This blog has nothing necessarily to do with the Maenads. Maenads were Dionysus' hand maidens I suppose. And, after a bout of carousing they tended to get a little hungry. Consequently, maenads might have torn the head off a bunny and eaten it raw. Humans, other creatures, and even those horrible, little, dried fish sold in large containers in Chinatown, would have been devoured in large numbers during these celebrations. Okay, look, those little fish were probably off limits to them as well. (Those fish snacks taste like they have run over by a truck and left out to dry.) Their half-life in your system is like two months.
Anyway, yeah, I know, if you read this you might wonder, well, how is the goofy guy doing today. Is he miserable yet again? No, I am quite well as it turns out.
First, my aunt is delightful, as is my cousin, Julie. Seeing them made me happy, fulfilled, and ready-to-move-forward with life.
Second (because I know second comes after first) Hyperbole and a Half author Allie, who also suffers from depression, posted one of her enlightening blogs after a long hiatus while she dealt with the D-ogre. She so gets it, and believe me, that is an unfortunate thing. Depression unfortunately is a little like being an alcoholic--the D-bug sits inside your mind and awaits one to let down their guard. It is going to pop up now and again. One is never free from the specter of misery. Ah well, no matter.
Third, yeah, I am still paying attention, thirdly...I am dealing with disappointments without breaking down and falling, yes, falling, one-third of a mile down the canyon of despair. You know, I am alive. I did not run off for the Golden Gate Bridge for a little spring plunge. I was needy, and I got a response from someone who probably was more needy than I. The response was appropriate, reassuring, and just a bit maddening. In the meantime though, I have developed other friends who can listen. I rediscovered the magic of my marvelous aunt, met wonderful Julie, and I still have some wonderful FB friends who listen. I thank those friends: Maureen, Shelley, two Jackies, Lori, Nurin again, oh, not to forget Rhonda, and if I forgot anyone for their kindness to me, well, the one friend is left off for her benefit, and the others are oversights. Oh yeah, my wife is incredibly patient. Mea culpa for something.
I got a lot of stories what family life would have been with a parent that would have left me far more wounded than I am now. What's that--fourth? Yeah, so fourth. I was reminded my good fortune because, having spoken so much about my family during my aunt's visit, that I avoided most of the violent beatings dealt out by my father. (I remember only one, and vividly--the damage to this four-year-old came complete with welts from his belt.)
I was always so uncomfortable around my father--scared. It didn't matter what the situation--time at the dinner table came with instructions for my silence, and a story of the Tower of Babel--that somehow related to being a four or five year old and wanting to speak. One meeting between my father and I, after high school, came with his admission that if he had ever had another boy later, that he wanted to name him Frank, since he didn't see me, and, because apparently he needed someone to carry on his name. Imagine that. I hadn't seen him in six years I suppose, and that was my howdy-you-do.
Unfortunately, my mother did her part in providing mental abuse, some physical abuse, and virtual abandonment.
What I saw in my Aunt Mary was a person who loved children and people. She was safe haven. She still is. I could have handled having a really great Mom. Maybe next life.
Finally, and fifth (of fifthly) we visited the open studio showing and art sale of fantastic artist Nancie Crowley. Nancie Crowley (nee Campbell) graduated Hoover in 1958. This was also my Aunt Mary's graduation year at Hoover. Of course, we walked into the studio without knowing the world shrunk to so darn small. Ms, Crowley welcomed us warmly, and told us some of the methods of her artwork.
So this is what and how I am. I know sixthly does not necessarily follow finally--but it just seemed like I had a little more to write. So, sixthly I am done now.
You know, nothing excites me more than learning a little more about how humans interact.
Post-finally, or seventh, or point seven, life involves suffering. You want easy, become a blender. Very few folks get attached to a blender, and very few blenders (under six percent) become obsessive about humans on Facebook. I do suggest that a blender Sophia Loren met online showed up on her doorstep in Naples a couple of years ago.
Hope you all are well.
Frank C.
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