Living With Depression

Robin Williams died yesterday.

The world rarely shows such an incredible outpouring for the death of one individual. So what does it say when news coverage, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram are utterly inundated by cries of love and respect of this man and his work? He was loved. He was admired. He made people smile. He made people feel. Feel. Feel.

Feel.

Feel. I relate to this word, to this concept. For someone living with, battling, fighting, struggling, and often times losing to depression, I understand the word feel far too well. I think, perhaps, that Robin Williams was the same.

You see, depression, real, lasting, non-circumstantial depression, at its very core, is a problem of feeling. Sure, yes, it’s misfiring synapses, chemical imbalances in the brain yada yada etc etc… but at its core—at my core, it’s a problem with feeling. Feeling too much. Feeling too much about the wrong things. Having a difficult, almost impossible struggle to control feeling.  To me, that’s depression.

Robin Williams was, by all measurable means, a man who ought to have been happy, beyond such struggles. He had everything he needed to stay alive without anxiety or stress: check. He had personal and non-personal love almost un-endingly showered in his direction: check. He had laughter, fun, and what would often seem like happiness, despite his well-documented struggles with personal demons. And yet he’s dead. He hit his limit, for whatever reason. Game over. You lose.

Depression.

Depression, true, lasting, crippling depression is hard to define. I’ve often compared it to describing the color of the sky to a blind person. How could anyone who hasn’t/doesn’t experience it ever really understand? People go through hardships, a bad break-up, being laid off, the death of loved ones, and they feel depression, anxiety, fear… But it’s temporary. Time heals all wounds, as they say. But true depression, time doesn’t heal it. You either find a way to make yourself strong enough to battle it, or it takes you. There’s no gray area here. Depression kills. Unless of course we find a way to keep it from killing us.

I’d hope by now it’s readily apparent this is a topic with which I share a fair amount of familiarity. I’ve been hospitalized for suicide attempts. I’ve lived with depression. I’ve fought, I’ve momentarily lost. I continue to fight. And people, most people, continue to not understand. They want to, that much is obvious, but they’ve never seen the color of the sky, they’ve never heard the bird call. There are no words that can help them understand. It does little to explain to them what it’s like to experience their worst, most debilitating life events and have that as an on-going undercurrent in their lives, indefinitely.

This is my life.Was this Robin Williams' life?

Some people who experience depression find fame and fortune. They are loved, they create wonderful things… only to find it’s not enough. It’s the tragic link between creativity, intelligence, and depression. You get Kurt Cobain, Robin Williams, Heath Ledger and Elvis Presley, among others. People who ought to have been or were, titans. And yet they fall.

I don’t know fame. I certainly don’t know fortune. At times I actively shun and avoid many of the aspects of life that could lead me in that direction simply because it means letting down protective walls I’ve put in place to keep myself safe. I’m most creative, most actively productive when I’m at my worst, as counter-intuitive as that seems. I produce page after page of prose, I write songs and blogs and… and I try… because that effort, that expression, that hope of something more, of something better, is all that keeps my head above water.

I actively keep myself mundane, ordinary, less productive… because it hurts less. And then I hate myself for not producing, for not building, for not being something… more.

I wish there were a simple, easy way to wrap this up, some magical answer to depression, a secret coping tool to share with the world. But as far as I’m aware, there’s not. And I’m here. Writing this. And another battle has been lost and a great warrior has passed on.

I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t expect anyone to really comprehend unless it’s something they do battle with. But awareness… now that’s something. Who knows what might be different if people were aware… if those with depression were completely and honestly open in their darkest hours. Who would still be alive? What works would we have that we don’t?

No, I don’t expect anyone to understand. But to try… to feel… There’s an amazing amount of power in feeling.

Feel.

Musical Loops

I have a tendency to fixate on songs, listening to them over and over again for weeks at a time before slowly letting them fade into the background of my life, an ever increasing part of my encyclopedic musical library. I’ve had several people point out this behavior as abnormal to me. And, perhaps it is. But I figure it’s still probably healthier than a lot of alternative behaviors some people do obsessively. Like eating glass or Chap Stick…

While I choose songs that I believe have a catchy melody, I’ll gladly admit the main reason for my fixation is due to lyrics. You see, I’m a word person. I love them—words that is. I think up elaborate and flowery sentences, only to squander them when my mouth gets a sentence or two behind my brain and everything comes out a jumbled mess (perhaps just one of the reasons I tend to stay quiet in social situations). My -perhaps- compulsive obsession about words feeds into my putting songs on endless loops. I break the words down, line by line, stanza by… you get it. I analyze possible meanings as deeply as any English professor would ever hope for in an essay, and then I start to wondering how that message applies to my life, be it in a lesson I need to take to heart, or simply a refrain to which I feel a great deal of attachment and  empathy.

