Because We Can

Reflections on The Unstable Elements 

Theatre – live performance before a live audience – has always played a vital role in society writ large. Over the millennia, the purpose of theatre has at once been to entertain, educate and to tell the Truth (capital T). Live performance raises awareness, provides a call to action and, in short, creates a forum for the People to come together, to see life mirrored on the stage, and shine a bright light on what is important in society and what needs immediate attention.

Last night, along with about 30 others, I attended a screening of Dangerous Acts, a 2011 documentary about the Unstable Elements of Belarus of the Belarus Free Theatre. The film chronicled their rise from clandestine performances before perhaps 20 patrons at a time, to international recognition in New York City and Great Britain (the ensemble’s work has been recognized with world-wide acclaim including a 2011 Obie Award, among other accolades). The story of the fate and lives of these eight ensemble members is brazenly chronicled against the backdrop of the pre– and post– December 19, 2010 election activities in Belarus.

The Belarus Free Theatre fulfills this vital role of theatre in society: they courageously (and dangerously) choose to tell the truth. The truth about the oppression of the people. The truth about a brutal dictatorship that operates with impunity, much like the Soviet regime who reigned before it. They tell the Truth, with pieces like, "The Disappeared," "Zone of Silence," and "Minsk: 2011." They bravely and brazenly provide this forum for discussion, mirror life on the stage, and bring into bright light what’s important and what needs attention –in their country and in the world. Simply put, they explore the myriad of taboos holding hostage the population of a post-Soviet Belarus.

I won’t go into the details of the injustice and indignity borne on the backs of the people of Belarus, appropriately described as “Europe’s Last Dictatorship.” Although worth far more than a thousand words, suffice it here to recount what was shared by one of the actors in relaying the results of said “election.” So says she: “There is a joke in Minsk … (incumbent President) Lukashenko’s men come to him after the election, and say, ‘We have good news and bad news. The good news is that you are still President. The bad news is … nobody voted for you.’” [As a side note, editorials about the antiquated process followed by the outdated use of our Electoral College and “hanging chads” aside, the votes we cast in a U.S. Presidential election (and all elections) do count. Registered voters who don’t vote and taxpaying citizens who don’t register are yet another peeve of mine. A big one. An infuriating one. But for another blog, perhaps.]

I was a member of Amnesty International for two years in college, and for about a year after graduation. I remember the narratives on the plight of political prisoners and I wrote letters to petition for their freedom. Unstable Elements brought back to me some of the same feelings of outrage and injustice I felt twenty-something years ago as I penned letter after letter and with tears of rage, signed my name. It’s impossible to watch the unfolding of such atrocities happening in our world in our lifetime and not be so moved. It was, to put it mildly, an amazing performance.

Immediately following the screening, there was a talk-back with the audience, led by local theatre community leaders Michael Krickmire of the SUNY Brockport Theatre Department; and John Borek from the Multi-use Community Cultural Center (MuCCC) on Atlantic Avenue. The discussion was moderated by Caroline Yeager, Assistant Curator, Motion Pictures, at the George Eastman House. A main topic for discussion was why, in America, do we not have this kind of theatre? Why doesn’t anyone here do political theatre?

Well, we do. Let’s not fool ourselves by burying our heads in the sand about the issues showcased and stories told by theatre groups that do choose to tell these stories. They are there, on college campuses and socially conscious community theatres nationwide. I’ve seen them. I’ve participated in them. The issues are different, it’s true. We fight for marriage equality, gender equality, gay/bisexual/transgender rights, an end to illegal police brutality and political corruption; an end to child abuse and domestic violence; we fight for the right to die with dignity. But I must admit: we do not have “this kind” of political theatre here. Not like this that the Dryden audience experienced last night. Not like the Belarus Free Theatre.

So, let’s assume the premise stands solid. Why not here? Well, for one thing, we have other outlets to raise awareness and call the people to action in a technological society. We have film, the internet and other forms of more “efficient” mass communication. I think that’s a good thing – a very good thing – and I’ll refrain from my standard rant here, about how people just don’t talk to each other anymore.

