I'm Not Okay, and That's Okay

 I'm not okay.

Sometimes we have to admit that to ourselves. Not to others, for attention or sympathy--but to yourself. Pretending you're okay is not okay. Being not okay is okay, which doesn't mean you should want to stay that way.

On April Fourth my teenage nephew killed himself. My post about it is here:

https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2023/04/rest-in-peace-christian.html

There, now I don't have to go through writing that again. (Meanwhile, about a week later an apartment complex in a neighboring town was shot up by a man who used to be married to my ex-wife. I never particularly cared for him, but my daughters are good friends of his kids, and they're wonderful people. This helped no one's stress level.)

Christian's. A 16 year old with a lot going for him.

I didn't see Christian as often as I would have liked, which is no one's fault but my own. Still, it hit me just as hard as my brother's death two years ago. Has it been two years? I'm not okay over that, either.

The reason I'm writing this is because my next blog--unless something else happens--will likely be another humor attempt to cheer up everyone's lives a little, as I'm wont to do. Yes, I did use that word correctly, look it up. I do this because so many of us are going through difficult times, and so many of us could use the cheering up. Making people laugh, or at least smile, lightens my own day. Since I suffer from depression and anxiety myself, what helps others helps me.

But that doesn't mean I'm all right.

Remember Robin Williams? Funniest guy alive, everything to live for. Killed himself.

Please try to remember that even if someone seems fine--even if they insist they're fine--you don't know what's going on underneath. You don't know what the person next to you is going through. Maybe they don't know. My wife always figures out I'm having a bad day before I do.

So support mental health awareness, fight the stigma, and ... laugh a lot. Keep your spirits up. Get help if needed. The world may seem a hard and depressing place, but it does you no good to dwell on it. Worst case scenario, I'll be there to make you smile, or at least try to. 

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

Doctor Finger Probes Prostate Problem

I want to start out by saying I do not have cancer, and this story actually happened some time ago. So not to worry.

But the docs thought I might ... for several years. Specifically, I had high prostate specific antigen readings, otherwise known as PSA. That's why I kept having to visit my urologist, Doctor Finger. What a pain in the ass.

But it could be worse. I always thought a urologist dealt with urine issues, and I don't want anyone's finger going up that way.

So they tested, and probed (!) and tested again, during which time I was told I might have cancer ... or not. So then they went in with a needle and took about a dozen samples, something called a biopsy. Do you want to know where they go in with a needles to get those samples?

No. No, you do not.

A James Webb Space Telescope image of my prostate.

It came up, um, clean, but the PSA count stayed high. Way high. Too high. Something was wrong.

(Some men go for years with high PSA ratings, without ever getting cancer. Women rarely have high PSA readings, what with them not having prostates. But men don't often have to get mammograms, so never mind.)

And so, in desperation, Doctor Finger sent me to get an MRI. That stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging, and costs about a hundred dollars a letter. That's $600 just for the magnet. (Buying and installing one MRI machine can cost more than three million dollars.)

I'll be writing separately about the MRI ... it was an experience. Honestly, I'd much rather go through it again than have a physical exam by my urologist, who's a really nice guy but has big hands. The MRI took an hour, and the digital exam a few minutes, but it felt the opposite.

I know you're anxious to see the results ... um, hear--hear the results. Well, there was no immediate sign of cancer. Yay!

But my prostate was, quoting Doctor Finger, "as big as my head". And his head is even bigger than his hands.

If the prostate was a balloon, mine would be the Hindenburg.

Now, here's the fun part: My prostate is two and a half times its normal size. He explained that PSA readings are like harvesting crops: The bigger the field, the more crops you harvest. So, since my prostate was bigger, my PSA count was naturally bigger, too.

See where I'm going with this?

Yeah. For ten years when I might have had cancer because of unusually high PSA counts, my PSA counts were NORMAL.

So.

You know, I lead a fairly stressful life already; I don't need any help. Just sayin'.

Remember: Whenever you don't buy a book, an author has to have a colonoscopy. Save their ass.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

Stressing Out Over PTSD

 One stressful thing about being a dispatcher is that when the phone rings it could be anything. Many of us play Dispatch Bingo. A UFO report? A herd of cattle blocking the roadway? Lunch, interrupted? A couple arguing over who gets custody of their dog? That's a row--bingo!

For some dispatchers this is one of the perks of the job: the challenge and variety. For others, not so much.

Years ago the business line rang and, in a calm voice, a man gave me his name and home address, so we could notify his family. Then he gave me the location where we could find his body. Then he hung up.

Often, when a suicidal person reaches out, it's a cry for help. Not this time. When our units arrived they could only confirm my certainty: Immediately after hanging up the phone, he shot himself. I was the last person he ever spoke to.

It messed me up.

Word got around, and my boss called to check on me. I told him I would be okay, which was true in the long run. I don't know if I told him that in the short run I wasn't okay at all, but my wife was with me, and I hung in there.

