Month: August 2012

My One and Only Rolex

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 11 Comments

Fifteen years ago I developed an obsession for Rolex watches which eclipsed practically every other interest or desire.  Its greatest impact was felt by my spouse: He was hostage to my unyielding resistance to any gift that wasn’t a Rolex.

Eventually Nick’s patience and resolve buckled beneath the burden of my expectation.  One Christmas he handed me an easily overlooked brown paper bag.  As I took it from him I felt a significant heft; I heard a steel bracelet shift at the bottom; I spied a bezel and Oyster case peeking out from an afterthought of concealment.  I slowly lifted the folds of vaguely familiar tissue paper which revealed the indubitable shape and renowned style of the classic stainless steel Rolex.  He said he’d been looking for one (for almost a year) when the week before a dealer called to say that a customer recently presented a used (and much older) Rolex as a trade-in and it’s “as-is” retail price is with-in Nick’s price range.  He purchased a Rolex manufactured in 1958 (the year of my birth) and it wasn’t until this year did I learn the historical significance of this watch.

A month later I found myself overheating in a Puerto Vallarta hot tub.  I dragged my lobster-red body to the swimming pool and jumped in.  Upon surfacing I heard Nick ask for time. While wiping away the stinging chlorinated water I noticed that there was moisture condensing on the inside surface of the watch crystal.

The Rolex watch is often perceived as an extravagant luxury and status symbol outshining its fundamental purpose: telling time.  But Rolex, SA (manufacturer) has played a significant role in the history of the wristwatch.  Rolex, SA can lay claim to being first at: automatically changing date on face; show two time zones at the same time (GMT Master (designed by request of Pan Am pilots); automatically changing day-and-date on face; earning “chronometer” designation (meaning that it’s mechanical movement is extremely accurate and consistent that it can be used to navigate ships.  But the fundamental and most notable characteristic (which it achieved first in 1926 and again in 1953) is being waterproof (1926); not water resistant; waterproof to a depth of 330 feet BSL (1953).

Obviously Nick’s gift had forfeited that foremost characteristic.

I was greatly disappointed that the Rolex Nick had worked so diligently to uncover had been compromised by irony: its fundamental purpose (time keeping) was also its assassin (time passing, i.e. years of use).   I took the infirm watch to the only certified Rolex repair center in North America (at the time) and was saddened by their conclusion: it would cost more to rebuild than the price Nick paid.  A friend gave me the phone number of a reseller in Georgia that represented Rolex watches on consignment.  Overnight I received three brand new stainless steel Rolexes from which to choose.

When I slid on the first, then the second, and finally the third I had exactly the same reaction: These Rolexes had lost their mystique, their meaning, their value; these were simply very expensive watches.  (And frankly, my time isn’t that valuable!) 

The watch given to me by Nick was, in my opinion, the only true Rolex because it was the one he generously gave me.  I wanted that Rolex; and I wanted that Rolex to function like any other Rolex.  So I returned to the Rolex repair center and placed it in their expert hands.  Six months later it was returned to me in pristine condition.  It is now thoroughly serviced every three years to keep it in working order.

So why did I share this with you?

You may get what you ask for in life, and while it may not be exactly what you wanted, you were very fortunate to have received it.  It may be imperfect, or damaged, or used.  But it is less about what you’ve been given, and much more about how you hold it, what it means to you, and how you care for it.

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Memory Migration (excerpt from “Journal: August, 2008; 6 weeks post-breakdown)

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 3 Comments

Like the greeting card aisle of your neighborhood pharmacy, there are sections of my mind which hold funny, cherished, sympathetic, sorrowful, goofy, erotic and celebratory messages. An old childhood friend of mine used to spend hours reading the greeting cards and laugh out loud at their simple jokes or be moved by their poetic sentiments. If I were to send a card I usually chose a blank card and penned my own sentiment.

