Getting Dragged Right Back In

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” ~ Michael Corleone, resident grouch

Despite my general disregard for The Godfather movies (I know, I’m a heathen), that line seems entirely appropriate to start things off. That, and my other way of starting off would have involved deeply philosophical questions like “are we all just figments of the imagination of a writer working at a computer?” Which I’ve worked in anyway.

I can relate to Michael in one way. Aside from that whole making a living preying off the weaknesses of weak people thing, thinking himself above the law, believing that everyone should either fear him or respect him... I could go on, but this is not a diatribe about why I don’t like gangster films.

It’s that feeling of getting pulled back in.

I live with depression.

It’s something that I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. As mental illnesses go, if you have to have one,  this you can live with. I can’t imagine what schizophrenia would be like to have to experience personally.

It goes back years... it lingered beneath the surface for years on end. And some years ago it all came crashing down on me, thanks to what we’ll refer to as a trigger event.

I grew up the second youngest of seven siblings in what was a good home, for the most part. Except for two members of the family. My two sisters, both of whom were elder siblings.

It’s only been in retrospect that I’ve been able to understand things about what was going on. Not only the sort of issues that were fueling their personalities, but also mistakes that I was making at the time, and the impact that their words were having on me.

Through therapy, I’ve come to understand a lot. Their behaviour towards me constituted emotional abuse. And my response to it was to internalize everything, to keep things to myself. Ultimately the wrong course of action.

Even before I understood the word itself as a child, I understood how it felt: contempt. My therapist asked once, “did you ever feel loved, valued, by them?” And the answer was no. I never once felt that they loved me, or that I was valued, or that they ever had any interest in my life. Instead, contempt was the feeling I always got from both of them where I was concerned. That happened in different ways, just as their words were different. I expressed this by describing in a visual way what their words were like. The elder sister’s words were like a dagger, stabbing deep- and she could be very two faced in doing that. The second sister’s words, by contrast, were a sledgehammer, smashing hard.

They made some really lousy decisions over the years. A lot of that started from their own beneath the surface issues (oddly, through therapy, it’s possible I understand them better than they understand themselves). For the elder sister, it started with marrying young, to a guy from a troubled family of drunks. That husband was physically abusive. When she finally broke away from that- instead of getting the therapy she would have greatly benefitted from- she started a seemingly endless pattern of bad relationships. Drunks, degenerates, drug users, just plain jerks. They were all variations on the same theme: losers and creeps. That finally ended when her second husband entered the picture. To his credit, he’s always struck me as a stand up kind of guy.

The younger sister met and got involved with another take on entirely the wrong guy. You’ve probably heard me mention the idiot ex-brother-in-law from time to time here or there. Well, this is the guy. His name is Mike. Cro-Magnon Mike, as I’d prefer to think of him. A drunkard, a racist bigot, a jerk, and the sort of guy who’s not that bright. Unfortunately he goes through life thinking he’s smart and that he’s right about everything. He gets into arguments with pretty much everyone, won’t let go of an issue, and gets fired routinely from jobs because he starts arguments. And it’s always someone else’s fault in his mind. Never his own.

Mike and I didn’t get along, let’s just say- in fact, the last time I ever saw him was after my sister had separated from him. He’d come up with her and their son to see my parents when I was visiting too. The three or four days was an ordeal of putting up with this blowhard bigot going on and on about whatever he thought he was right about, driving up the tension in the house. The morning they left, he took me aside, started off by saying, “Now I don’t mean to degrade you...” and then went into a long life lessons diatribe with the subtext “I still think you’re a spoiled brat.” I, meanwhile, was picturing in my mind throwing him head first off the balcony just so he could break his bloody neck, while also mentally restraining myself from doing just that with the reminder: the bastard isn’t worth the jail time.

So there I was, for years on end, being civil and playing nice with a string of guys who, let’s face it, were complete assholes. And why? Because those two sisters would hold grudges forever (and in fact do), and upsetting them was not, according to my line of thought, an option. Because I’d foolishly convinced myself that keeping peace in the family meant not saying what I was thinking. So instead of telling off a drunk or a bigot, I kept all of that negative stuff to myself. And what did that do? It festered inside, bottled up, and just ate away at me.

