I was out walking the other day when a teenage boy passed by, headed in the opposite direction. Normally, I would probably barely register someone just walking by me, but there was something unusual this time. It wasn't the way the boy looked or the way he dressed. He didn't have any unusual markings. His face wasn't pierced and he didn't have a strange way of walking. He was just a normal looking teenage boy, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. However, he was carrying an oatmeal box tucked into the bent crook of his arm.
Now, carrying an oatmeal box isn't terribly strange, you might think. Certainly if the boy was coming out of a supermarket or convenience store or at least walking somewhere in the vicinty of one, then I probably wouldn't have become curious about it. But we were walking in a strictly residential neighborhood filled with nothing but single family or two-family houses. No stores anywhere nearby. And yet here he was, with an oatmeal box.
I couldn't help but be curious. Where was he going with an oatmeal box? It seemed unlikely someone had invited him over for breakfast. Usually someone doesn't call up with an invitation along the lines of "Gee, I'd love to have you over for breakfast tomorrow morning. But, one thing, will you bring the oatmeal?" Maybe he was part of some oatmeal taste test and was on his way to prove once and for all that Quaker Oats makes one damn good oatmeal. Or maybe the oatmeal inside the box had been replaced by some hidden treasure that he wanted to make sure stayed protected.
To add to the mystery, just a few hundred feet after the boy and I passed each other putting me into this oatmeal box quandary, I passed a teenage girl. She was sitting on the front steps of a house, looking towards the teenage boy as he walked away. She was crying, and crying hard. Clearly heartbroken, although I wasn't sure if the great love she had just lost was for the boy or for the oatmeal.
For several blocks I wondered exactly what role the oatmeal had played in this. Had the girl, suffering from some apparently deluded idea that the boy deeply and truly loved her, demanded he choose once and for all between her and the oatmeal and then, well, she lost? Or had the boy, in a desperate attempt to make the girl face up to a shattering oatmeal addiction staged an intervention and then whisked the offending oatmeal away where she could no longer indulge? Or maybe the boy, deeply wounded by the girl having found someone else, decided the one way to make her hurt as much as he did, was to take away her cherished breakfast food of choice.
Whatever the reason for this oatmeal box incident, it was difficult to not stop and say something to the girl who was clearly hurting. But how do you explain to a teenager that getting your heart broken from time to time is the way it's supposed to go? Every time a relationship goes wrong you learn what you want and what you don't. Every relationship's end, every broken heart leads you, eventually, to someplace better. Sometimes, that "better" is a relationship that works. Sometimes, it's gaining the understanding that you can stand on your own two feet, just fine. And sometimes, you find that on your own two feet is a better place to be.
There's a whole world out there, I would have liked to have said. And it's filled with other boys, other relationships and lots of other breakfast foods.
Over the past few days, when the curious oatmeal box incident pops into my head, I wonder what happened to that girl. My hope is shortly after I walked by, she got up, got the keys to the car and went to buy herself the biggest box of oatmeal she could find. And I hope she's enjoying every bite.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Schizophrenia Tango
"Do you feel that ache in your right leg? That can't be good."
It often feels like I have another person who lives inside my head. It's not fun to have a different person in there. It's annoying. She (yes, she) is a naysayer, someone who sees nothing but doom around every approaching corner. Whenever I start to think that I might enjoy trying something new, that other person in my head immediately comes up with a long list of reasons as to why I shouldn't do it. Inevitably, this causes an argument between us as to who's right. Having 2 personalities is exhausting.
I don't know how soap opera characters do it. I was first introduced to the existence of this multiple personality thing back in the 70's from One Life to Live when Kathy Craig, believing herself to be Kitty Mainwaring, a character from a book she had written, kidnapped a baby. On that same soap, the character of Viki has battled for years with her alter-ego, Niki. And then there's Jess, Viki's daughter. In what is probably the first and only case of inherited multiple personality disorder, Jess has another personality known as Tess.
My "other self" is vastly different from the ones on the soaps. On TV, the other personality is usually portrayed as evil. They're kidnappers, alcoholics and on drugs. They often have guns and hold people hostage. And for some reason, they are usually portrayed as wildly promiscuous which, when you add it all up, means the alternate personalities are having much more fun than their goody-goody counterparts. Watching them on the soaps, you start to think that maybe it would be a pretty cool disorder to have. Like doing a wild dance with an out of control partner who keeps you guessing at every step. Mine, however, is different. She's like an overly protective, world-weary grandmother who's seen too many things in life go wrong. She spends most of the day sitting in her rocking chair, looking out the window and disapproving of what she sees. I call her Greta.
Lately, Greta has been much more in evidence when I go out for my runs. For the past couple weeks, running has been a struggle with tired, sore legs and a general fatigue. Putting on my running shoes and heading out the door, not to mention just putting one foot in front of the other, has been more challenging than usual and Greta has been seizing every opportunity to offer ongoing commentary. Greta doesn't trust this whole running thing. She'd much prefer me to stay home in my bed, preferably while surrounded by padded baby bumpers and wearing a helmet.
As I head out to run, Greta dispenses her helpful warnings. "You know, that ache going down your legs should be looked into. I don't want to alarm you or anything, but a friend of mine's daughter had aches like that. She thought it was nothing and then boom! Dead." Greta seems to know a lot of people that fall into the category of healthy-but-dead. Like I said, she's seen too many things.
