone, and people are left wondering what happened.
I read a few news articles about Heather Armstrong’s death. I was saddened to read that so many comments people left were either clueless or kind of mean. Heather Armstrong will never read those comments, but she was a mom, and her kids can read. Now, it’s Mother’s Day, and their mom is gone forever. For them, Mother’s Day may turn into a “day of infamy”. That’s a day in which a person remembers something awful every year.
Although Armstrong killed herself, I know that her action was caused by legitimate mental illnesses. Many people will say she was selfish to commit suicide, but those people might not understand that suicidal people are often not in their right minds. I write “often not” because sometimes people commit suicide for reasons other than depression. Clearly, in Armstrong’s case, her decision came as a result of deep, unrelenting psychological pain that wasn’t eased by medical treatment. Her death, while brought about by her own hand, was every bit as the result of an illness as a death due to a stroke, cancer, or heart disease is. It’s not like she didn’t try to get well, either. Heather’s depression was severe enough that she even underwent an experimental treatment involving being put into chemically induced comas for fifteen minute sessions. The treatment was supposed to mimic brain death, to see if it might cure extreme depression.
I have suffered from depression myself, and I know how it made me feel. There were times when I was tempted by suicide. But by the grace of God, I managed to resist those impulses. I doubt that my issues were ever as deep as Heather’s were… and although sometimes I get rude comments on my blog, I have never been harassed like she was. I don’t go looking for comments about me, or my blog, so if anyone is talking trash about me, I’m oblivious. But I suspect my blog is too boring for people on GOMI.
I was also never Mormon… and while I know that a lot of people find joy in Mormonism, I also know that a lot of people suffer despair because of it. Armstrong, who had once been a devout church member, left the religion, and reportedly suffered backlash from her family and friends. She poured her thoughts and feelings into her writing, and wound up being fired from her job in Los Angeles. At the time, it was probably awful for her… but then the blog took off, and she was soon earning millions from ad revenue, book sales, and product endorsements.
As a blogger myself, I wonder if maybe Dooce’s success was a source of terrible stress for Armstrong. I know that writing, for me, is kind of therapeutic. But when you become popular, you have to be much more careful about what you write. And when you make money from sponsors, you have to be even more careful, because businesses don’t want to be aligned with controversies or bad press. So then, that “therapy” kind of goes by the wayside, because as a writer, you can no longer be so free with what you express. I would imagine it also becomes harder to stay authentic and interesting.
My own blog used to be more popular. When I was writing it on Blogger and lived in Stuttgart, I shared it a lot more, and I had more readers. I eventually realized that I didn’t really want to be super popular, especially in a military community. Even years since I moved the blog to WordPress and kind of started over, I sometimes run into people who have never even read it, but had a negative opinion of it and me, just because of the name. I try to remember, though, that everyone who becomes popular has to deal with negative opinions and even haters. The most talented, likeable, and famous people in the world have haters.
Heather Armstrong obviously had mental health issues. Writing was a comfort for her… until it was used as a weapon. And now she has two daughters who no longer have their mother on Mother’s Day. I don’t blame Heather for what happened, because I know that the horrors of depression and alcoholism are real. But I do feel for her daughters, who have lost their mom forever. So, my thoughts are with them today, as I am reminded that for some people, Mother’s Day is difficult, at best. And for some, it really is a “day of infamy”.
Wherever Heather B. Armstrong is today, I hope she’s finally at peace. And I wish the most peace and comfort to her survivors, especially her daughters.
I ripped off today’s “clever” featured photo a couple of weeks ago, when I was engaged with the rude commenter who kept calling me “stupid” and “inane”. I think it’s a photo that invites a second look and says something unexpected…
We’re on the fast track to spring! Pretty soon, the trees and flowers will be bursting with new life. As beautiful as spring always is, it’s also the season when my allergies burst into new life. But at least there will be fragrant flowers, warmer temperatures, and longer days.
Welcome to March. This month promises to suck, as it usually does. Bill has a business trip next week, and part of the week after that. At the end of the month, we have a big trip to Stuttgart planned, so we can see the dentist and have procedures done. Meanwhile, Arran is still hanging in there. I will take him to the vet today for a treatment and exam. He really is an amazing dog with a strong will to live. As I’ve learned, after years of having dogs in my life, not all dogs are like that. Not all people are like that, either.
