Tag: failure

Depression. All signs are not the same.

As I sit here listening to Enigma’s MCMXC a.D. album (amazing escapist music, especially the first half of the album), it’s a reminder of my early 20s, when the roots of my lifelong depression were firmly sunken in and I felt the worst emotional pain of my life. I listened to this album often then, as I sat alone in the dark and the tears flowed.

Those who’ve read my blog may be surprised by that, since I’ve written so much about my troubles in recent years. But the thing is, this current time period hasn’t really been about “pain”; it’s been mostly about regret, frustration, hopelessness, and, most of all, emptiness. I am a shell of my former self (both physically and emotionally), and that makes you somewhat impervious to feeling that hurt. By anyone or anything.

But back in those earlier years, it felt like I still had a lot more to live for down the road. And I had yet to get through the emotionally crushing basis that began my depression. It was a much different way of feeling so down about life.

I’ve always felt that the past pain was worse than the current emptiness. But lately, I’m not so sure.

At least then I felt something.

Baseball good ol’ days, part 2 of 2

My other baseball story from awhile back was about team glory. This one is about personal accomplishment, and I imagine anyone who loved being on the diamond as a kid can relate.

Late spring 1987. The goody good suburban ’80s were in full swing in my hometown, and my best time of the year was about to start: Little League baseball.

You see, the older kids had the limelight of football and basketball. But when you were a tween, the youth sports world revolved around one place: what was (at the time) the only LL field in town, right next to the high school football field. If you were a player during that time of year, you often wore your team’s jersey to school on game days (just like the HS football players did). This was serious biz.

The bleachers were always full of people watching, and there was even a food concession stand there too. And in clear view at that stand was always a list of everyone who had hit a home run that season (along with how many).

I didn’t simply want to get on that list. I HAD to.

It was always a childhood fantasy to hit one out. Not in the backyard (that was nothing), but during a real game. With the fans reacting and the scoreboard changing. During my 10 and 11 year old LL seasons, that hadn’t happened, but it didn’t bother me at all (as very few guys would hit homers at that field before their last season as 12 year olds).

Now, it was time. And before that final season began, my dad noticed a hitch in my swing that I’d developed (which led to us combining to come up with an adjustment at the plate that gave my bat more pop). Clearing the fence at that field was now easy in practice. I just had to do it when it counted.

Early in the season, I hit one off the base of the fence. A few games later, a deep shot clanged square off the top of it. So it only seemed like a matter of time, especially since I hadn’t really gotten into one yet.

But to my surprise and, before long, ever-growing frustration, it continued to elude me.

Before I knew it, the season was halfway over. At that point I started to press and went into a slump for a couple weeks, which just made things worse. Took a deep breath and got back on track eventually, but by then, I had almost run out of chances. All that was left was the short postseason (single elimination) tournament. Since we had only won three games all year, that meant that I probably had only one more shot.

Sure there were the all star games coming up too, but I couldn’t count on that. Plus, it just wouldn’t have been the same. It only seemed right to do it on my home field.

I singled in my first at bat. My next time up, we were ahead 2-1 with runners on second and third. A teammate yelled “we need these ribbies”.

The pitcher (and yes I remember who it was, but not saying here) laid one right down the middle. I swung. A long line drive took off to left field. And….

I didn’t even see what happened next. Why? Because my dad and I always made a point for the hitter to never watch the ball on his way to first base. Even in this spot, I held true to that. Despite the fact that I wasn’t sure if it was too much of a liner to get out.

So I only heard a unique roar from our side of the stands. Given that no one else on our team had homered all year, I knew what that meant. As I was getting to first base, I finally saw the left fielder at the fence, looking calmly beyond it, and that was when it was certain that it was gone. The scoreboard now said 5-1.

I don’t think I left a footprint the rest of the way around the bases. People took off to find the ball for me. It still sits at the house where I grew up, along with the other home run ball that I hit a little later during all-star competition (cause hey, the pressure was off then).

Anyway, we ended up losing 18-5 that day. But after I went deep, no one seemed to care that much (especially since we knew our poor last place team was just playing out the string.) And I’d like to think it was also because everyone else in the dugout lived the moment with me.

Which made it even that much better.

California dreamin’….

I’ve never really talked here about what life was like during my past successful times. And it’s a bit painful to relive (compared to how things are now). But once I heard the seagulls during the bridge of “The Boys of Summer” a few minutes ago, I couldn’t help but reflect on it.

Another flashback now: this time to 2005. I was ready to make the move that I hoped would define the rest of my life: to a beachfront condo in southern California. I’d always lived in colder climates and never liked them, and I’d loved the beach since I was a little kid. Had just turned 30 and had all of the surface things about life in order: my physical health, my career freedom, the financial fruits of that freedom, and many years in front of me. And it was time to finally reward myself for everything I’d earned. I’d spent the prior year planning on and off for that big move, and everything was finally ready to go.

My flight landed. I got a new car for Cali. The world should have been my oyster.

Two years later, I had left. Not much left but a mess of frustration, new life issues, and confusion about what to do next.

What…..the….hell…..happened, right?

I can blame some of it on the choice to get that nice condo. It made sense in the beginning since that was the kind of thing I’d always wanted, but that meant that most of my neighbors were a good bit older and the complex was way too quiet. I knew very few people in California before I moved, so my social life would have been entirely different if I’d lived somewhere surrounded by 20 and 30 somethings.

But that was just one of the problems. And definitely not the main one (cause let’s face it, if I really wanted to meet new people, I could have put some more effort into it and improved my social life some).

What REALLY happened? Depression still mostly ruled. At my core, I didn’t have it in me to be happy, so I didn’t try to much (even while otherwise living a daily existence that most people would’ve traded anything for). And I still don’t. As anyone who’s read much of my blog knows, that issue hasn’t changed in the 15 years since.

You can imagine how that felt. To have to move on from your life dream, simply because you didn’t have the emotional health to hold on to it. It still stings.

I should clarify that that result wasn’t a huge shock to me; it’s not like I didn’t know my psychological state at the time. And I totally knew that the whole “money can’t buy you happiness” cliche was true, so that wasn’t why I made the move and rewarded myself materially for the first time either. I guess I just hoped that somehow I’d find a way to start enjoying life, especially given such a backdrop for it. Unfortunately that did not happen.

So everyone reading…..if you have these chances for that possible new life that you’ve always wanted (regardless of the details), don’t hesitate to go for it. You’ll always wonder what might’ve been if you don’t.

But if you do take that plunge, be ready deep down to enjoy it. Because even though what ifs really suck, losing your dream is probably even worse.