Sam's Tale

This is Sam.

There were several animal shelters in the area, but I wanted to avoid anything associated with the town. I guess I figured that any dog from College Station would treat me the same way as all the people did, namely by completely ignoring me.

I decided to get a dog as a last ditch effort to save myself from myself. I was at point in life where I had just about given up. Not that I would ever kill myself, but I seemed to accept the idea of crawling into a hole and dying. All I did was go to work at a soul crushing job as a lab tech, come home and binge and purge for hours on end to deal with my misery, then fall asleep on the floor feeling worse than when I woke up. So in truth, I was killing myself; I was just taking the slow and painful route rather than a more direct method. I had difficulty finding a point to it all, and I just couldn’t find purpose in myself. I must have had some residual will to live, because I knew that I had to find a reason to get up in the morning or else one day soon would be my last.

I turned to the external for help. I needed someone who needed me. But what value could I be to anyone, and who the hell would have the patience to put up with me? I quickly realized that I couldn’t turn to a person for help and soon found myself searching the internet for a dog. Having a dog would bring purpose to my life. I would have to be there to take care of him, and at last someone would actually need me to stick around.

Like I said, there was no way that I was getting a dog from this town, so my search radius was anything within a hundred miles. If I had to drive 2 hours to get a dog then that’s what I would do. One animal shelter in Coldspring, Texas kept popping up on Petfinder.com, and it seemed to have a lot of dogs that were around the size and kind that I was looking for; about 25 pounds, he had to be a ‘he,’ and he had to be a mutt.

For some odd reason, all of the dogs were listed under breed as “corgi-mix,” even though most of them were clearly not part corgi. If a dog comes up past your knees it isn’t part corgi. Regardless, I looked through them all until I came across one with the unimaginative name of “Blackie.” Obviously, he was black, but he was also the exact size I was looking for and was described as “affectionate” and “house-trained.” It sounded like a winning combination to me, so I called up Coldspring Animal Rescue and asked if Blackie was still available for adoption. With the single word of “yes” I immediately felt a sense of relief. I was certain that I would soon have a loving companion.

Later that same day I went to Petsmart and bought everything that I would need to give Blackie a home. Two hours later and minus $300, I was back in my apartment putting together a kennel and checking that the stuffed squirrel, raccoon, duck, and quail toys all squeaked properly.

The next morning, I made the drive from College Station to Coldspring. Ninety miles of backwoods road across nothing, I had to constantly check my speed. Texas State Troopers have a field day on these types of roads, and they would stop you for just making a lane change without using your signal. I eventually made it to the small town and wound my down a narrow dirt road, hesitantly following the directions I was given. It seemed like an odd place to find an animal shelter, until I made it around the final curve and the place came into view. To call it a shelter was an understatement; it was more like a nature preserve for dogs! There were several, huge fenced-off sections that held between 15 and 20 dogs each, and in the middle of it all was mobilehome up on cinder blocks. As I pulled up, a cacophony of barks, whines, whimpers, and yelps went off, and immediately a grey haired woman emerged from the mobilehome.

I introduced myself, slightly yelling over the noise, and she led me to the area that held Blackie. When I got up to the gate, I was assaulted by a swarm of hyperactive mutts that were determined to lick my face off even if it meant somehow learning to fly. I had a hard time making out one dog from the next, but I clearly didn’t see any black dogs.

“Where’s Blackie?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s over there in the corner doing his own thing.”

Sure enough, sitting apart from the rest of the pack was a medium size black dog, tenaciously gnawing on a bone.

“Hey there guy,” I said in high pitch voice that I use when speaking to animals and small children.

Blackie paused his chewing for a moment, stood up, turned around, and plopped back down again, returning to more important matters.

Rejected. Even from a dog that I just met, it sort of hurt.

“He’s been here so long that he’s kind of gotten used to being here,” the caretaker explained. “Why don’t I show you some of the other dogs?”

Okay, sure, but if that’s the kind of dog that you consider “affectionate” I don’t want to know what you consider “mildly independent.”

At any rate, she introduced me to a couple of other dogs, and they all seemed nice enough. But they just weren’t what I was looking for.

“This is Lady, she’d make a great ‘inside dog’.”