I develop a strange connection to these songs, as if they’re a secret message coded for me that if I can only figure out I can use to unlock whatever problems face me at the moment. I suppose I’m not too dissimilar from other people in that regard. Music is deeply engrained in human culture and has been shown to have a variety of interesting effects on brain activity. Still, I never cease to be fascinated by the way in which I actively choose to let music into my life.

Sorry, this little piece has no big discoveries or interesting, life-changing paradigm shifts, it simply has some observations and provides a somewhat illogical satisfaction to my compulsive need to write something late at night.Oh, and I've listened to Linkin Park's "Castle of Glass" about sixteen times in a row now... Last night it was Imagine Dragon's "Radioactive."

Am I A Player?

So, my madre recently ran across a copy of this essay I wrote several years ago for one of my English classes. She got a kick out of it. I got a kick out of it. Maybe you will too!

Am I a Player?

A Journey of self discovery through the realms of love.

            I have, on occasion, been called many different names of varying insult. The most common of these are “player,” “man whore,” and as my ex stated, more than a few times, “hussy.”

            Personally, I have always remained adamant about the truthless nature of such comments, when applied to me. While I may have, in the past, done or acted in ways to merit such titles, I would have to  say these instances were more of an exception than a general rule.

            After a recent trip to The Cheesecake Factory, and a return drive home in a car full of girls chanting “Man whore!” I took it upon myself to examine my life and to determine if there might be some truth to the allegations which I brush aside as an absurdity.

            Along with my trip to the land of wonderful food stuffs, I had experienced (though some months ago) two freakish nights in a row, during which, I had conversations with my mother of a nature which I detest. The first occasion resulted when she pulled me aside after a night of thorough cuddling during a movie (I cannot remember which movie, but I do remember the girl). Once aside, her brow furrowed and she got a the tone in her voice she uses when she is upset with me, it sounds a little like, “Forget for a minute that you are a foot taller than me and weigh 80 pounds more!” She looked me square in the eyes and said, “Brandon, don't be a player.” This struck me like a hammer on an anvil. The names had extended beyond friends and acquaintances and into the realm of parental units. Oh no.

            The following evening I was having a splendid time with a female who was visiting from the mainland when my mother called me up to say nothing more than, “You're not having one of those “make out sessions” are you?” To which I answered no. I was, of course, lying.

            The combination of these three events probably had the greatest impact on my decision to write my personal essay on this topic. In addition, many conversations with dearly loved friends have led me to believe it might be worth examining my life.

            So, let's start out by examining my life from the first girl I kissed, then move on from there.

            I was fifteen years old and laying on a dank and mutilated futon, watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail, when a young temptress with black hair, almond eyes, and beautifully freckled skin turned and, without any forewarning, kissed me, right on the lips.

            This was to be my first of many kissing experiences. Most of which would be with the aforementioned minx.

            Over the next six months, spurred by a new excitement discovered, I had the pleasure of kissing six different girls. The sad truth, which I cannot ignore, is that while most of these kisses did take place on separate days, one fateful day resulted in the occurrence of kisses from four of these females!

            The day was like most any other I experienced during Christmas break. Upon waking I received phone calls from no less than three females, this particular day it led to me hanging out with five of them. In the morning I was kissed by one of the females when she asked me to come see something. This separated us from the group. I was shocked by her actions, but the result was rather pleasant. I did not complain.

            The next female to kiss me on this extraordinary day found the opportunity after a group water fight. Myself, these five females and three others with whom I was barely acquainted had a marvelous water fight (which I won). After this was over one of the females, who I admit I knew little about, somehow got a hold of the last water balloon and chased me to the back yard while the rest of the group recuperated up front. Her aim with the water balloon was terrible, of course this may be in part because I grabbed her wrist while she was throwing it. Apparently this was a splendid time to make a move, seeing as how we were so close, she used my grip against me, pulled herself up close and planted an incredible kiss right on my lips. She continued to do so until we remembered there were friends up front waiting for us who would undoubtedly come searching sooner or later.