I blame myself for that. Telling myself that keeping the peace in the family was more important than my own well being cost me. I knew I was hurting, I knew that it was just getting worse, but I kept it to myself. My parents didn’t know I was hurting- I’d become that good at keeping my feelings to myself. It’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. Because doing that did me nothing but harm. I wish I could go back in time, talk to my thirteen year old self, and tell myself where that path led. But I can’t.

And in the end, that was all for nothing. Those sisters did something horrible- they treated my parents abominably, took over their final move to a retirement home, and yelled and screamed at them. Just made them both feel awful. And they never apologized for it. My mother went to her grave with this schism between her children.

That was the breaking point for me. Everything I’d kept to myself came apart. It was like an avalanche, all smothering and absolute. I was left at the lowest point in my life, broken into pieces, and deep into depression.

I’d come completely apart, felt weak and shredded... I’d sacrificed my emotional health and mental well being for two people who threw it all in my face.

I needed help. I got that through therapy. At first sessions were more frequent, and I still attend them, just not as much as in the beginning. Counselling helped me identify root causes, not just for myself, but them. It’s helped me to pull myself out of that very dark place I was in- and if I have any one thing that frightens me, it’s the idea of ever going back to that low point in my life. I’ve learned a lot through the process. I’ve learned how to push back against depression, techniques and ideas to get through bad days. I’ve talked a lot, and come to decisions and resolutions.

You don’t have to put up with toxic people in your life- especially when they bring you nothing but hurt and never change. That’s the case with them. They’ve caused nothing but pain, and they will never, ever change. I decided that my emotional health had to come first. I decided that I was done with them, that they are, ultimately, no longer my family.

I was doing fine for awhile. I had my rough days, but I could recognize them for what they were, push back against that proverbial black wall, and lift myself out of it. I thought I was getting beyond it all. And then it came back and slammed into me recently, in the form of a dream.

Some elements of it stand out vividly to me. I was out in nature, gazing out at a mountain, feeling entirely at peace... and then it all came to a crashing halt, hearing the younger sister’s voice behind me. I strongly remember the sensation of rolling my eyes and turning around to see her. After that, she did most of the talking, and the other vivid part of the dream that stands out is how it ended. I was breaking down, begging her in a quiet, strained voice to leave me alone.

I woke up feeling like I’d been hit hard. I felt weak, broken inside again, and as if I’d been dragged back into the worst of it. And that feeling stayed with me and persisted. It was pulling me down into the darkness. I felt adrift and helpless, yanked into the depression. It’s a hard thing to put on a smile with people while inside, you’re screaming, it feels like the darkness is collapsing in on you, and all you want to do is go curl up beneath the covers and shut the world out. That's how it felt for me during that rough spell.

When the depression has been bad and I’ve thought of them, some of the things that have gone through my mind have been quite bleak. I’ve felt like they ruined my life, that they destroyed my capacity for life. Well, I had a hand in that too, because like I said, I knew I was hurting, I could have stopped myself and just said, “no more, I can’t do this anymore.” Instead I foolishly blundered on and let that accumulated negativity just keep building and building inside. But they were the ones with the words like knives and sledgehammers, stabbing and slamming into me. They were the ones whose behaviour was unacceptable. And they’re the ones who will never change.

So there I was, feeling like all the progress I’d made in therapy had been for naught. If I could get thrown for this and have this kind of reaction to a dream, what would it mean if I faced either of them in person?

It helped to at least say that I was having a rough spell, and to see the reactions to it. It also helped that as busy as work was keeping me... that I came to a realization that while working, my mind wasn’t at all occupied by the depression. I could set it aside and just push forward. As discouraged as the depression was making me feel, that realization was encouraging, and probably marked the point when things started to lift.

