A Visit to
New York City
Prologue
When people speak about anger management they are usually referring to violence, in particular the inability of a person, usually a man, to control his rage. Arguments spin out of control and result in physical assault of varying degrees, loud arguments that disturb the peace, destruction of property, and so forth. But violence has other faces. It can be the bitter personal attack delivered with chilled reptilian blood that draws pitilessly upon the shared trust and knowledge gained over the course of a long relationship. It can be the aloof refusal to engage in a difficult situation brought on by unrelated circumstances outside the control and and beyond the understanding of the parties involved. Flying coffee cups and broken furniture, not to mention broken noses, are physical forms of violence that can manifest in other ways.
It is natural for a person to feel discomfort when confronted by a situation that may or may not result in violence. How a person anticipates the outcome of this type of confrontation influences their subsequent entry into the situation. The expectations a person brings are shaped by a variety of factors, including how that person was socialized to deal with confrontation by his or her early upbringing, the circumstances of his or her environment, and the experiences the person brings from previous confrontational situations. A medical condition can also be a factor, along with drug abuse, diet abuse, and lifestyle issues in general.
Anger is natural. For most people, it is an understood behavior with implicit rules and taboos. Anger is a primitive, that is, early, emotion, so this understanding in most people is nonverbal. In other words, not consciously understood by rather felt or known naturally. The medical and/or legal systems enter into the picture when the rules are violated and result in violence. When that occurs, a person is said to have an anger management issue. Society recognizes this and takes come combination of punitive and remedial measures to correct it.
However, a pernicious if uncommon anger management issue occurs when one party (or, rarely, both parties) is inclined to confrontation avoidance or flight. This is the refusal to engage in an anger confrontation, on any level. Such a person will flee the situation, physically or psychologically, even if the anger is not directed at, or coming from, the flight-inclined individual. It can be any confrontational situation regardless of whether or not the observer is directly involved.
Flight behavior manifests itself peacefully—superficially. In other words, without anger, violence, bitterness, hatefulness, or any observable negativity. However, the flight individual harbors poorly concealed anxiety about the confrontational situation. This poses a special problem in situations where the other players have socially acceptable expectations of an anger reaction. Faced with a missing, expected response from a flight-inclined individual, combined with the sense that something has happened, and lacking verbal clues, an ordinary person will find no natural, personal outlet for the expression of his or her anger.
The frustration is as confounding as it is inexplicable, for both parties.
Confrontation
He sits for several hours listening to her rant and rave about seemingly everything under the sun. He tries to be a supportive friend but does not provide the commiseration she expects and needs. She turns the blast in his direction as her frustration grows. He recognizes this change immediately but bears it internally. Violence begets violence, he thinks, Be a good listener. Be supportive. He does not take the attacks personally because he can see that she is upset and needs to vent. He tries to be logical and offer advice and suggestions. The confrontation spins out of control and grows increasingly vindictive. He begins to pace. He sees Mom and Dad arguing, is scared, afraid of punishment, doesn't know what to do. Is it my fault? What have I done? She continues to vent, following him around the room with her laser-guided attention, wondering why he cannot sit still. His meandering takes him out of the room for moments. He calls back to her, I'm listening. She gets up and follows him around. He cannot escape her. And so it continues, on and on and on and on... The night lengthens. The Movie begins. The mania arrives.
He changes from his house clothes. The atmosphere grows quiet. She asks, What are you doing? Where are you going? He doesn't know. Familiar black. Boots. Tank top. Bullet belt. I'm Batman. I can take all I need in my pockets. Wallet. Money. Credit cards. PDA cell phone — addresses, diary, passwords, medical information. Keys (with pen knife, data back up, emergency information, money), Cigarettes with lighter, ready to go. Nicorette. Bus fare. I'm going to take a walk. I need some air. Indeed. She worries. I've gone too far. What did I say? Why is he upset? Are you upset? No, no, I just need to take a walk. He smiles reassuringly. She wanders back to the other end of the apartment, completely unassured. He's upset. What happened? He uses the moment of personal space to snatch his cutting razor from the cutting drawer. Undetected. She returns. Are you OK? Can I do something for you? I just need to take a walk. He leaves her staring at the door as he enters the cool 2:00 AM morning air of San Francisco.