“Yeah, but I kind of wanted a male dog.” (Nothing against females, I just prefer the male temperament, at least in canines. For people, it’s a whole other matter.)

“Oh, here we go. How about Scout? Isn’t he perfect?”

Uh, is he part horse? “He seems a little big for an apartment.” About a hundred pounds too big.

“Chichi?”

No chihuahuas. I want a dog not an overgrown rat.

“Jerry?”

As in geriatric? I mean, I know that old dogs need love too, but I kind of wanted one that would be around for a while.

Thoroughly dejected, I resigned myself to a lonely drive back home.

“Wait, I almost forgot,” the caretaker called me back. “We do have one more, but we have to keep him away from the other dogs. He’s incredibly timid, and he has a tendency to get a little panicky. Wait here, and I’ll see if I can get him to come out.”

Okay, what’s another couple of minutes?

She went around to the side of the mobilehome, and I heard her unlatch a gate. She let out a short “Oh my!” and a black blur sped towards me, kicking up dust like some sort of cartoon. Almost instinctively, I knelt down to catch him, but I didn’t even have to try because he ran right into my arms and began licking my face.

The caretaker caught up to us with a look of absolute shock on her face. “He’s never, and I mean never, done that before. He doesn’t even like it when people approach him.”

I had tears in my eyes, so I kept my head down when I replied, “I think he just picked me.”

At this point he was holding me as much as I was holding him. “What’s his name?” I asked.

“Sam. His name is Sam,” the caretaker answered.

“Let’s go home Sam.”

---------------

For as much as I like to think that I rescued Sam from an unhappy life at a shelter, I know that he has done far more to save me. Although he had some initial difficulties getting over his fear of everything (he was literally afraid of his shadow, and wouldn’t walk with the light behind him at night), Sam has been by side for the past 7 years. We’ve done everything together, and now with the addition of my other dog Jack (and two gerbils), we are a family. Maybe that’s an odd way of putting it, but it suites me just fine. Sam seems to agree.

Stating the Obvious

Being a mother is taking an enormous gamble. By a roll of the genetic dice and factors outside anyone’s control, a child could grow up to be a perfectly well adjusted adult or a manic-depressive weirdo who never leaves the basement. Some mothers are disinterested at best and abusive at worst, but for the most part, mom’s try their hardest to raise their children in compassionate and loving manner. Again, these efforts sometimes are not enough to overcome the inertia of happenstance, and a young child becomes an adult who promptly falls flat on his face.

Inevitably, good mothers at least in part blame themselves when their children fail to succeed in life. “If I hadn’t yelled at him when he nearly burned down the garage playing with gasoline...” Or “If I hadn’t told her that her choice in boys was terrifying...” Mothers can always think of a million things that they did wrong, all those little mistakes that compounded over time, but the real mistake is in assuming ultimate responsibility for the lives of their children. Mothers can only do so much, and most of the time they give a superhuman effort that is above and beyond the call of duty.

My own mother has had to endure an incredible hardship that tests the limits of endurance and personal fortitude, namely, dealing with me a son. I have put her through the same hell that I’ve suffered through, dragged her down like I was some frantic drowning victim clutching at his rescuer. She has taken it all as “part of the job” of being a mother, but most people would quit any job that was half as bad as what she’s put up with.

How do properly thank someone for saving your life time and time again? In my darkest times, the fear of hurting my mom even more than I already have has kept me going. She has supported my every effort, never pushing me one way or the other, always ready to take on the extra burdens that I thoughtlessly place on her. And all the while, she is the one who apologizes. Here I am dumping a world of misery on her doorstep, and she is the one who says “I’m sorry.” I don’t want to accept an apology that wasn’t warranted in the first place; I want her to realize that none of my problems are her fault. In fact, it’s just the opposite; nearly all of my good qualities, however few they may be, are thanks to my mother’s efforts.

I can’t fully comprehend all that she has sacrificed raising two boys, but the fact that she has done so willingly is nothing short of miraculous. Perhaps it is a cliche to say that “mother” and “martyr” are practically synonymous to me, but it is worth stating the obvious. Of course, there isn’t one instance that I can recall when my mom helped me. That’s because she has supported me continuously for my entire life. She has never not been there, and I know that I can rely on her always.