This morning, as I was waiting for Bill to come out of the bathroom, I noticed an October 2014 era article in The Atlantic that was reposted on Facebook. It was provocatively titled “Why I Hope to Die at Age 75”, and accompanied by the broadly smiling visage of a healthy looking man with glasses and grey hair. The author of the article, also the man in the photo, was named Ezekiel J. Emmanuel. He had subtitled his article with this thought: An argument that society and familiesâand youâwill be better off if nature takes its course swiftly and promptly.
I was immediately intrigued. To be very honest, I’m not one of those people who wants to live for a super long time. I have a tendency toward depression, which means I often look at the dark side of things. I also had an angst ridden childhood that, at times, has been hard to overcome.
I know my childhood certainly wasn’t as bad as some people’s childhoods are. In fact, I’d say I probably had a very privileged childhood on many levels, at least in terms of material comforts. However, I often felt like I didn’t belong, especially within my own family. I never seemed to live up to other people’s expectations of me. After awhile, I had the same high expectations for myself, which I rarely managed to meet.
Frequently hearing my mom say things like “If you didn’t look so much like my mother, I’d swear I picked up the wrong baby at the hospital.” or “I never meant to have a fourth child.” or “Where did you COME from?” wasn’t helpful. She made it seem like my presence– which she and my dad were responsible for– was a huge inconvenience to her. That sentiment came through to me loud and clear, and it colored my world view.
Of course, now I know that my mom is imperfect, as we all are. Her comments were borne out of frustrations that had nothing to do with me. I just happened to be on the receiving end of them, because I was a child, and had no other choice. I eventually got away from that shit, but the memories still linger. I don’t have children of my own, nor do I have a burgeoning career, except as a blogger who writes things that few people read. Why should I hang around to be 100, like my Granny did?
So I read the article in The Atlantic, which leads with this hooky paragraph:
Seventy-five.
Thatâs how long I want to live: 75 years.
This preference drives my daughters crazy. It drives my brothers crazy. My loving friends think I am crazy. They think that I canât mean what I say; that I havenât thought clearly about this, because there is so much in the world to see and do. To convince me of my errors, they enumerate the myriad people I know who are over 75 and doing quite well. They are certain that as I get closer to 75, I will push the desired age back to 80, then 85, maybe even 90.
I’m not surprised that Emmanuel’s relatives are horrified by the statements he’s bravely uttered to them. It’s taboo to make comments indicating that one hopes for death at ANY age. Remember a few months ago, when Queen Elizabeth II died? She was 96 years old, and had lost her beloved husband less than two years prior. People were calling her death TRAGIC! Isn’t that insane?
Queen Elizabeth II lived for 96 years, a reigning monarch for 70 years in a modern country, surrounded by wealth, rubbing elbows with important people, and adored by so many people. She didn’t spend her last weeks languishing alone in a nursing home. She didn’t die at age 20, on the cusp of womanhood. She lived a full life, and it was simply time for her to move on. But people were calling her death tragic!
Emmanuel’s article was written in 2014, which was about six years before the whole world was caught in the grips of COVID-19. Countless elderly people died of the illness. People are still dying of COVID, although it seems like folks aren’t talking about it as much these days. Frankly, I’m glad they aren’t talking about it so much. I’m delighted there’s a lot less fighting over face masks and vaccines. Things are feeling decidedly more normal, although as I could see in the Facebook comment section for Emmanuel’s article, lots of people are still mourning the loss.
One lady bitterly wrote about how her elderly dad died “before his time” in a rehabilitation hospital, because people were fighting over wearing a “fucking mask”. I can tell she misses him. She’s still grieving his death. But did he really die too early? Or was COVID-19 just one of many diseases conspiring to end his life? She blames people for not wanting to wear masks, but even wearing face masks wasn’t going to stop COVID-19 in its tracks. All the masks could do was slow down the spread a bit.
I remember a couple of years ago, I wrote about the time I got a venomous private message from some guy who was upset when I took issue with a comment he made about an elderly couple who had just gotten married. The groom was 91, and his wife was 86. They wore masks during their wedding ceremony, but the wife’s mask happened to slip beneath her nose. Someone got a photo, and it was shared in the article about their nuptials. An all knowing MALE wrote that the bride’s improper face mask wearing was going to send her to an “early” grave.