I had a session as well. A lot of what I’ve said above I said in the session, which felt cathartic. I spoke of all of that, and more. I mentioned a trait I’ve seen in myself since all of this began, and it’s not something I’m proud of, it’s just... there. It’s a bit of a mean streak. It rears itself up when socially speaking it doesn’t matter what I say- like on Facebook if I get snarky or downright nasty with a troll. I think that comes from having to bite my tongue for so many years with so many assholes. I don’t see the point to being polite or civil to an asshole or an idiot anymore, so I’m not. I wasted too many years doing precisely that, and so that shows itself in my responses. Besides, the guys (and for the most part, it’s always  guys, our half of the species is far too often appalling) deserve the scorn they get, not just from me, but anyone else calling them out.

As for that dream? The therapist ventured an interesting point of view. What would I do if I could rewrite that dream. The answer was simple: just walk away from her. Not bother to engage, listen, or put up with her. I’d made the decision a long while back to cut them out of my life, to protect myself first and foremost. Anything else gives them control. It gives them power.

I came out of the session feeling considerably better. Writing this makes me feel better. I’ve also been making use of some of those techniques in recent days. Music is a good method to fight back against depression- I’ve been listening to a lot of classical music, and it does have  a way of lifting the spirits.

I suppose it’s possible that either of them might read this at some point. In which case, figuratively speaking, they’d be having a nuclear meltdown as they read this.

I don’t care.

I’ve made my choice.

They are not my sisters anymore.

They are not family.

They are just strangers.

I want nothing to do with them.

I choose to be free of their poison.

They will never change. They’re not capable of change.

Trusting them or believing one word they say will end only in hurt. And I’ve been hurt far too much already. I’m done with both of them. I want them to leave me alone. You can only hurt someone so many times before they’ve said enough, never again. And there also comes a point when an apology, even if you mean it, will no longer be accepted.

I choose to protect myself. I choose my own mental health. I choose my emotional well being.

There are consequences to actions, and this is yours: I am no longer your brother.

Your lives are your own. Just stay the hell out of mine.

Every Fredo Has His Revenge

Some links before I get started today. Norma had an author's decision and thoughts on Nine Eleven. Cheryl wrote about lizards. Parsnip had a very late Square Dog Friday at her page. Krisztina had hedgehog decor at her blog, and a recipe for pasta sauce. Shelly wrote about the ego. Whisk asked about baked bread. Lorelei wrote about the state of bookstores. And Mark wrote about making fun of terrorists.

Now then, back to a familiar subject, a certain egomaniac director. By the way, the trilogy of films referred to here, I can see why they're so acclaimed, though I must admit, I've never cared for them personally.

Explosion Prone Director Announces Unlikely Sequel, Revels In His Own Ego

Los Angeles (AP) Reporters gathered yesterday at the digital effects studio Digital Domain, home turf for director Michael Bay and his endless line of movies featuring explosions, fast cars, hot women, and more explosions. Bay, who has already brought literally explosive fare to the theatres like Armageddon, Pearl Harbor, and The Rock, has been busy as of late with a string of other projects. It was a surprise, and an unwelcome one, to learn he had yet another project on the go. To attend a Michael Bay press conference is a form of cruel and unusual punishment, in the opinion of this reporter. The man is full of himself. And yet this reporter, along with other real reporters who had incurred the wrath of their editors, had been subjected to cover the latest Michael Bay meet and greet, along with the usual drooling idiots who fall under the entertainment reporter label. Looking around at the latter, this reporter wondered where a certain cranky Mountie was when you really needed him.

Bay’s presence was announced by one of his staffers. The director came out on stage, dressed as usual, wearing a suit jacket over jeans and a denim shirt, but no tie. His hair was as coiffed as ever (is coiffed a word?) and he had a day or two worth of stubble. This, of course, is the way he always seeks to present himself. He stopped at the podium, where a full length mirror had been propped up, and gave himself a look, seeming to approve of what he saw. Then he waved to the reporters, blowing kisses.