Ignoring Greta doesn't do much good. I've tried. But as I continue running and then hit mile 1, she chimes in again. "A mile's enough for today. Let's not overdo. Did you see that piece in the paper the other day? The man who had a heart attack while jogging? He was in perfect physical shape, jogging along like he did every day and then suddenly boom! Dead." She goes quiet for a few seconds, convinced I'll stop. When I ignore her and keep going she shakes her head and adds "OK. When you can't walk tomorow morning don't blame me." She clucks her tongue once for emphasis because she knows it irritates me and then falls silent for awhile, plotting her next move.
At mile 2 "Look out for that dog up ahead.You'll want to slow down before you get anywhere near him. I think it may be one of those pit bull types that'll rip your leg right off." and at mile 3 "Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Bernie? He used to run, too. Then one day he got this pain in his left ankle, like the one you're getting right now. He tried to ignore it, like you're doing, too. Just kept on running and running thinking it would go away on it's own. Well, eventually it was so bad he fell. Unfortunately, for him, he fell right in front of a garbage truck and boom! Dead. But you just do what you want. Don't mind me. Is that a bus I hear coming?"
Greta goes quiet again, sulking because I've continued to ignore her. I can see her sitting there, arms crossed, tapping her foot, eyes narrowed as she stares in my direction and tries to think of some way to make me come to my senses and head back home where it's safe and warm. But I'm used to Greta. I can listen to all of her negativity and continue to keep my pace while ignoring both her and the small aches that I know will disappear when I've completed today's run. I will NOT let her win.
"Do you really think this is a good idea at your age? I mean let's face it. A couple months and you'll be 47."
Maybe letting her win just this once is OK.
It often feels like I have another person who lives inside my head. It's not fun to have a different person in there. It's annoying. She (yes, she) is a naysayer, someone who sees nothing but doom around every approaching corner. Whenever I start to think that I might enjoy trying something new, that other person in my head immediately comes up with a long list of reasons as to why I shouldn't do it. Inevitably, this causes an argument between us as to who's right. Having 2 personalities is exhausting.
I don't know how soap opera characters do it. I was first introduced to the existence of this multiple personality thing back in the 70's from One Life to Live when Kathy Craig, believing herself to be Kitty Mainwaring, a character from a book she had written, kidnapped a baby. On that same soap, the character of Viki has battled for years with her alter-ego, Niki. And then there's Jess, Viki's daughter. In what is probably the first and only case of inherited multiple personality disorder, Jess has another personality known as Tess.
My "other self" is vastly different from the ones on the soaps. On TV, the other personality is usually portrayed as evil. They're kidnappers, alcoholics and on drugs. They often have guns and hold people hostage. And for some reason, they are usually portrayed as wildly promiscuous which, when you add it all up, means the alternate personalities are having much more fun than their goody-goody counterparts. Watching them on the soaps, you start to think that maybe it would be a pretty cool disorder to have. Like doing a wild dance with an out of control partner who keeps you guessing at every step. Mine, however, is different. She's like an overly protective, world-weary grandmother who's seen too many things in life go wrong. She spends most of the day sitting in her rocking chair, looking out the window and disapproving of what she sees. I call her Greta.
Lately, Greta has been much more in evidence when I go out for my runs. For the past couple weeks, running has been a struggle with tired, sore legs and a general fatigue. Putting on my running shoes and heading out the door, not to mention just putting one foot in front of the other, has been more challenging than usual and Greta has been seizing every opportunity to offer ongoing commentary. Greta doesn't trust this whole running thing. She'd much prefer me to stay home in my bed, preferably while surrounded by padded baby bumpers and wearing a helmet.
As I head out to run, Greta dispenses her helpful warnings. "You know, that ache going down your legs should be looked into. I don't want to alarm you or anything, but a friend of mine's daughter had aches like that. She thought it was nothing and then boom! Dead." Greta seems to know a lot of people that fall into the category of healthy-but-dead. Like I said, she's seen too many things.
Ignoring Greta doesn't do much good. I've tried. But as I continue running and then hit mile 1, she chimes in again. "A mile's enough for today. Let's not overdo. Did you see that piece in the paper the other day? The man who had a heart attack while jogging? He was in perfect physical shape, jogging along like he did every day and then suddenly boom! Dead." She goes quiet for a few seconds, convinced I'll stop. When I ignore her and keep going she shakes her head and adds "OK. When you can't walk tomorow morning don't blame me." She clucks her tongue once for emphasis because she knows it irritates me and then falls silent for awhile, plotting her next move.
At mile 2 "Look out for that dog up ahead.You'll want to slow down before you get anywhere near him. I think it may be one of those pit bull types that'll rip your leg right off." and at mile 3 "Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Bernie? He used to run, too. Then one day he got this pain in his left ankle, like the one you're getting right now. He tried to ignore it, like you're doing, too. Just kept on running and running thinking it would go away on it's own. Well, eventually it was so bad he fell. Unfortunately, for him, he fell right in front of a garbage truck and boom! Dead. But you just do what you want. Don't mind me. Is that a bus I hear coming?"
Greta goes quiet again, sulking because I've continued to ignore her. I can see her sitting there, arms crossed, tapping her foot, eyes narrowed as she stares in my direction and tries to think of some way to make me come to my senses and head back home where it's safe and warm. But I'm used to Greta. I can listen to all of her negativity and continue to keep my pace while ignoring both her and the small aches that I know will disappear when I've completed today's run. I will NOT let her win.
"Do you really think this is a good idea at your age? I mean let's face it. A couple months and you'll be 47."
Maybe letting her win just this once is OK.
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