In my post about this, I wrote:
I was a bit gobsmacked by the guyâs comment. I mean, these folks have already lived a normal life span. Millie is 86. Sam is 91. They arenât going to be going to an âearlyâ grave, regardless of what kills them. They arenât teenagers, or even middle-aged. And they sure as hell didnât need to be chastised by some busybody guy who feels the need to confront others about how they wear their masks on camera. I made a comment to that effect. Next thing I know, Iâve got a spam message from this guy who chewed me out, telling me that a death from COVID-19 is a premature death and calling me âstupidâ. Of course he blocked me, so I couldnât respond.
Likewise, a couple of weeks ago, I got repeatedly insulted by an Irish Times reader who took issue with my comment that “life is 100 percent fatal”. We were commenting on an article about a woman who was publicly fat shamed for wanting to order a cheese course. The person who called my comments “inane” and “stupid” was pushing for health promotion, writing to me as if I’m completely ignorant on the topic. As someone with master’s degrees in public health and social work, I’m literally not at all ignorant about health preservation. I just don’t agree that life should be about denying oneself simple pleasures over fears of a heart attack or a stroke.
Moderation is the key, of course, but we all have our own ideas of what moderation means. For some people, the fear of a heart attack or another chronic disease is enough to make them want to avoid certain indulgences. Other people don’t feel that way at all. They’d like to enjoy their cheese course in peace. That doesn’t necessarily make them reckless, foolhardy, or stupid.
After trying to maintain decorum and polite discourse with the insulting commenter, I’d finally had enough. I ended up telling off the stranger, who had relentlessly kept insulting me as she pushed her health promotion point. I explained that I would rather eat what I want with my friends, and live a shorter lifespan, than not eat what I want, and have to linger on this planet with “miserable bitches” like her. Then, I asked her to “kindly fuck off and leave me alone”, which she kindly did.
Ezekiel Emmanuel, author of The Atlantic piece that prompted today’s post, writes:
I am sure of my position. Doubtless, death is a loss. It deprives us of experiences and milestones, of time spent with our spouse and children. In short, it deprives us of all the things we value.
But here is a simple truth that many of us seem to resist: living too long is also a loss. It renders many of us, if not disabled, then faltering and declining, a state that may not be worse than death but is nonetheless deprived. It robs us of our creativity and ability to contribute to work, society, the world. It transforms how people experience us, relate to us, and, most important, remember us. We are no longer remembered as vibrant and engaged but as feeble, ineffectual, even pathetic.
I see nothing wrong or controversial about what Emmanuel wrote here. I come from a long line of people who have lived for a long time. My Granny was almost 101 when she died. She was amazingly active and beloved in her golden years, but when it was time for her to go, I have no doubt that she was ready. Likewise, my dad, who was a very healthy and active man, died at age 81 after spending six years in the hellish cognitive and physical decline of Lewy Body Dementia. His brother, my beloved Uncle Brownlee, had a stroke in 2019 while he was out and about. Two weeks later, he was gone. Somehow, I think Brownlee’s death, albeit at a younger age, was markedly better than my dad’s.
Emmanuel further writes:
By the time I reach 75, I will have lived a complete life. I will have loved and been loved. My children will be grown and in the midst of their own rich lives. I will have seen my grandchildren born and beginning their lives. I will have pursued my lifeâs projects and made whatever contributions, important or not, I am going to make. And hopefully, I will not have too many mental and physical limitations. Dying at 75 will not be a tragedy. Indeed, I plan to have my memorial service before I die. And I donât want any crying or wailing, but a warm gathering filled with fun reminiscences, stories of my awkwardness, and celebrations of a good life. After I die, my survivors can have their own memorial service if they wantâthat is not my business.
Again… he’s not wrong. And it’s not that he’s saying he’s planning to off himself. In fact, in the next paragraph, he even writes that he’s against assisted suicide. He claims people who want help killing themselves are usually suffering from depression. Personally, I disagree with him on that. I don’t think a person has to be depressed to realize that a progressive brain tumor or Alzheimer’s Disease is inevitably going to rob them of their dignity and self-determination. I don’t think a person who wants to pass on before that can happen is necessarily “depressed”. To me, it makes good logical sense to want to get help in dying, especially under those conditions. I’m not the only one who feels that way, either. Moreover, living with unrelenting depression is also miserable. In a case when depression won’t abate, maybe assisted suicide makes sense.