Another answer to “why not here?” is quite simple: because we have a Constitution. We have a Bill of Rights that guarantees certain, what we would consider, basic freedoms. We are free to speak, to think what we want and say what we think. Our journalists enjoy the freedom to report facts, no matter how unsavory and inconvenient to the power structure (and, it’s well worth noting here, the right to protect the sources who bring them these Truths). We are free to peaceably assemble, to protest injustice, and fight for equality in all realms of our lives. Do we take these rights for granted, because we have enjoyed them for so long and have become complacent to the freedoms these rights enable? Let’s hope not. Hope also, that the next time you bitch and moan about the government or politicians and what “they” are doing to this country, you remember to be damned glad you can.

Because you can.

Because people in countries like Belarus can’t. In Minsk, there were mass arrests following post-election protests; thousands of citizens beaten, arrested, tortured and detained for nothing more than gathering together to demand justice. No weapons, no looting, no fires, no vandalism, no violence at all. Just peaceful protest followed by imprisonment. Endless imprisonment. No defense. No attorney. No legal advice. Just false imprisonment.

And something interesting was also asked by the moderator of our post-screening talk-back. “Interesting,” I say, because, although perhaps innocent, it was at once sad, rather ignorant and amusingly naïve. How is it, wondered the moderator, that this can happen? How can so few in power oppress the masses at large, so many in number? Well, without launching into diatribe about how history is replete with examples of the suffering of the few at the hands of the many, there is a simple answer to this question.

Because they can.

It is because of realities such as this that the Belarus Free Theatre must operate in secret. There is no advertising, no publicity; just word-of-mouth and the internet. Tickets are sold only by phone, to avoid accusations of illegal commerce. They rehearse and perform in hiding. They are in such constant danger that they cannot divulge where their theatre is located. Patrons meet on a street corner, and the Stage Manager emerges to escort them to the theatre space –after asking, “Did you bring your passports? (We don’t expect trouble, but just in case).”

I cannot imagine my theatre having to operate in secret. I cannot imagine our actors and other artists risking their lives to tell our stories and to speak our truths. We have no such restrictions. We have no such … dangers (doesn’t even begin to describe it).

Because we don’t –because we are free to think what we want, write what we want, say what we think, and perform as we please– we must. In grass-roots, member-supported community theatre, we must continue to tell our stories. We must continue to tell our Truths.

Because we can.

(Feeding the Moonfish, TANYS Festival Winner, Best Short Production, 2014. Jared Lee Morgan, Colleen DiVincenzo. Photo by Marty Nott)

“Take Your Meds!” Not a Joking Matter

Over the past few weeks and months I've been subjected to a tremendous number of pressures in my personal and professional life, causing me extraordinary stress. Work has been crazy to say the very least. My theater company participated in (and won) a statewide competition. My personal life has been dealt some serious blows by friends I thought loved me. And then the stress of traveling for the holidays... yeah. 

Now, everyone experiences stress of this nature, and I know that. I know more than most, I believe, as sometimes it is difficult for me to deal with situations and navigate life in ways ordinary people can easily do, with little effort. In the deepest, darkest valleys of my life experience, for example, just getting out of bed could be a struggle. Taking a shower took almost all the energy I could muster, to the point that I would need to rest – physically rest – prior to getting dressed or putting on my makeup.

And all this because I have a mental disorder. I am mentally ill.

Treating My Illness

My mental disorder is Major Depressive Disorder with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (MDD with GAD). It’s not terminal, or even life threatening in any way. But it is incurable. It’s treatable, but I will never be completely cured.

The good news is that modern pharmaceuticals have been able to treat my disorder for decades now. With the birth of Prozac in the late 1980’s, those suffering various forms and intensities of Anxiety and Depression have been saved by a class of drugs known as Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (SRRIs). In that class of drugs, you will not only find Prozac (fluoxetene), but also Paxil (paroxetene), Lexapro (escitalopram oxalate) and Zoloft (sertraline), among others.

[Sidenote: Another class of Depression treatments that includes medications such as Effexor (venlafaxine) and Wellbutrin (bupriprion) also aid in the reuptake inhibition of nor-epinephrine and dopamine, other neurotransmitters that aid in the regulation of mood and emotional states.]