I've served in three branches of the emergency services: EMS, Fire, and 911 Dispatch. If anyone mentions PTSD or critical incident stress, I immediately flash back to one particular call in each of those three areas. But a lot of time has passed since those incidents, and although they still dwell in the dark corners of my brain, they don't control my life.

Usually.

Earlier this year we received a report of a person threatening to kill themself with a gun. I didn't take that call, but the moment I heard the details my body chilled, I could barely breath, and my mind went numb. That suicide from so long ago crashed out of the cage I'd trapped it in and rampaged through my head.

It turns out the person in this case did not have a gun, and the whole thing ended peacefully. Still, it was a wake up call. A jangling alarm that took about five years off my life ... and after three decades at this job, I've already lost enough. It's one of the reasons why I've been pushing my writing career: Not only because I have a lot of stories to tell, but because I'd like to spend my time writing them instead of screaming into a pillow after work every morning.

(This is one time in this blog when I exaggerate: No, I don't scream into a pillow after work. I kiss my wife, hug the dog, and hit the bed, where I usually get a good eight hours of sleep in between the weird dreams.)

I'm not writing this to get sympathy for me. I just wanted to remind everyone that the person you think is strong and "normal" may be battling monsters inside. In fact, they may be the most cheerful people you know, always with a smile and a joke. But the effects of stress are real, and the challenge of maintaining our mental health is a stigma that still remains, even today.

Look after yourself. Look after your friends. And if someone says they're having a problem with their emotions or their mental state, take them seriously. Sometimes we make it look way easier than it is.

Now, I'm off to write some humor ... we all have our ways to cope.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

Your Own Anti-Anxiety Advocate

I was rather anxious about something the other day, and when I mentioned it to my wife, she told me I was suffering from anxiety.

Well, yeah. And poor people are suffering from a lack of money.

What she meant was anxiety disorder, a disorder that can make people anxious. Several years ago I was diagnosed with Seasonal Affected Disorder,  a disorder that affected me in the winter season. See, medical stuff isn't really all that complicated, once you diagnose the names.

You know nothing, Mark Snow.

Emotional problems have a stigma--the idea that maybe it's not a medical thing, but somehow  your fault for being weak, or complaining too much, or maybe watching too much "Housewives of" programming. Okay, maybe that last is a personal fault. But if you have a real problem, you should be able to talk it out.

One thing that could make anxiety disorder worse is getting anxious about it. So best to just tackle the issue, find out if you have it, and deal. I turned, as most people do in these important moments, to the internet.

I have to admit, I was fixated on the outcome of my investigation. That's why I wasn't surprised when I found a list of common symptoms, which started with a fixation on the outcome of events.

What could have caused this with me? Well, as of this month I've earned full retirement from my 911 dispatching career, but I wanted to make enough money writing to supplement my income after that. In other words, I wanted to retire so I could write full time, but I'm not making enough money writing to retire. As that time neared, I became more and more fixated on it. Thus, anxiety.

Second on the list was restlessness and difficulty concentrating. Here on the written page, where I can edit to my heart's content before hitting "publish", I seem fairly put-together. In reality, I kept getting distracted by puppy videos, chocolate snacks, and winter storm warnings.

Yes, I'm aware winter storm warnings might contribute to my anxiety.

Third, problems with decision making. I don't think I'm indecisive. Well. Sometimes, maybe. Or maybe not. I'm not really sure. Maybe you should ask my wife.

Next: Worrying about anxiety or, in a nutshell, worrying about worrying. People who know they're suffering from anxiety often get anxious about it, which is--let's face it--what led me to this point to begin with. It's a vicious cycle, like weekly lawn mowing, or Congress.

Five, mental stress can wreck you physically. Fatigue, irritability, headaches, all the things I thought came from taking 911 calls for a living, may actually be caused by the anxiety I experience after taking 911 calls for a living. It's a fine line. Also on the list are being easily startled, frequent aches and pains, and throwing things at the TV whenever adds for "The Bachelor" come on.

Next: Sweating, which is followed by shortness of breath and palpitations.

Ah--those I don't have! I'm cured! I never had a problem to begin with! Put that in your cigar and smoke it, Sigmund.

Next is insomnia. Got you there, too. I usually have no problems at all falling asleep, especially after taking my bedtime meds, which cause drowsiness and I think I just figured out why they're to be taken at bedtime. Sure, I sometimes wake up just a few hours later and have trouble getting to sleep again, and sure, only about half of people with general anxiety disorder report sleep problems, but oh, shut up.

Irrational fears. I'm not sure about this one. Define irrational. Do I fear machines taking over the world? Yes, I do, but the other day I asked Siri for directions and she said "don't worry, we'll find you" ... so I really don't think it's so irrational.

Luckily I never do anything scary, like public speaking.

I also have a fear that no one will ever read my books, because so many people have stopped reading that there are more writers than readers, and the writers don't have time to read. I'm not so sure that's irrational, either.

There are similar symptoms, such as fatigue, irritability, and feelings of impending doom, all of which I have, but in all fairness this country is locked in a 24/7 election cycle--even though we just keep electing the same morons back into office, anyway. Is there anyone who's not irritable?