But then he continues:
I am talking about how long I want to live and the kind and amount of health care I will consent to after 75. Americans seem to be obsessed with exercising, doing mental puzzles, consuming various juice and protein concoctions, sticking to strict diets, and popping vitamins and supplements, all in a valiant effort to cheat death and prolong life as long as possible. This has become so pervasive that it now defines a cultural type: what I call the American immortal.
I reject this aspiration. I think this manic desperation to endlessly extend life is misguided and potentially destructive. For many reasons, 75 is a pretty good age to aim to stop.
So basically, what Emmanuel is saying is, he’s going to stop trying to prolong his life beyond the age of 75. That means if a doctor finds out he has cancer or some other debilitating, chronic disease, he’s not necessarily going to seek treatment– particularly aggressive treatment. He might not bother with screenings. He recognizes that the older one gets, the more help they need into keeping going. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable observation. At some point, there are diminishing returns.
To read some of the comments on Facebook, though… So many people complained about ageism and devaluing the elderly. One person even compared the writer’s ideas to that of a Nazi, as the Nazis saw people in certain “undesirable or unproductive groups”, such as the elderly, disabled, LGBTQ, or those who weren’t white and Christian, as “useless eaters”. I saw more than one person complaining that the article was going to give people “dangerous ideas”.
All the guy did was share an opinion. No one is being forced to agree with or actively support Ezekiel Emmanuel’s ideas. They’re just food for thought. I see no need for offense or outrage on this subject. Emmanuel is not trying to say that all elderly people should have an expiration date. He’s simply sharing his thoughts, and perhaps stimulating other people to think about how they feel on this topic. He’s saying that when he’s 75, he hopes to die. It doesn’t mean he absolutely will die at 75. It doesn’t even mean that he can’t or won’t change his mind. It’s just a thought. Why are so many people afraid of people sharing their thoughts? And why do people have to be so critical and condescending when someone shares a thought with which they disagree?
One commenter wrote this, and I heartily agree:
Stunning how this article is being misconstrued by people with anecdotes about healthy old folk. I’m 77. Boringly healthy but I stopped all routine tests, pokings and proddings before I was 70. I may get some things done like cataract surgery since I am the family driver. However if I get something nasty I don’t plan on extreme measures. It’s in my will etc. For every healthy elder anecdote there are thousands of elderly getting major surgery when they cannot care for themselves at all. The “children” are desperate to …save Mom. Well, don’t save me (or the good doctor) if I can’t get to the bathroom by myself, thank you very much.
And others made really tone deaf comments, or complained when the tone deaf are rightfully invited to fuck off…
I don’t blame the first commenter for telling the second one to fuck off. What a dumb comment.
My Uncle Ed died last summer at age 85. I hadn’t spoken to him in some time, mainly because he’d slipped into Trumpian cognitive dissonance and labeled me a “liberal nutjob”. However, I did hear that Ed had a mass on his lung that he’d opted not to treat. Frankly, I can’t blame him for that. He lost his beloved wife, Nancy, in 2010. Donald Trump was no longer the president and the election wasn’t going to be overturned. What was the point of sticking around until age 86, when there were many loved ones who had passed before him? Maybe Heaven is real. At some point, it makes sense to pass on. Dying is part of living, and it’s something not a single one of us can avoid. If you were born, you will someday die. So you might as well live life on your own terms and enjoy it as you see fit, as much as you’re able.
I don’t have a problem with Ezekiel Emmanuel’s publicly stated thoughts about wanting to die at age 75. It’s just something to think about. Doesn’t mean any of us are going to actually do something to make death happen at a specific time. I don’t feel anger or fear in reading that idea, because in the grand scheme of things, that’s really all it is. Maybe it makes sense to him, even if it doesn’t make sense to other people. He should be allowed to speak his mind, and other people should have enough faith in themselves and other people to be able to hear his thoughts without feeling threatened by them.
Don’t tell people to “shut up”, simply because they dare to convey an idea that you can’t yet fathom. Be brave enough to hear them out. Maybe you’ll even learn something new.
These are just my thoughts, though. Please don’t take them as gospel… not that I expect anyone would.
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