As I have now managed to pull myself free of the rip tide of my darkest days of depression, I find myself standing chest deep in the river of my life; I feel the compression of waters’ density; I feel the strength of its current pushing me downstream, farther away from belongings cast-off as I cautiously waded past sand and past pebble; I sink in its sediment and often trip on submerged rocks and limbs and the occasional rubber tire. Frequently I stumble, painfully pushed off-balance and submerge hesitating, wondering if a simple inhalation of water wouldn’t be easier than struggling against the pressure, distance, current and weight of the cold, cold water; but then I regain footing, pushing off the stronghold of some happy, remote memory, determined to break the surface and gulp cool, mossy air.

Friends have begun to reach out, and over coffee or scones or some other crutch should our dialogue drift, they confide that some of their fondest memories include me. But in my despair I can’t quite access those thoughts; they’re hidden back there, like so much of my life, back there, as though they were last years fashion style, back there behind a rack of heavy, dark memories which hang like thick woolen overcoats inside my mind’s hall closet. I don’t recall the crisp, cold air of the Alps, or the hot sands and cold, sweaty Corona’s of Mexico, or the one hundred summer guests in our backyard party, or the winning run at the Brewer’s game, or long, intimate good-nights with Nick. It’s as though my little box of happy memories had been pushed to the back of the shelf at the top of the closet, or mistaken during the move, or picked-over and discarded.

What I do recall, acutely, is the pain; the dog-eared pages where bright yellow streaks highlight my disappointments and failed expectations and misery. Why my life has these particular bookmarks I am uncertain. Why I continue to read and dwell and mourn over these episodes I am unclear.

Today at last I live in hope. Hope that if enough friends can generate enough pleasant memories, then maybe if I hear them enough it will set the choke, twist the throttle and kick-start my mind to start remembering happy times; times in which I laughed and times in which I smiled and times that brought warmth to my heart. Until then I will sit patiently, scanning the vista of my mind to catch sight of the first swallow, signaling the memory migration has begun.

Bipolar Diagnosis Is Not An Insanity Defense

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 4 Comments

I’ve been paging through comments left recently at Chicago news sites regarding the recent revelation that Representative Jesse Jackson Jr. (Congressman, Illinois) has been diagnosed with Bipolar II and is currently experiencing a major depressive episode and is being treated at the Mayo Clinic.  He’s been on a leave-of-absence since June when he was discovered by his father, Rev. Jesse Jackson, exhausted at Rep. Jackson’s Washington, DC home.  The family took Rep. Jackson to Sierra Tucson Treatment Center in Arizona, then moved him to the Mayo clinic where he remains, undergoing treatments for his significant depression.

If the picture I just painted was about your husband or wife, your child, a relative or neighbor, teammate, fellow parishioner, acquaintance, sister-to-the-father-of-your-daughter’s-fiance’s-birth-parents, or celebrity, your reaction, most likely, would contain differing degrees of empathy based in part on your knowledge of mental illness, specifically Bipolar II.  But what if the picture I just painted was about a politician in a state known for its bipartisan political corruption.  The reality that 20% – one in five – of the last century’s governor’s have been indicted or convicted of felonies in Illinois is a damaging statistic to all Illinois politicians.  Damaging is one thing, but suspicion on a federal level and a House Ethics Committee investigation for ties to imprisoned former Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich is quite another.  This federal investigation provides a significant foothold of suspicion in Rep. Jackson’s June disappearance and yesterdays news story confirming his diagnosis and treatment for major depression (one-half of the mental illness, bipolar).

The vitriol posted in comment sections of Chicago area TV stations extolling Rep. Jackson’s disclosure of mental illness and gastric by-pass as a creative and sympathetic smoke screen hoping to derail the federal investigation or, at the very least, to mitigate its voraciousness.  The assertion? That Rep. Jackson was in the middle of a hypo-manic (the other half of the mental illness, bipolar) episode which characteristically emboldens the patient to behave dangerously, generate grandiose plans well beyond his normal specter of life, and indulges in dangerously poor judgement particularly in highly sensitive or personal areas of the patients life.  If Rep. Jackson never mentioned (prior to the Blagojevich sting) that he’d like to advance his political career by winning a senate seat and then suddenly (and privately) begins the high-stakes game of buying (rather than campaigning for) a senate seat, Rep. Jackson could defend his uncharacteristic behavior as that of his manic-self (though at the time he was unaware of his mental illness), and that if his bipolar diagnosis was being properly treated (and he was compliant) he would’ve steered clear of any illegal activities.