Now, I’m not a physician. I have no medical training beyond a CPR course at the local Red Cross. But since my Depression diagnosis in late 2001, and subsequent Anxiety diagnosis three years ago, I have done more than a little reading and research in order to better understand my illness. I like to think I know a little more than the average person not so inflicted.

Here is some of what I learned.

Serotonin is a neurotransmitter that aids in regulating a human being’s mood. What happens in Depression – and really, no one knows how, why, or when – is that either the brain cannot manufacture enough of the chemical, or although manufactured in sufficient quantities, for some reason as yet unknown, the bloodstream absorbs whatever quantity of this neurotransmitter is available, and sweeps it away before it can do its job. Thus, the individual cannot easily control his or her emotional states. The mechanism simply isn’t there. SSRI medications prevent the bloodstream from robbing the brain of the necessary chemical, enabling the individual to enjoy more normal levels of these essential neurotransmitters.

Lest I amble down a neuro-chemical bunny trail, my point is simple. Depression and Anxiety, although considered mental disorders, do have a physical manifestation. Something in the brain and body has gone wrong, and the mechanisms necessary for a full and balanced life cannot function unaided.

A Much Maligned Affliction

Although the physiological results are well-known and documented, they are still much misunderstood by the general population.

Again, I am not a doctor, but I recognize that the prevailing understanding of physical illnesses – sickness, disease – is that they are generally caused by some pathogen, a virus or bacterial infection. There is generally no blame, judgment or chastisement of the afflicted attached to such afflictions. They’re not (generally speaking) behavioral in nature.

However, society seems to have a somewhat skewed perception of mental illness – and particularly, Depression: You must have done something or made some mistake in your lifestyle or behavior. You’ve caused this, brought it on yourself, neglected yourself in some way. That’s why you’re depressed. It’s all in your head. Stop thinking sad thoughts. Be positive! Just snap out of it.

But that’s the trap: we cannot “just snap out of it.” The physiological mechanism simply isn’t there.

To draw an analogy, consider Diabetes, a chronic, debilitating and incurable illness. Sometimes behavioral (poor diet, a sedentary lifestyle, etc.), often genetic in nature. With certain types and severities of Diabetes, the individual may be prescribed insulin, to combat the fact that the body does not function as it should. This chemical keeps the person alive and functioning.

Such an individual cannot function without insulin. You’d never dream of saying to this person, “It’s all in your pancreas. Just snap out of it.” A diabetic can no more “snap” their pancreas into producing the right amount of insulin to counteract the effects of excess glucose in the bloodstream, than someone with Depression can force their brain to produce the right amount of neurotransmitters, or “snap” their bloodstream into not washing it away before it can work.

Think Before You Speak

I take a daily dose of a medication that essentially keeps me functioning as, what I hope to be, a valued and contributing member of society. Juvenile jokes and snarky remarks about “taking your meds” aren’t funny to me. They are hurtful. They are harmful. They perpetuate the misconception that a person suffering mental illness and taking “meds” in order to function normally is somehow at fault. The intent of such comments may not be to hurt or harm, but that’s exactly what they do.

So please. Next time you’re tempted, no matter the situation, please think twice about making a joke about mental illness or the medications that treat it. It is difficult enough for the mentally ill to navigate the world without pharmaceutical assistance. We don't need the added anxiety such ignorant, insensitive comments can bring.

We don’t want to be sick. We want to be well.

Depression hurts.

Words can be painful, too.

(Dismount soapbox.)

The Truth Tied Up With a Pretty Pink Ribbon

The Truth Tied Up With a Pretty Pink Ribbon

I do a lot of things when I can’t sleep. Mostly I lie there and think about stuff, but sometimes I grab my phone, hop on the internet and check out Facebook. Of course it’s fun to see what people post at these times of night, but reading down the newsfeed tonight (or this morning, depending on your personal propensity for delineating one day from the next), it occurred to me: Facebook is really my way for me to feel good about myself.

Let me try to explain.