            The third female took her chance in a darkened room during a movie. The moment was not spectacular and I cut the event short, mostly due to a lack of desire to have such activities be seen by those in the group.

            Finally, around eleven o' clock in the evening, one of my great female friends, one with which I was very partial,  tromped out of the room distraught and crying, I don't remember the reasoning why, though I can promise it was not my fault. I followed her out of the room and spent the next half and hour consoling her. Somewhere in the middle of lifting her spirits I found myself locked to her lips. Her lips tasted of salty tears and strawberry lip gloss. This was the longest and most passionate of the kisses; I enjoyed every second of it.

            There you have it, four females in one day. Now, let's forget to mention that this day also happened to be new years eve and I ended up kissing another five females, but those were just new years kisses, not worth considering!

            This day of feverish kissing did, as you may expect, come back to “bite me in the butt,”. Upon realization of the freely handed out kisses, by all those who participated, I received at least five slaps, one of which left a scar on my nose which can still be seen upon close inspection.

            Did I deserve this? Every female I have talked to agrees the punishment was probably not harsh enough for the crime. The males on the other hand... Well, they usually just smile, some even offer a high five. Personally, given the circumstances, I think I did nothing wrong, except perhaps allow them to kiss me. But at the time I did not understand the concept of guarding myself, I was new to this wonderful sport.

            As I said, I had not initiated any of these kisses, and the reality is, even years later, having kissed more than a few girls, the number of kisses which I actually started, is less than the number of girls I kissed on that fateful day when I was fifteen.

            Perhaps this tinkle of knowledge offers me some redemption? In my own eyes, yes. To others? Well, I guess you will have to decide for yourself.

            Moving along.

            The night of many kisses spawned something I had not planned on. While two of the girls I kissed that day had of little impact in my mind, I gave two others much consideration as to the matter of dating.

            With both girls, showing impressively aggressive characteristics, and both proving themselves more than adequate in the field of lip locking love, I was having a very difficult time deciding which to choose.

            Now, since I am of the male persuasion, I did what any reasonable man would do. I looked at both girls (while they were not looking of course) and my finger jumped back and forth between them in a small game of “eany, meany, miny, moe.”

            My finger landed upon the dark haired temptress, who also happened to be my first kiss. We dated for three and a half years, during which time I can honestly say, I remained faithful with my kisses, and the number of girls kissed did not rise a freckle or a hair.

            I have always been quite proud of this fact, seeing as how I had, on more than one occasion, had to duck, weave, jive, and dodge to avoid kisses from a few females. You know, the last second twist where instead of being kissed on the lips, the kiss ends up on your cheek instead, and usually ends with an awkward glance of disappointment and dismay on behalf of the would be kisser. Yeah, I had a few of those moments, so I imagine, I must gain some points toward the “not a hussy” category.

            As I stated, the relationship did tragically come to an end with much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and I emerged from my cocoon of depression three months later, with six girls added to the tally.

            Roughly two years passed before I had anyone I would call a girlfriend. In that period of time the count kept rising, to such a point as where it now stands, that I do not know the exact number of females kissed, but sure I could figure it out with a little time to count on my hands, if only I had four or five more of them.

            Now, I think it would stand to reason that I have struck a definitive point, or perhaps ten, against myself, but continue on, perchance I will sway your opinion on the matter.

            My next attempt at female companionship was farce, to put it mildly. We shared nothing in common, except perhaps a general location. She had been, I must admit, an experiment at giving a girl a chance who I would normally have ruled out in an instant. The experiment failed, and my methodology of picking female companionship remains, as it had before the disaster.

            This failure took place roughly a year ago.

            There followed after this test, a vacuum of love. I did not, for an entire six months, kiss a single female. This period still stands as the longest time I have gone without a kiss since that night on the dingy moth eaten couch seven years ago.

            Six months have now passed since my emergence from my lip-lust hiatus. During such period, I have been kissed by no fewer than three girls, and no more than ten. Only one of which did I initiate, and more than a few, which involved the previously mentioned game of duck and weave.

            I have, of late, been very proud of my ability to avoid kissing everything, which happens to have a set of boobs, that crosses my path.

            While I realize I may have, at times, acted in ways to merit the names of “player,” “man whore,” and yes, even “hussy,” I can say with sincerity, I have tried, in recent months, to only kiss females when it actually means something to me.