Despite my best efforts, words fail to deliver the adequate thanks, respect, and love that my mom deserves. So, for lack of a better phrase, I am going to replace “Happy Mother’s Day” with “Love you always, mom, and thanks for sticking around and putting up with all my crap.” That sounds more like me anyway.

Why the Increase in Suicide Rates? Looking Beyond the Numbers.

Suicide is a difficult subject to talk about because of the discomfort and unease it evokes in people. So many negative connotations surround the issue that it has become somewhat of a taboo to discuss it in public. Those that do speak out, often do so too late, after a tragedy has befallen someone they love or were close to. But suicide is a matter of public health and needs to be confronted as such.

A recent report from the CDC (link to the report) states that suicide rates among U.S. adults between the ages of 34 and 64 have increased nearly 30% between 1999 and 2010. This translates into about 38,000 suicide deaths a year, a number that now surpasses the number of people killed in traffic accidents annually. As the report mentions, these numbers are more than likely an underestimate because many suicide deaths are reported as due to some other cause. In addition, these numbers do not take into account the number of suicide attempts that occur each year. By some estimates, for every “successful” suicide there are between 10 and 20 “unsuccessful” attempts, and even this is simply a best guess determination.

There has been relatively more attention payed to suicides in the military, but coverage is still inadequate. In 2012, military suicides outnumbered combat deaths (link to NPR article), and it is estimated that one U.S. veteran kills him or herself every 65 minutes. Undoubtedly, the horrors of combat contribute to these alarming statistics, but most of these deaths occur after the soldiers return from fighting. This seems to indicate that there is inadequate mental health care for the troops, and without proper treatment, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and other psychological disturbances push some veterans over the edge.

Military suicides are sometimes dismissed as an unfortunate consequence of our prolonged “war on terror,” and as previously stated, there is some validity in this statement. But what then accounts for the surge in the number of suicides among civilians? There has to be some larger societal cause for the increase, but it seems as if very few attempts have been made to identify this cause. In an editorial that followed the CDC’s report, the authors state the following:

Possible contributing factors for the rise in suicide rates among middle-aged adults include the recent economic downturn (historically, suicide rates tend to correlate with business cycles, with higher rates observed during times of economic hardship); a cohort effect, based on evidence that the "baby boomer" generation had unusually high suicide rates during their adolescent years; and a rise in intentional overdoses associated with the increase in availability of prescription opioids. Additional research is needed to understand the cause of the increase in age-adjusted suicide rates and why the extent of the increase varies across racial/ethnic populations.

In essence, they attribute the rise in suicide rates to the poor economy, the indication that “baby boomers” are just more prone to commit suicide, and increased drug use. As to the racial and ethnic variations, suicide rates increased across all groups, but was greatest among Native Americans and Whites (+65.2% and +40.4%, respectively). Irrespective of these variations, the causes listed by the CDC offer an unsatisfactory explanation as to why suicide rates have shot up over the past decade. Yes, the economy has impacted the lives of millions of Americans, and there is a documented, statistical correlation between economic depression and suicide deaths (abstract of journal article, another journal article with a more global perspective). However, the increase began well before the most recent downturn, and rates have continued to go up even as the economy improves. In addition, the U.S. has a higher suicide rate than many European countries that suffered a far greater and more sustained economic downturn. It therefore seems unlikely that economics are the majority factor in suicide deaths. The so called “cohort effect” isn’t really an explanation at all. Stating that “baby-boomers” are more likely to kill themselves because their generation had higher rates of suicide in adolescence is circular reasoning. Finally, while there is definitely greater access to potentially fatal drugs, suicidal individuals generally resort to the most accessible means to end their life. Take away the prescription pills, and they will turn to Tylenol (yes, you can kill yourself with Tylenol, but don't get any ideas), or guns, or whatever. Someone set on killing him or herself will find a way, so again, increased drug usage doesn’t fully explain the uptick.