Years ago when I was a professional public speaker and communication consultant, I did what you’re supposed to do – what a lot of professional speakers and trainers do – and conducted exit surveys of my audiences immediately upon the conclusion of each session. Now, those of you who do this sort of thing for a living, be it training or public speaking, know the value of such evaluations is limited to gauging the immediate gut reaction of only those who had strong enough such reaction to take the 90 seconds it took to fill out the thing (usually a series of questions or statements responded on a likert or numerical scale). But they offer little to no reliable metric about the true return on investment in holding the seminar in the first place. But such evaluations are all we’ve got, so we use them and take them for what they’re worth.

Anyways …

If I had been hired by a third party, I would usually scan through the stack of evals (almost everyone completed them in those days), make mental notes about things they liked, found valuable, planned to share with others, etc., and also about the things they said that could help me improve my skills in my chosen craft.

I will never forget this one seminar – I think the topic was, “Professional Etiquette: More Than Using the Right Fork” – and if memory serves it was for a group of credit union employees in Massachusetts. I did my thing – my dog and pony dance, I used to call it – laced with the right amount of humor, balanced with my own gems of wisdom, and laden with (what I hoped were) helpful suggestions for making their business world a better place. Something like that. At the conclusion, as usual, I asked participants to complete the post-seminar evaluation, as the third party who had hired me (a Credit Union Association), was hoping to hold more such seminars as they’d enjoyed that evening.

As a side note, I’m not sure if they’d enjoyed the evening because of the seminar, or because of the prime rib dinner they’d just consumed, but I digress.

As people filtered out, they left their completed forms in the designated box, and when the last person had left I, as a matter of course, picked up the stack of opinions and began to read. Most were filled with the kind of innocuous flattery that came with the territory of working in the industry. I read through the stack, smiling here and there at the high scores and kind words offered by the many fine folks who’d attended and truly enjoyed the seminar. Then I came across this one evaluation that was just plain awful. The participant hated everything about the seminar: the food, the wait staff, me, and even my hair. This person had criticized everything about me, including my accent, as a complete waste of her time (I assume it was a woman from the way it was written) and the company’s money. It was like a slap in the face, one critical evaluation amid the torrent of compliments whose warm glow I’d just bathed in. I set it aside and went on to the next one, and it was filled with the same level of censure. And so was the next one. Three ego-destroying litanies, one right after the other (I figure they sat next to one another). It was like, “Ouch,” and then, “Ouch!” and then, “OUCH!” again. Well, I finished reading the evals, packed up my goodies, got in my car and commenced the long drive back to New York. But I was mad.

Really mad.

My inner monologue over the next six hours ranged from “How dare they” to “Oh my God, they’re right. I’m completely worthless.” It was a painful commute. Beating myself up over what these women had written – despite that 97 other evaluations (there were about 100) had been nothing but praise – allowing their opinions to have tremendous power over me and how I felt about myself, my career, and my life (one had actually written, “Don’t quit your day job.” Well, I said they were critical. I didn’t say they were original in their insults). I was, to say the very least, in a very … bad … mood … when I arrived home.

That’s when it dawned on me.

You see, one of the other seminars I offered at the time was on assertive communication, and one of the main themes of that seminar was around the concept of “letting go.” One particular pain point we discussed was letting go of caring so much what other people think. It was inspired by a chapter in a book I’d read in this area, by Maria Arapakis, entitled SoftPower: How to Speak Up, Set Limits, and Say No Without Losing Your Lover, Your Job, or Your Friends (a fabulous read, by the way, but sadly out of print. I found my copy on Amazon). The idea of letting go of caring so much of what other people think was that in doing so, we free ourselves to make decisions and choices in our lives we can truly own and own up to. If you allow others to dictate what you should or shouldn’t do, you will eventually find yourself, one day, at the end of someone else’s life. You have to live with the choices you make, so you might as well make them for yourself. As Maria put it, you are the expert, after all, on you (hmmm, perhaps the subject of a future blog post?).

My point is that I was allowing the opinions of three petty women to have tremendous power over my own opinion of myself, to the complete exclusion of the other 97% of those in attendance, who thought the seminar offered the greatest workplace advice since “Never let them see you sweat.” NINETY-SEVEN PEOPLE had offered praise and affirmation, but instead of believing them, I had chosen to believe what they had to say was crap, and that these other three were the only ones who spoke the truth.