“Thank you for coming out!” he proclaimed. “It’s so wonderful to see you all here today!” He smiled in his usual dazed, self absorbed way. This reporter rolled his eyes, wondering how long his editor would keep him in the purgatory of crap assignments like this. (you know why you’re stuck here, and by god you will remain there as long as I deem it so. Nyah nyah nyah nyah ~ editor). “I’ve got great news about a future film project that I’ve got in mind. I’ll be filming, as soon as I’ve got my other stuff out of the way- it occurs to me that I have a whole lot on my plate right now- a sequel to a great classic trilogy. As it turns out, the director of that trilogy chose not to continue to tell the story, and well, long story short, I’ve acquired the rights. So I’ll be following up things with a new film called The Godfather Part IV: Fredo’s Revenge!”

Reporters gasped in shock. First at the thought of Michael Bay having his hands on The Godfather franchise. Second, at the notion that Fredo Corleone, who met a bad end at the behest of his brother Michael Corleone in the films, could possibly engineer some form of revenge. “Sacrilege!” shouted a reporter with Sight & Sound, the film trade magazine. “A man like you has no right to desecrate classic films!”

Bay shrugged. “Who’s desecrating anything? Besides, I’m busy remaking Casablanca and Gone With The Wind too, and they’ll be a billion times better than the originals. Look, it’s all very simple...”

“No it’s not!” a Reuters correspondent objected. “Fredo Corleone died in The Godfather Part II! He was killed off at the orders of his brother! So how can he take revenge? And frankly sir, you are a hack of a director who should never be allowed to helm any film ever again!”

Bay laughed. “Oh, you must be kidding, and I thank you for the amusement. First of all, before I discuss certain plot details, I must begin by introducing to you Mr. Steven Tyler of Aerosmith!”

Tyler came out on stage, looking as if he’d been beaten by an ugly stick. This reporter then had to concede that Tyler always looks like that. “Hello, Chicago!!!!!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Steven, we’re in Los Angeles,” Bay reminded him. “Ladies and gentlemen, Aerosmith are going to be extensively involved in the soundtrack. First of all they’ll be giving a rock and roll interpretation of Nina Rota’s original score themes. Second, they’re going to be doing two songs for the soundtrack. One of them is already titled ‘She Made Me An Offer Of Love I Couldn’t Refuse.’ The other one will be called ‘Just When I Think I’m Out, She Drags Me Back Into Love.’ Aren’t those great titles? They’ll be burning up the charts when the movie gets released.”

“Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Tyler bellowed for no reason, hurting the hearing of those reporters with sensitive hearing. He nodded and smiled in a vacant way, making us wonder if he was suffering from brain damage, and took his place near Bay.

Bay continued speaking. “You know, in The Godfather Part III, there are a number of years between the events of the main part of the film coming to a close, and the actual death of Michael Corleone as a very old man. So I decided to fill in some of those blanks and tell a story all my own. I’ve mused on it for a long time, and bear with me, because this is my hook for the movie. What if, instead of being the weak, spineless brother in the Corleone family, old Fredo had really been the most devious, the most ruthless one of the lot? What if instead of dying, he launched an ingenious plan to fake his death, spending years pulling strings from the shadows against his brother? That, my friends, is the essence of where I take things in The Godfather Part IV. Brother versus brother. Blood against blood. Mobster against mobster. Family versus family. It’s going to be epic.”

Bay paused now, looking at himself in a mirror for a moment before continuing. “Michael Corleone, devastated by the death of his daughter at the hands of his enemies. He finds himself back in charge of the family business, because, well, his nephew Vincent gets whacked in a car bombing. And we’re talking a huge car bombing. They’ll be seeing the explosion in Philadelphia. It turns out Andy Garcia didn’t want to reprise his role as Vincent. He told me to go to hell and stay there. I don’t know why, I mean, I’m a great director. So we have to shoot a body double in the shadows, write out Vincent early on, and have him whacked in a big way. So like I’m saying, there’s Michael, all alone, drawn back into the criminal world, and he finds out the guy who’s been behind more than he realizes is the brother he thought he had whacked. Fredo’s back, baby, and he’s thoroughly pissed off at Michael. The rest of the story tells itself. We’re talking explosions. And babes. And explosions. And family drama. And rock music score. And explosions. In case it’s not obvious, I love explosions. They’re my kind of orgasm.”

