Sunday Reader 9.24.23.: Marriage, Trauma & Other Crises
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Good Morning,
You may (or may not, I don’t blame you) have noticed I’ve taken most of the month off from the Reader. It can be a hard balance to strike sometimes, between the part of you that buys into the hustle-culture “write something every day” approach and, well, speaking when you have something to say. I don’t want this to be a chore and it certainly isn’t a job, so for now at least I’ve decided to put out a Reader when there’s actually something I want to talk about.
Also when I’ve actually, you know, gotten to read things. The Little, the dogs, work, all of those things have been taking up more and more of my available RAM lately and it’s left me little space to read and really take stuff in. Not to mention, I’ve been spending a lot more time with my guitars recently. I’ve been working on rewiring a couple of my guitars and finishing up a parts guitar I’d wanted to put together for a while, and it turns out I enjoy playing guitar which is the kind of thing you don’t think to need to be reminded of some 30-odd years after you started doing it but here you are anyway.
On top of all that I’m still feeling a little run down a lot of the time, not just from my new meds but because I’m in a lower swing of my depression cycle. The good news is that the meds take a bit of the edge off, cut off the most extreme elements of the emotions/thoughts I have to deal with when I’m feeling worse, and so the lift is a bit easier. Still, the changes in my sleep pattern are a big ol’ red flag that something’s up, and combined with the fatigue I’d been experiencing from the meds has really been a drain.
At least I think the meds have had something to do with that, still: My therapist thinks that, with them easing the small but significant bit of the burden that they do, my mind and body are taking a breather from nearly 40 years of what is apparently an especially intense case of clinical depression (to paraphrase — “It’s not that you have lows, Nick, it’s that you’re lows are so low, and your normal is so low all the time.”) and are discovering that they’re just fucking exhausted. These are the kinds of things that make me question the money I don’t have that I spend on our sessions.
I’ve been playing guitar more but writing less, outside of copy for work. I don’t know what I have to say. I’ve lived with anxiety nearly as long as I can remember; depression and passive (sometimes less passive, admittedly) suicidal ideation from around age nine. There are moments where I think I’m tired because I’m barely, like one-step-ahead barely outrunning the identity crisis I don’t want to have because I don’t really know a me without the sheer tonnage of my depression disproportionately affecting every waking moment of my life. I don’t know what kind of writer, guitar player, whatever it is I am…not free of it, because I’m not, but without that governor. My therapist reminds me adjustment takes time, and patience, and that the extra stock I put in staying on top of the day-to-day things in my life is important because it’s an area where I can see progress, results, that improvement is possible while also experiencing a mild identity crisis or two. These things happen. These are the moments where I remember why I continue to shell out for the sessions.
I guess I haven’t wanted the Reader to feel like an obligation, and I don’t want to force anything out just for the sake of it — consistency is good in the practice of a skill, but “Make sure to put out content at regular intervals and never stop” is nu-media Silicon Valley hustle porn SOP bullshit. I want to write when I have something to say.
I remember the dichotomy of my mother, how she could and would talk for hours on end with me or anyone really about nearly anything yet she also held fast to a belief in speaking when you have something to say, to contribute. “Contribute” is a funny word, one my grandpa liked to use a lot, generally in platitudes that sounded noble but usually were meant to throw up smoke for one grift or another. My mom never held fast to her rule, either but I knew then what she meant: Speak with intent. I miss her more than usual these days. I try to think of a reason then chide myself for thinking I need a reason to miss my dead, beloved mom, then just go back to missing her some more.
I have my outlets and am rediscovering my will to avail myself of them. I advise patience, toward me, from you as I do toward me from myself.
“We Are Not Just Polarized. We Are Traumatized.” — by Ana Marie Cox for The New Republic
I like Ana Marie Cox a lot. I always have. I often like her writing and greatly enjoyed her podcast for years. But above all, I admire her commitment to honest exploration of how fucked up she is, and her steadfast honesty in exploring how fucked up we all are.
That is to say, this TNR piece is like the Omega Ana Marie Cox essay, kind of like how all creatures end up evolving into crabs.
We have to remember that the wound we’re healing either already existed or had created an area so fragile it would shatter at the lightest touch.
Yup.
“The Return of the Marriage Plot” — by Rebecca Traister for The Cut
Not a drill, people, this is a New Traister Piece Alert which means we stop, we read, we appreciate.
Arguing for the elimination of no-fault divorce in Louisiana, Republican Nicholas James claimed that “the destruction of marriage has resulted in widespread child poverty in Louisiana” (a state where the minimum wage is $7.25 an hour).
That’s the good stuff.
Podcast: The Dream, season 3
If you haven’t been following Jane Marie’s The Dream, it’s ostensibly a podcast about MLMs — the people who run them, who get taken by them, who buy in, who get out, etc. But, especially with this new season, The Dream is much bigger than the run-of-the-mill MLM grifters it dives into (though that world is oddly fascinating). I’ll especially call out episode two of the new season as one of the most raw, painful, honest bits of broadcasting I’ve experienced maybe ever.
“Pearl Jam — VS” — Matthew Perpetua, Fluxblog
Perpetua is a fantastic writer about music and perhaps even more important makes the best playlists on the planet. That has nothing to do with this look at Pearl Jam’s second album (which I still think of as Five Against One in my head because I’d gotten an early cassette before they changed the title) but it’s important nonetheless.
This review helped me understand why I liked this album so much but never loved it, while simultaneously cementing my belief that while Matt Cameron is the dude who should be drumming for Pearl Jam, they were never the same band without Dave Abbruzzese: In Perpetua’s reading Dave brings an “atheleticism” and “impact” to the group, specifically referring to the opener of the record, “Go”. I’ve always felt like Dave pushed the rest of the band, challenged them, stoking the fires of the sports dorks and the “Yeah, let’s fucking jam” mindsets of the rest of the guys. I get why they let him go, and there’s an entire body of great stuff after him, but like I said — it wasn’t the same.
That’s it for me this week. Take care of yourself; we need you.
Until next time