Well, the next morning I went into my office and gathered up all the evaluations, cards, letters of recommendation I could find, which I had received over the course of my career. I read through them, picked out a dozen or so of my favorites, put them in a small shoe box, and tied it all with a pretty pink ribbon. I slipped the box up onto the shelf of my closet and kept it there, and even added to it over time. After that, whenever I received criticism or negative feedback – whether well-deserved or not – that tempted me to go down that emotional rabbit hole of self-loathing, I’d reach for that box, untie the pretty pink ribbon, and read through the contents, all the while reminding myself: this, too, is the truth.

I don’t have that box anymore. It, along with many of the materials from my consulting days, has disappeared during one of the moves I’ve made from house to house and back again, over the last ten years. But I do have the internet.

And I have Facebook.

Now, a lot of smack gets talked on Facebook. You know it; I know it; and if we are at all honest with ourselves, we have all done it to some extent, from time to time. Some of the comments I read on other people’s posts are simply beyond rude and insensitive. They are downright mean. And, to those who have posted them, they represent nothing but the complete and honest truth.

Personally, I don’t see the point of loosing such venom, many times, on those who are supposed to be our friends. But why people do what they do on Facebook is another subject entirely.  

My point is this: Facebook offers an opportunity for us to speak our minds, tell our truth, and get out in public what we feel needs to be said or recognized. And it gets abused. We all know it. People post an enormous number of petty, ignorant, scathing and soul-sucking things there; things, we must admit, they would never have the courage to say out loud if the people to whom they are targeted were standing right in front of them. These days, the notion of hiding behind a computer screen and dishing out ruthless, often uneducated opinions and incomplete, insidious thoughts is so often cited, it’s almost a cliché. It’s exactly what those vengeful harpies who completed those rotten evaluations did after that etiquette seminar, so many years ago. I considered it cowardly and unwarranted, to them, it was the truth.

Although a lot of smack gets talked on Facebook, and a lot of depressing and sometimes disgusting news is perpetuated there, a lot of praise and gratitude are posted there as well. Prayers are sent, victories are shared, positive energy and warm thoughts are offered, and support is given. As a friend put it recently, it is such a blessing to live in a time when we can be there, like this, for one another and stay in touch this easily, even over vast geographical distances.

So now, when I find myself on the receiving end of scathing criticism, or experience such crushing stress that it feels like the entire universe is against me, or I, in any other way, start down that emotional rabbit-hole, I just go on Facebook and read down my Wall. I look at pictures of my friends, I count up all the “Likes” I’ve received in recent days, check out what’s been posted on the Black Sheep group and think, “This too, is the truth.”

And inevitably, I start to feel good about myself again.

Facebook is my new shoe box, tied up with a pretty pink ribbon.

A Special Place in Heaven

A Special Place in Heaven … for Therapists

In the wake of Robin Williams’ death, there have been a plethora of blog-spots, postings and articles about depression and suicide. It seems almost everyone has felt the desire or the need to weigh in with opinions, pontifications, advice, and pleadings. Some are friends or family members of those who have committed suicide, or attempted suicide. Some are simply kind and caring folks, with no immediate connection to either depression or suicide, simply responding to their shock and dismay in a way they feel might at least make a difference to those around them and across the globe who may be suffering and not know how to ask for help. And then, one posting I read made an earnest request. “It’s time to raise awareness, increase empathy and kindness, and bring those numbers (of suicides and attempts) down. It’s time to talk about suicide and depression.”

I had friends who committed suicide. I like to think of myself as a kind and caring person, and those who know me best know that I generally have an opinion … about nearly everything. But this time… this time I can offer more than an opinion. I have a story. I am so shaken by the death of a wonderful actor and a really funny man, someone whom we not only thought would be the last person in the world to do this, the thought –the notion –never came near crossing our minds.

I finally feel moved enough to tell that story.