            This decision has left my lips lonely, and my heart aching, but it has earned me a standing ovation from many people, female and male alike.

            So what conclusion have I come to? Am I deserving of the names which I have been called, so many times? Or do I maintain my position of innocence?

            I could tell you. But where would the fun be in that? Okay, I shall humor whoever happens to be the one reading this sad tale of my love life. I started writing this essay roughly fourteen minutes ago, and in the time that has passed since then, I have... turned over a new leaf! My paradigm has shifted beyond recognition! I cannot even recognize who I am anymore, for surely I would never admit I was wrong (not only on this matter, but ever). Yes, there have been many periods of time in my life where I fully and truly deserved the names I have been called. But the time for that is past. I hereby decree, that I, Brandon Todd Orgill, vow to never again (this is going to come back to haunt me. I know it...) kiss, or be kissed by (if it is reasonable for me to avoid the kiss) any female to whom I do not feel at least some level of attachment and commitment.

            As result of this, I realize I am following a path I had previously outlined for myself, specifically in an attempt to avoid the calling of names of such a hurtful nature.

            I cannot say what the future will hold, but I can state, in entire honesty, my love for the unattached make out has long since left me feeling hollow, to such a point that the very suggestion actually causes my stomach to gurgle and twist, bringing a most unpleasant sensation of sickness rising to my head instantaneously.

            To those out there who might imagine the life of the eternal, unattached bachelor (or bachelorette) to be something you seek, I say to you, you are insane. You shall find no solace in such companionship. While life, as a result, may be at moments highly interesting and entertaining, and, while the never ending excitement and rush of the moment may stimulate an unspoken desire inside of you, I can promise, in some period of time, be it years from now or only days, you will realize the time you have wasted away. You will turn your life around to seek out something truly worth having, and you will find it more difficult to obtain than mere kisses, by far.

            Thank you for joining me on my adventure. For the sake of my ever expansive ego, I hope this is our sole journey together. I do not believe I could take another and come out standing on the other end. 

Tofa Soifua.

You destroy my eloquence.

Cambodian Orphanage: Smiles All around

I wrote this on my phone two days into my trip to Cambodia...

Man, these kids can smile!

I'm talking glued on, make your face sore kind of smile. They smile while doing the dirty work of preparing bags for mushrooms to grow--one of their only sources of income. They smile while studying and learning. They eagerly raise hands to answer questions. I think I grew out of that phase by age six...
In comparison to what I seemingly have, they have nothing. And yet they smile, they laugh, they dance, and they play. There is no hint or sign that they are missing out on my entertainment or living essentials.

I'm left to think: what am I doing wrong?

For all that I have, I don't think I've shown the amount of genuine, true happiness in a month that these kids live every day.

They have no x-box, no computer games, and almost no prospects for the future.

They have a couple of beat up sports balls for entertainment. I've spent the hours in between my sight seeing, research, and interviews, joining in their play and their work.

You know what? I've spent a lot of time smiling. A ton. My face hurts I've smiled so much. A part of me wants to stay forever and  de-jade-ify myself.

My greatest worry about returning home is letting myself slip back into my normal routine. It never made me smile this much.

I was never this person before. I laughed when people mentioned these types of experiences, dismissing them out of hand.

What was I thinking?

I'm standing in extreme humidity, sweat running down my back, the sun scorching hot, the bottoms of my feet charring on the rough concrete.

A dozen kids, from 4 to 15 stand around me laughing, shouting in heavy accents, ”You monkey! You monkey!”

Ordinarily I think I would've been too tired, too hot. Today though, I growled and smiled. ”Me big monkey. Soon, you monkey!” And I swipe the ball that was thrown inches too low over my head.
An adorable little girl breaks into a fit of giggles. ”Oh no! Me monkey now!”

I tickle her before taking her spot in the circle around her.

At least I'll get a chance to breathe!

Holy Ground

I think those who know me will agree that, despite whatever narcissistic musings and rants I may go on, fundamentally, I’m not a pusher or worshiper of intense, meaningful moments. I'm not prone to looking off into a sunset with glazed eyes whilst pondering the deep, meaningful nature of a butterfly passing by (don't get me wrong, I stare plenty, and I'll hint at epic thoughts, but I’m usually pondering the true nature of the filling inside a Twinkie or some such).