Which is, by the way, a creative and sympathetic defense.  But our legal system does not recognize bipolar disorder as insanity, and therefore cannot be used as a defense in legal proceedings.  It could pluck on the heart strings of those on the House Ethics Committee, but any preferential treatment Rep. Jackson hopes his bipolar disorder might garner will be sanctimonious.  However, if the Committee (and subsequently Federal Prosecutors) sense blood in the water, Rep. Jackson’s recent disclosure of personal and private information will be sympathetically and respectfully noted.  And then the hounds will be unleashed and will, eventually, tree the red fox.

But what I find the most deplorable is the velocity and distribution of judgement by every-day citizens whose faith in politicians has been crushed by an unending parade of scandal, corruption, and greed.  Jesse Jackson Jr.’s job is a congressman.  Jesse Jackson Jr. also happens to be human, a husband, a brother, a son, a friend, and now part of my bipolar II world. 

It is shameful that the suspicious and the quick-to-judge deny their empathy to the mortal and vulnerable  Jesse Jackson Jr. who is suffering horribly, whose life is teetering on pharmaceutical roulette, who goes to sleep dreadfully depressed and wakes to the loathsome, disastrous, and painful reality that he must learn to live with bipolar disorder, not suffer from it.  To those casting stones, humanity and empathy aren’t yours to keep; they are given.  I pray that one day you won’t stare into the cold eyes of a stranger wholly disinterested in your immediate suffering because of a far-off suspicion of guilt.

Maybe Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, Logan, Bruce Wayne & Clark Kent Were Bipolar

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 6 Comments

I’ve identified the significant trigger, which, if pulled, catapults my otherwise sensible, responsible, and respectful self into a derivative of me, but one which possesses out-of-this-world dynamism akin to superhero’s or mutants.  The physical me doesn’t change, just the degree of acumen and acuity I’d refined in furtherance of a twenty-year career playing The Fool to a cadre of Somebody’s.  These heavyweight’s attained their ascendency via marriage; owning an avaricious, pugnacious and predatory law firm; partnership with an iconic architectural firm; ruthless attorney for corporate raiders.  Not one cared about procedure; they simply expected what they’d requested.  Failure was my burden to bear and under which I would suffer.

Only once did I return empty-handed: “I flew to Florida; drove to the grove; oranges are out of season; no juice.”  She pushed her Eames chair away from her desk and stood in front of me, “Do I look like an idiot to you?  I mean, when you think “idiot,” is it this face you see?  Because that’s precisely what you so deftly hand-delivered.  But I didn’t ask for an example of an idiot, did I?  I mean, if I did, which I didn’t, but if I did then you could get a mirror from one of the secretaries.  You wouldn’t simply fire-up the Ol’ Gulf stream and coast to Florida (at $2,350.00 per flight hour plus pilot time, hotel, fuel,, and food).  No, no explanations: I asked for orange juice from “Lily’s Grove,” of which I own by the way: Oh!  Didn’t you know that?  What?  No investigation before you saddle-up and zoom to Miami?  When I’d heard from Jorge that a “chiquito desmandares” demanded that he sell him orange juice for his “gillpollas cacia” the only conclusion I could draw was, “Mulligan must think I’m an idiot!”  Since you’re absolutely certain there’s no orange juice from Lily’s Grove, just for fun, let’s see if I might know someone who could help. . .Buenos dias, Jorge. . .”

That lesson (failure) provided an essential insight: if a heavyweight asks for something that has the appearance of impossibility, they already know where and how to get it.  They simply aren’t interested in doing it for themselves.  Self-effacing, tenacious, and propriety could be helpful behaviors in discovering a source for this item.

Only when forethought (plan B, escape route) is absent and I discover that I’m in a wholly defensive position with no options does this derivative of self appear.  This derivative is my super-hero or, as I now recognize, my manic-self (who I will name “Heartless”).  “Heartless” has a single purpose: self-preservation amidst unyielding stress, confusion, and fatigue, the by-products of an extremely complicated problem or series of problems which causes inescapable mental burden and my organic belief that failure cannot be considered because of its dire consequences and the real-life ramifications to everyone involved.

