HappyPlatypus's Journal

Back in the day, when I still a healthy, skinny, sexy young pup of only 20 or so, when I wore crushed velvet and vinyl outfits and hair that fell halfway down my back (even when it wasn't drunk), I spent about half my time contemplating what I thought were particularly tragic and heartwrenchingly romantic forms of suicide.

And before you ask, it wasn't a reaction to my wardrobe. I LIKED my wardrobe. I looked GOOD in my wardrobe. I just had issues.

The rest of my time was spent chasing, and occasionally catching (and promptly not knowing what to do with), girls. Hey, I was in college. Are you telling me there was anything else to do?

Well, I guess there was pizza. Can't forget pizza. So that was pretty much my life, as a flamboyant young goth. Sex, death and pizza. My answers to everything. No wonder my professors grew so distraught at my solutions to word problems.

Professor: Suicide Makes Sense!

At the time, I even interviewed a professor at Syracuse University who was creating controversy -- this was along about 1991 -- for publishing a paper that argued that suicide is a -- and here I quote, "logical" process. I was writing an article about the controversy, but in reality, I wanted to hear his thoughts, to see if I could use them to rationalize my longing to end my own life.

I bring all this up not because I'm particularly suicidal now -- although I am bipolar and I struggle with suicidal tendencies -- but because of a post someone made recently about heat-induced mood swings related to M.S. Her post made me laugh in empathy, because I've been ALL ABOUT the mood swings lately, to the point that my beautiful bride recently asked if 39-year-old men could go through The Change.

At the time, that went over like a lead balloon, but I find it rather funny now. Of course, at the time, it was 6 BILLION degrees outside, and something red, with horns, a tail and a pitchfork had just sauntered past my window. But then a day later, it was 56 WONDERFUL DEGREES here in beautiful Northwest Missouri. It made me want to go happily streaking, waking the neighbors to the fact that I've lost 17 pounds.

No Streaking for Todd!

I'm sure you'll be proud of me to know I restrained myself. Joyful though I may have been last week, there was no streaking for Big Daddy. To mis-paraphrase DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, Police Just Don't Understand.

Actually, most people don't understand. I've always been a bit weird. Even now, 400 years after I first uttered the words, family reunions still guffaw at the time I proudly announced as a 3-year-old that I wanted to be a dinosaur when I grew up.

But they shake their heads at  that other story, the one that got back to my parents from elementary school, when the teachers asked us what our goals were and what we wanted to accomplish. While Bobby, Susie and Jimmy wanted to be police officers, presidents and executives, I wanted to streak all 50 states.

Directing Energy

The past couple days have been interesting and depressing and intriguing, all rolled up into one eviscerating ball of knives.

For example, we're having financial problems because my of my beautiful bride's work-related injury. She was off work for a long time and disability paid little. And now she's getting only about 1/4 of the hours she used to, and we're embroiled in a suit against the employer to get adequate compensation. It's all a bit stressful.

And she hates living here and wants to move back to live with her family, and her family wants to take her back, and that may happen once the issue is settled with her employer. Which paints a bleak picture for the relationship.

Meanwhile, I'm trying desperately to find part-time work nigths and weekends to make up for what we're losing.

Today, I learned that my dad has late-stage pancreatic cancer. My mom has taken the phone off the hook -- something she's NEVER done, so I can only assume it's BAD. BAD. news.

And I'm watching the national news and seeing our Idiot-in-Chief spouting off about a cop he's never met who arrested a jerk who mouthed off to him. And all I can think of is, who cares? My dad is dying, and the stupid president is making a big deal out of two guys arguing? At the same time Congress is debating a health care bill that would promote government assisted suicide for elderly folks like my dad, because apparently the Idiot-in-Chief doesn't value people my dad's age.

Let's redirect some energy into maturity and humanity, gentlemen.

Wasting Time

Eighteen months ago, a crazy man tried to run me off the road. Unfortunately, he was a crazy man who also worked for the government, and he filed a false report that ultimately resulted in me having to attend anger management classes. Stupid @&$&@^@*$&@*#^ jerk.

:)

Leave it to me to get hit on by a hottie who was in the same class -- WITH HER ABUSIVE BOYFRIEND, by the way -- so that the boyfriend got jealous and tried to start a fight. In anger freaking management class! I'm just lucky it got broken up.

The heck with the beaver. Leave it to me!

But I digress.

But right now, as my beautiful bride sleeps for the first time in three days because of her work-related back injury and as my father faces a medical death sentence, I'm questioning priorities. Mine, certainly. Our president? Absosmurfly. The world in general? Ding, ding, ding!

We all have so little time. And we waste so much of it screaming at cops or getting involved in road rage or indulging in silly gothic suicide fantasies. I still have the controversial reference manual, Final Exit, on my bookshelf behind me. I bought it back in 1991, about the time I interviewed the professor who argued suicide makes sense. On the shelf next to it is a fantastic study of suicide by A. Alvarez called "The Savage God." I recommend it highly.

But not its subject.

In Death, Life

They say opposites attract. But now, at 39, I'm so surrounded by the realities of mortality, I've never wanted to fight death more. Sure, I'm depressed, and some days I just. don't. want. to. move. But I don't want to give in. I don't want to die.

And I don't want to waste time I could be spending in love and laughter anymore in hate and anger. i don't want to listen to the Idiot-in-Chief or his defenders. I don't want to listen to his attackers. I just want to pet my dogs and my cats and make my loved ones happy.

For as long as we all shall live.

And for the record? If for no other reason, I have one more goal to live for. I still have Hawaii and Alaska to go to streak all 50 states.