I guess I’m just saying, deep, life-altering experiences have always been in the Bible or stuck in someone else's sentimental log-book.  I've been stuck in the cold, harsh, and often dull reality of a paradigm that's formed, more than anything, out of a need to satisfy my boredom.

I only explain this to preface an experience that will no doubt come across overly-sentimental and almost preachy in nature. That stated: you have been warned!

Before going to Cambodia, Dean Ellis (my kind mentor who recruited me to write the book) mentioned in passing that he believed this would be an experience that would fundamentally change my life and how I view the world, forever. A part of me scoffed at this notion while a part of me skeptically hoped he was right. I suppose it will take a lot more time to see how these experiences settle into the fiber that is me before any real judgment on the matter can be rendered.

At about five o'clock in the evening, standing on a muddy grass embankment, overlooking miles of rich, green rice fields with rain-laden clouds hanging low in the sky, I had the opportunity to listen to a women recount in painful and poignant detail many of her experiences during the Cambodian genocides of the 70's.

While listening to her stories I couldn’t help but be moved, not because the tragedy of it all, but by who she was. Perhaps I’m jaded or simply a negative person, but I find it difficult to be moved to think someone is extraordinary due to having survived difficult circumstances. Hardships find us all at some point—though I won’t pretend most of us ever have to handle anything to the degree she experienced. I don't particularly believe surviving, simply making it through the tough times, makes someone special. To me, it means they held on. Admirable, definitely, but it’s to be hoped that we’d all do that, at the least. What we do after hardships, who we become and what we do as a result of those tough times, say more for a person's character than surviving ever could.

Perhaps my beliefs on such matters are why I was so moved as I listened to the heart-wrenching and tragic stories of this woman's life.

It wasn't the awful stories of countless friends and family members being brutally slaughtered or the hardships of her daily life... Those are sad stories, tragic stories, but this woman was so much more than someone to pity or to praise for simply hanging on.

As she looked across the fields, which by some have been labeled 'the killing fields,' the first and only tear during the telling of her story appeared while she recounted the last time she saw her father before he died.

Something about seeing another person’s emotions has a way of boiling my own to the surface. At that moment I think I began to understand why this woman became who she is today and why I admire her.

Many people survived the atrocities that took place in Cambodia during the 70's, but she grew and became something so much more as a person because of them.

This woman now runs an orphanage which is much more than the name implies. Using her own meager means, she struggles and scrapes by, trying to provide chances for dozens of kids and adult workers who would otherwise be stuck in lives of abject poverty with no hope of escaping.

It’s an absolute miracle that she’s been able to make this place work. She told me dozens of stories about when the money just wasn't there to pay for so many people to eat, to pay the rent on the building, and yet she persevered and struggled, set up internship opportunities so the kids could get an education, learn English, and prepare for college. The list of things this woman has done, and the challenges she went through to accomplish them, are astounding.

I have heard very few stories of people who have struggled so much for so long to obtain something for someone else. She has dedicated her life, not to her personal gain—she could have long since been rich if she kept her money for herself—but to the gains and potential gains of others. It’s not like she’s some rich philanthropist, tossing pocket change at a problem that touched her heart strings. She’s a bad month from living in the gutter. This is who she is. She gives everything she has, not just what’s convenient.

I am in awe.

Perhaps something inside me will never be the same. I hope so.

As she stared across the fields, finishing her story, Dean solemnly bowed his head and said, “This place, this is holy ground.”

I stopped and pondered what he said, trying to decide how to process the statement.

I’ve heard such things said before about areas where people have died, where atrocities have occurred. Such statements have never sat well with me. Perhaps the place is holy, but not because the evils which took place there, not because of the lives lost. I don’t believe a graveyard is inherently holy. No, if this is holy ground it is but because the type of person those experiences forged.

It took me a while to decide if I was okay with his statement. I thought and pondered. I stared meaningfully off into a dying sunset in a foreign land, surrounded by the squalor of third-world conditions.

The air felt as alive as the greenery that dotted the landscape. Several people stood nearby, tears in their eyes. They’d all been in the camp. They’d all experienced a living hell I can barely imagine but which I now have to attempt to capture in my own, meager and lacking words. It did not take long to see that each of these people is incredible in so many ways. They lacked selfishness and so many of the concerns so common in my everyday life.

I have no doubts.

Is this a holy place? Yes… I’m inclined to agree.