The members of the assembled press looked at each other uneasily; this reporter wrote down in his notebook: too much information. Bay, oblivious to it all, kept speaking. “And now, the cast. Michael Corleone has been the central figure of this whole saga. Now, Al Pacino would have been reprising his role in this picture if things had been different, but for some reason when I asked him to do so, he told me to ****myself, and then launched into a lot of expletives and questioning if I was born in a barn, among other things. I’m sure he was just kidding around, but in case he wasn’t, I had to go with another actor. Ladies and gentlemen, playing the Godfather, Michael Corleone, I give you...”

“Shia LaBeouf?” the Reuters correspondent asked with disgust.

“No, though Shia is in the cast,” Bay admitted. “Patience, patience. No, it’s a member of the Coppola clan, and a good friend of mine. Ladies and gentlemen, Nicolas Cage!”

Cage came out on stage, smiling in that goofy way of his. Reporters gasped in horror. “Hi, everyone. It’s a pleasure to be playing one of the iconic roles in movie history.”

Cage stood with Bay and Tyler, while the director continued to speak. “I wanted Diane Keaton to reprise her role as Kay for the film, but she said she wouldn’t work for me for any salary in the world. And in the way she said it, I wondered if she’d spent a lot of time around sailors, because her vocabulary was quite colourful. Anyway, I thought about it, and I decided to go with a more unconventional choice for the role. I’ve gone and recast the role with someone who I think would be great for the job. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Fran Drescher!”

The actress best known for the sitcom The Nanny stepped out on stage. Reporters gasped in a stunned way yet again. Could someone with her unique voice be taken seriously in such a role? Even if she wasn’t being directed by the biggest hack of all time? She waved to the crowd as she joined the others, speaking in her nasal tone. “Isn’t it sweet you’ve all come to see us?”

Bay carried on. “Another major character we’re bringing back is Fredo Corleone, back from the dead and looking to get even. The actor playing our villain has been in a number of my films, and I’ve talked him into coming back once again. Say hello to Steve Buscemi!”

Buscemi came out on stage, looking sheepish. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m under contract to this idiot, and I can’t break it. All I can say is, don’t go to see this movie when the time comes.”

Bay laughed. “That Steve! Such a joker! Also in the cast, playing the key role of Michael’s son Anthony Corleone, the former opera singer who wants no part of the business, I must give you one of my favourite actors, my go-to guy, Shia LaBeouf!”

LaBeouf stepped out on stage, waving. “Hello! Shia is happy to see all of you basking in Shia’s glorious triumph!” he proclaimed. This reporter rolled his eyes. The little waste of space was still speaking in the third person. This reporter made a mental note to check his contract and find a way to get out of being in journalistic hell all because of an editor who can’t take a joke (can’t take a joke? You broke out laughing at my mother-in-law’s funeral, you punk! You deserve all of this and worse! ~ editor) LaBeouf kept speaking. “Now, Michael, will Shia’s name be first above the movie title in the credits?”

“We’ll get to that later, Shia,” Bay promised. “Ladies and gentlemen, I also have parts in mind for other regular Michael Bay cast members who can’t be here today. Megan Fox will be playing Antony Corleone’s love interest, because you have to have a love interest in among all the explosions and who else is going to wax those sports cars wearing next to nothing? And Jon Voight will be playing one of Michael’s advisors. He sends his regrets, but he had to spend some time today yelling at a Democrat.” Bay smiled. “I give you the cast of The Godfather Part IV: Fredo’s Revenge! We’re going to clean up at the Oscars, because we’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse. It all starts with making sure there are plenty of horse heads in the beds of every Oscar voter.”

With that, the room exploded into ranting and roaring, accusations and outrage, a few vacant minded questions about what designer which actor was wearing, and a self absorbed director walking off stage, smiling in oblivious disregard to the contempt in which he was held. This reporter opened his right palm, applied it to his face, and shook his head in dismay. What had I done to deser... (do you want to be relegated to reporting on reality television? ~ editor)