I found the list of treatments for anxiety interesting. Sunlight? All for it. Warm baths? An excellent idea. So is lowing caffeine intake, and I'll get back to you as soon as I retire from my third shift job. Then there's exercise, but no treatment plan is perfect.

Dietary modifications are important, and also easy: Just stop eating everything you like, and start eating everything you don't. Increase your intake of something called superfoods, which have lots of vitamins, minerals, and fiber. By sticking strictly to superfoods you're bound to lose weight, because you'll no longer be interesting in your meals. Anybody want a nice avocado? Me neither.

Essential oils are also supposed to help, specifically lavender oil. The way I see it, what's the harm of trying? It smells nice. I tried the same thing with chocolate aroma therapy, but the scent goes away quickly once you eat those candles.

Maybe I could make a tea out of the lilac bushes in my back yard, bathe in the tea while breathing deeply, then drink it. Maybe not that last one.

Finally we have tea, which I thought was a great idea. "Earl Grey," I told my wife. "Hot."

She patted me on the shoulder and said, "You just have fun making that", which I must say increased my anxiety. But that wouldn't help anyway, because apparently the stress-fighting tea of choice is Chamomile. Have you tried it? Doesn't taste like tea. Maybe I can combine it with Earl Grey.

In the end it's modern life that causes much of our anxiety. But it's also modern life that keeps us so happily modern, so I'll avoid the Amish solution. As for the rest, I'll keep you updated, now that I've become an anti-anxiety avocado advocate.

(And yes, I went to the doctor about it. I'm now stressed about being on another med. For stress.)

Meanwhile, as I go down the line and check yes on almost all the boxes, there's something calming just having a name to put on the problem. Yes, blaming all the stupid people in the world has a certain therapeutic effect, but the difference is you can treat anxiety disorder; stupid people aren't going anywhere.

My Subcsonscious Still Hates Book Signings, but My Conscious Is a Fan

 I've been on edge recently; more stressed than I usually am this time of the year. There are a few reasons, but one cause became apparent while I was going through old blogs, and came upon this one from five years ago. (Never mind why I was going through old blogs.) I always enjoy author appearances, once I get there and everything's set up. But from the time I sign up for one until things are set up, I'm a walking, shaking pile of anxiety.

 

Why My Subconscious Hates Book Signings

I’m sure some writers approach public appearances with the confidence of TV’s Richard Castle, who swaggers into every room like he has the world by the keyboard. Then again, maybe not … Castle seems to have become a bestselling novelist without ever actually writing. In other words, he’s every writer’s dream.

I, on the other hand, have to actually pound away at the keyboard to produce a manuscript. Probably I’m more representative. If that’s true, then most writers approach book signings with no confidence at all. What’s worse? That no one will show up, or that they’ll show up to point and laugh at your temerity in thinking you actually deserve any sort of success?

Like most things, the anticipation is worse than the reality. (Not with dentists. Oh, not with dentists.) Still, as I approach the next book signing, I can’t help thinking: Is somebody going to finally call me out?

Dude, you suck. What makes you think people will actually want to read your books?

“Hey, I’m published!”

So was Hitler.

“That’s just mean.”

That’s my subconscious talking. But my subconscious assures me real people will show up and say the same thing.

It used to whisper, “You’re a horrible writer!” Finally, after a few decades, I came to accept that I was actually a pretty good writer. Then it started whispering, “There are millions of good writers! You’re a little minnow in a big sea. You’re so pathetic that even your subconscious can’t come up with a cliché that doesn’t involve little fish in the ocean.”

Other times it gets bored and switches: You’ll never write full time! You’ll die at a keyboard, working two full time jobs and never taking the time to vegetate on the couch with chips and dip.

“Oh, yeah? Well, my wife and doctor won’t let me eat chips and dip anymore, so there!”

Nice riposte. Use that in your imaginary Pulitzer speech.

Is it any wonder, then, that I hate promoting myself? Okay, I have a book signing coming up. (at the Avilla Freedom Festival this time, June 20, 21, and 22.). So why can’t I just yell it out, rather than writing some long article about it? “Hey, be there! I’ll have all my books!”

You’re pathetic. That’s your own home turf, what are you worried about? Try having a book signing in Chicago, see who shows up there.

“You’re my subconscious, you just called yourself pathetic.”

I know. It’s pathetic.

You can’t win when you take on your own subconscious.

By the time June 20th rolls around I’ll be too worried about the details of the signing to let my inner voice bother me. I’ll sell some copies of my various works, go home happy that anyone bought any at all, and go back to work on my next book project.

Then the voice will start whispering again. But you know what? I’m a good writer, by gosh, so I’ll ignore it … at least, until it’s time to send in the next manuscript. 

And hey, I DID sell that book to a State Senator!

 Oh, the blog with all the details of the upcoming appearance is here:

https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2019/05/were-coming-to-avilla-freedom-festival.html