Of course, the justification that a person uses to take their own life will vary among individuals, and there is almost always an underlying mental disorder that contributes to the sense of terminal hopelessness that precedes suicide. A certain subset of the population may have a psychological predisposition to interpret negative life events as more onerous, but people with such an inclination do not universally commit suicide. From an evolutionary perspective, any genetic factors that contribute to suicidality would tend to be self-limiting, assuming that the person kills him or herself before having children. Even when a suicidal person does have children, there is no guarantee that his or her children will have the same tendency. While there is a correlation between a parent committing suicide and an increased likelihood that their children will also kill themselves (article describing linkage), it is arguable that this risk factor is purely experientially based, i.e. not hereditary.  

So we are back to external factors. What has changed in the last decade or so that would lead to increased suicide rates? Perhaps, the more appropriate question is “what hasn’t changed?” I believe that rise in suicide deaths is attributable to societal changes that have negatively impacted the individual’s sense of belonging and overall contentment with life. This is not a novel supposition by any stretch. In 1897, Emile Durkheim used the word “anomie” to describe the breakdown of social norms and the disconnect between personal beliefs and societal expectations and standards. Alienation, either real or perceived, can give rise to helplessness and hopelessness, and lead the abandoned soul down dark roads. Modern society is set up in such a way to simultaneously crush individuality and isolate the individual; it tells a person to conform with the masses and cut the ties to those closest to them. Societal expectations are unachievable in that they literally cannot be achieved; one can never be rich enough, or successful enough, or powerful enough, or own enough stuff. The inevitable failure to attain the absolute in everything leads to a sense of failure and rejection.

Some blame can be placed on mankind’s own creations. Technological advancements have led to incredible societal changes and vice versa. The explosion in cell-phone use, high speed internet access, texting, tweeting, and other social media has giving rise to an always on, hyperconnected world. We can be bludgeoned by information and overwhelmed with news (typically bad) to the point of emotional disturbance. At the same time, people can have a thousand or more “friends,” and at the same time have no one to talk to face to face.

Along those same lines, erosion or personal relationships and group belonging has cast many people into a sea of despair. While I do not lament the general shift away from religion, I must give credit to the more traditional religious institutions’ almost unparalleled ability to provide a sense of belonging and cohesiveness.  Modern religion is superficial and self-serving, providing temporary reprieve from the outside world, but not fostering and real personal development. Humanist and other secular groups have had difficulty establishing themselves as credible alternatives. As a result atheists and agnostics may encounter profound isolation even though more people reject religious beliefs everyday.

It seems that a person can be beholden to everyone yet cared for by no one. We are expected to be everywhere at once, to excel at work while cherishing the family, to absorb everything that is thrown at us, to not complain, and to never show any sign of weakness. And so we silently break inside. Some manage to hold the pieces together, but an increasing number of people crumble to the ground. Their broken selves are viewed as worthless in their own eyes, and then what is the point, really? In some terrible sense they are right to think in such a way; there is no clear-cut and easy solution to society’s ills. But to simply give up when one has the ability to at least attempt to transform his or her immediate situation? This is shortsighted and selfish. If a person stops and honestly thinks, they will most often find that they don’t want to kill themselves, but instead only want to end their current life situation. Not finality but change. This is what needs to be promoted: that each person has the ability to alter their own life in some way, no matter how seemingly minuscule, and even if it is simply by reframing their way of thinking. Seeking help is change in itself, and should be lauded not looked down upon. If life seems like a fight, then consider it a challenge where winning takes the form of persevering through each daily struggle; to endure is to succeed. These messages may be lost in the constant noise of our lives, but the more we address the issues that are causing suicide rates to increase the greater chance that they will be heard.

Into the Void

There is a term used in psychiatry called anhedonia, and it refers to being unable to experience pleasure in normally enjoyable activities. It can be associated with depression and other mood disorders, but I would go so far as placing it in its own category of mental disorder. The reason I would separate it out is that anhedonia seems to supplant other emotional or psychological states and becomes the predominant setting for the individual suffering from it. But suffering is not exactly the right word, because from the anhedonic person’s perspective, they really aren’t feeling anything. There is an emotional void that is vaguely disturbing, but general indifference to life renders the person incapable of really caring. In describing anhedonia, I am reminded of an episode of “The Simpsons” where Homer is about to tell Bart and Lisa that he needs triple-bypass heart surgery.