“Heartless‘s” appearance goes unnoticed and the logjam that promoted his incantation begins to loosen and the stalled efforts discover renewed vigor, and less and less sleep is needed, and more and more and more organization and meticulous paperwork are demanded.  “Heartless” remains present for varying lengths of time: Sometimes 3 months, sometimes a year.  But his denunciation follows the same pattern: “Heartless” turns his attention away from the situation of which he was borne, and on to me, which he sees as the real victim of the entire circumstance.  And then he uses every weapon in his arsenal to create as much collateral damage as possible: spending huge amounts of money on items which I’ve wanted, yet dare not buy (dog, tattoo, Rolex GMT II, 55″ TV, fully outfitted wood shop, custom-made Japanese fountain pen); ingesting too little or too much of my medication; abhorrent social behavior; and the worst and most pointed, vehement, and hateful: accusations and ceaseless arguments with my spouse.

The moment someone, anyone really, recognizes that I’m in the midst of a manic crisis, “Heartless” disappears.  And all that’s left behind is a meandering trail of damage, some salvageable, some not.  Destruction is definitely his foot print.  But I’ve considered too, that perhaps “Heartless”buys and says and behaves in ways some tightly-tucked-away part of me wants to behave or say or buy.  But I, like so many of us, have toed the civil line and buried our uncensored selves in a nook no one will find.  Wouldn’t it be tragic if we’ve been taught that decorum dictates that superhero’s remain in comic books and not shopping at Prada.

 

What Flavor Is Your Mood Disorder?

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments

“What’re you having?” the rakish twenty-something asks.  Still staring into the fluted dish before me, spoon in hand yet inactive, I respond, “I’m not sure exactly.  I asked for a double-scoop of Desire and was handed this.”

The twenty-something turns so his torso, while dissected by the cafe table, is visible to me, “What’s it taste like?”  Turning my head in his direction I realize he’s: 1) That “guy-in-the-tuxedo” from my cousin’s Mystery Date game; and 2) Sans the tux!  I asked myself, why would “Mr.-Mystery-Date-Man” be sitting in a soda fountain, at a table next to mine, wearing only a smile?  My chagrin whips my gaze back to the disappointing confection now taking the shape of a poached egg.  “Well,” I stammer, still shaken by his cheeky immodesty and dismayed by my immediate craving for carnality, carousal, and covetousness, “It hints at Desire, but clearly an inferior attempt; the delicacy of Desire is overwhelmed by the coarse texture and indulgence.”  I decided to shift my chair and face the tempest of his proximity head-on, “What’s that you seem to be enjoying?” I ask, sounding foolish.

“A Raspberry Restraint,” he said as the spoon scraped and clanked against the spotless bowl.  “I have at least one every day.  I could probably eat fifty.  Moderation, that’s what I hear, everything in moderation.  Who’re they trying to kid?  I can spell; and I assure you that there’s no Mania in moderation,” he said as he slid slowly forward in his seat, the heat of his knees gently toasting my flank; “Sounds like they did the switcheroo. . .gave you a two-scooper of Licentious Lingonberry; they do that when they’re out of Desire.”

Flabbergasted, I now understood why I was staring at the freshly filleted fellow, splayed before me like an all-you-can-eat-buffet stocked with preprocessed food.  “But I wanted Desire. . .gentle, demur Desire. . .subtly prurient, hopeful and hungry. . .Desire. . .in general terms!”  Sounding exasperated, I wave my hand indicating his wanton availability, “Licentious Lingonberry?  No wonder it tasted so obviously. . .bitter. . .each spoonful made me thirstier. . .and there you were, the perfect glass of ice-water.”

I pushed my chair back and stood up trying in vain to disguise my arousal, “Sure, you’re lust personified; carnal; and after, I’m right back here; the one place where we can savor those flavors of humanity lost to us; before we go back to our senseless mockery of life,” I said as I began to leave.

“Sounds to me,” Mr.-Mystery-Date-Sans-Tux shouted, “like you ought to have ordered the Passion Fruit!”