Some of you know part of the story. I've mentioned it in passing now and again, without any details or further discussion. Perhaps, because it’s not easy to talk about, or easy to listen to. But many of you, including my very close friends and even my family don’t know the full story.

Once, about 12 years ago, I decided to kill myself. I planned to commit suicide.

I was, as we all were, reeling in the wake of 9/11. I had just broken off a 10-month loveless relationship. I was 35 going on 36, still single, and childless. My best friend had moved 3000 miles away. My career was on the brink of collapse. And like so many others, I felt lost, confused, friendless, hopeless, and helpless. But put simply, I was tired. There were so many things I needed to deal with, and it was so overwhelming, I thought a permanent solution was the only way. I just didn't know what else to do … yet.

I don’t think I showed any so-called “warning signs.” I was actually basically a cheerful person ... on the outside. Always ready with a joke; always the life of the party. But the inside was a different story. Basically, a miserable person. Always feeling inadequate; no self confidence; no sense of self worth.

I was seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist, and a spiritual counselor. They were kind, and caring; they had listened and helped me work through some of my difficulties. But it wasn't enough. There were deep, dark, frightening places in my mind and soul no one could touch. Even me. I was sad. So very, very sad. I just didn't know what else to do … yet.

So I started to plan. I didn't want anything messy, so shooting myself or slitting my wrists was definitely out. I wasn't smart enough to rig a noose and try to hang myself; and I didn't want carbon monoxide to get into the house and harm my cat, so getting in the car with the engine running, closed in the garage was also out. But I did have access to anti-depression medications, and tranquilizers. I had over-the-counter pharmaceuticals and plenty of alcohol in the house. If I took a few handfuls of pills and washed them down with half a bottle of gin or whiskey, that was bound to work.

Then, I started a list. I would put down 3 – 4 days of food for the cat so he wouldn't starve before someone found me. I made sure my IRA beneficiary information was up-to-date. I wrote out my parents’ names and phone number and tacked it to the ‘fridge.  I cleaned the house. I paid all my outstanding bills, many of which weren't due for several weeks. I left a note to my bank, about who and where the equity in my home was to go to, as I didn't have a Will written, and I didn't want to die intestate. I had a mail-forwarding card all filled out, ready to drop off at the Post Office, when I got ready to go. I had everything in order.

I had the “what” and the “how.” I just needed to decide … “when.”

And that’s when it hit me. I have to admit, I’d thought about suicide before this, always dismissing the idea, mainly out of embarrassment for what would be said or thought about me in the aftermath. But this time, none of that mattered. This time I had a plan.

I actually … had … a plan. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I knew I needed more help. I needed to … talk about it.

And just like I had decided to kill myself, I just decided not to. The next day, I called my therapist. Her name was Ruth.

Ruth got me through it. I lived. She helped me learn the skills to cope. It took a long, painful few years, but I've worked hard to learn how to achieve balance in my life. I know I don’t have to do it all. And if I feel like I do want to do it all, I know I don’t have to do it all at once. And I don’t have to do it alone. When I start to feel overwhelmed … friendless, helpless, hopeless … I know what to do now. I know how to say, “No.” I know how to ask for what I want and what I need. I know how to ask for help.

For me, it was all about the therapy. I’m a big fan of therapy. Professional help is not to be underestimated. These people know what to do. There is a special place in heaven, I’m convinced, reserved for psychiatric therapists. Some of them will work for cheap, or even for free. If you’re hurting in this way, believe me, I know what you’re going through. It's hard to talk about this stuff. But you must. You must talk about it.

And if you’re lucky enough to have already achieved that balance … you must listen. And you must … MUST … direct your loved one to a professional. PLEASE do not try –or even let yourself believe –that you can deal with this alone. The person who is hurting, depressed, and contemplating suicide is far beyond any help that you can give. Your intentions, while noble, will not save their life.

Start with the national suicide hotline, and have the number handy. It's 1-800-273-8255. And you can always call 9-1-1. Many local police departments have family and domestic centers who have people who know what to do. Please, please … if you do anything to help a friend who is hurting so badly they truly believe death is the only option: get them some professional help. Because, maybe, just maybe … like me… they just don’t know what else to do … yet.