Bart: "Nothing you say can upset us. We're the MTV generation."

Lisa: "We feel neither highs or lows."

Homer: "Really? What's it like?"

Lisa: (shrugging her shoulders) "Meh."

“Meh” pretty much sums up the anhedonic state of being. The reason why I bring this all up is that for the past couple of weeks I have been stuck in an emotional no-man’s-land. As you may have noticed however, I have been writing some fairly bleak entries that give the appearance that I am quite miserable. Strangely, I am not miserable. In fact I have been writing with such detachment that I almost don’t know what it is I am trying to convey. I don’t seem to care about anything, and I am simply going through the motions of living. I do keep a routine: working out, going to work, walking the dogs, etc. But all of this is done on autopilot, and the work that I have been able to accomplish is minimal enough to be essentially nonexistent. Again, I don’t feel the motivation to do anything, and at the same time I don’t exactly not want to do anything either. Outside factors are dragging me along, and I am willing to accept this because the alternative is to remain complete indolent.

I am aware that this is no way to live, but no alarm bells are ringing in my head warning me of the danger. Instead, I am relying on rational thought to force myself into action, which, in itself is ironic given that the underlying issue is an emotional deficit. However, humans are driven by emotional imperatives. Whether it is fear or love or hate, emotions compel us into action, and without them life is literally meaningless. So my dilemma is finding a way to regain a sense of conviction and motive while I am mired in this emotional dead-zone.

The psychologist’s approach would be to try to identify the causative agent or agents that first put in this anhedonic crisis. After a moment of self-reflection I believe that I have done just that. It seems to me that what made me stop caring about anything was a confluence of negative events that reinforced the notion that everything can be lost, therefore it is best not to care.

First it was the temporary loss of my health insurance and a paycheck due to an administrative screw-up that took 3 months to fix. Then it was the car accident that destroyed my brand new car. Now so far, these are just material losses; ultimately, they are of little consequence, disconcerting, but superficial. So the truly precipitating event to my loss of emotions has to be much more substantive, and I am almost certain of its identity. Not surprisingly it has to do with an interpersonal relationship or, more accurately, the lack thereof.

I have hinted at in a previous post that I have never been in a meaningful relationship with anyone. Admittedly, this is entirely due to my own personal problems that have driven a wedge between me and most “normal” people. In addition, I gave up trying after one failed attempt at starting such a relationship, so the onus as to why I am alone is on me. But, being a human, and more pertinently, a male human, I occasionally find myself attracted to certain women. Generally, I do not act on such feelings, but a couple of years ago my defenses were broken by someone who I thought was like me. She told me things about herself that sounded so similar to my own fractured life that I couldn’t help but think that maybe I had found someone who could understand me. I didn’t know that she was really just holding up a metaphorical mirror so that I saw part of myself in her, and all the while she was playing a sick game with me. She craved the attention that I poured on her, but she kept me at such a distance that there was no relationship beyond me trying to get closer to her. That isn’t a relationship; it’s manipulation. I eventually woke up and realized that there was something wrong, and I asked her flat out if there could ever be anything between us. She lied to my face, and I knew it. When I stopped giving her the same amount of attention as before she dropped me like a used up gift card. Later I learned that almost everything she had told me about herself was fiction, created to string me along, and this hurt me so deeply that I shut down inside. Why care about anything or anyone when the concern may be misplaced or built on a lie and there was always the chance for loss?

My experiences affected my psyche more than I was consciously aware of, and as a result, I slowly and stealthily suppressed the emotional circuits of my mind. And here I am today, in a void and without any sense of meaning or purpose. Now it is truly pathetic that I could be so decimated by something that never really existed, but keep in mind that all of this occurred to a person with underlying mental issues. True, a more balanced person would be momentarily hurt and then move on, but in someone with chaotic swings between utter despair and modest unhappiness, these insults become super-destructive. Eventually, the person’s mental state becomes removed from the cause, and it becomes an entity unto itself. This is no longer about what happened to me; this is simply where I find myself now. I don’t know if I can go as far as to say that I am permanently broken, but currently I see no fix in sight. At this point I would welcome feeling misery; at least I’d be feeling something.