Escape
The walk up Market street to the top of the Twin Peaks overpass is
invigorating. The city is spread before him like an unreal postcard
panorama. So many years, so many failures, so much sadness, but still
the City glitters like a beautiful jewel beneath the stars and moon of
the clear California night air. The streets are quiet at 2:00 AM. Only
an occasional car or delivery truck breaks the silence. One guy
walking along at this hour raises few eyebrows; the bars close at
2:00 AM. Someone didn't get lucky tonight, they must think. He
continues along Market street as it turns into Portola avenue and down
to the Twin Peaks business district. He can take out some money from an
ATM and stay the night in a motel to cool off. I need some space. We
can deal with this tomorrow. Everything can wait until tomorrow. There
will be a Walgreen's or other all-night pharmacy from which rubbing
alcohol and the other accouterments of cutting can be purchased.
Nothing is open at the Twin Peaks merchant plaza at 3:00 AM. Typical. San Francisco is such a small town at times. He decides to walk down to West Portal, the tunnel on the west side of Twin Peaks that via the Metro subway connects the two sides of the City to one another. There's a Walgreen's (or is it a Rite-Aid) down there that surely must be open. It's a quiet walk downhill through the largely residential area of Forest Hills. He cuts to the right down to the West Portal neighborhood and walks several blocks toward the Metro station at the mouth of the tunnel. Everything is closed. No problem. He can take the streetcar back to Castro and rent a room at the Motor Lodge. The Walgreen's at Castro is open all night.
The Metro station is closed. Of course. The subway does not run
between, what? 1:00 AM and 5:00 AM? Is there a night owl bus
somewhere? No, it's not obvious where one can be caught, although he
remembers vaguely that they do in fact operate when the subway is
closed. Damn. What a hassle. And now he needs to pee, on top of
everything else. He trips out a notch higher. No one around. Ducks
behind a retaining wall for the station and relieves himself. Whew.
Something worked, anyway. I'll call a cab. It's a brief wait
during which he manages to burn two of his fingertips in a freak
accident that causes the cigarette to get caught when he removes it
from his mouth. Ow. It hurts. Where's the fucking taxi? It's
quiet. The neon lights of the closed businesses are surrounded by
halos. There's rustling in the bushes. The light of the closed subway
station is bright with fluorescent utilitarianism. The rushing passes
through his brain in waves. He has forgotten to take his evening
medication...
The cab arrives. Where to? He says, SFO. Got any baggage? the driver inquires. He resists the euphoric temptation to answer, Yes, but it's all in my head. No, I travel light. Cool, man. It's the only way to do it. The cab driver is tripping on Ry Cooder and this plays well in the Movie. The driver asks if he has a route preference. He asks him to take 680. He's always thought it's faster and the 101 route is dull, anyway. Where are you going? He hadn't thought this far, has to improvise. Domestic departures please. Which airline? Well, I'm headed to New York. Got friends there? Sort of, it's a surprise. So you'll be taking United I guess, right? Yeah, United. I don't like changing flights. I hear you, man. The drive is direct, the scenery beautiful.
Defiance
I got a raft of shit from just about everybody I talked to in the past several weeks about my desire to take a vacation in NYC. Would I be safe taking a vacation? I just love that word, safe, when used in its psychiatric context. Safe. Is anyone ever safe, really? Do you mean, Will I wrap a cheap hotel cable television cord around my neck and use it to stop my fall from (for example) the third story window of a hotel room in Greenwich Village? Will I crank up the electronic brain dissection music on my iPod while I carefully slice new scars from the fall in my arms? Damn! I forgot my iPod. I guess the cutting won't happen unless I can find a fucking all-night drugstore in New York that sells razor blades. Uncouth in comparison to the perfect Ice Queen Steel of my five inch straight razor (gone!) But one must work with available materials.
I am never safe. I was never safe. I will never become safe. I have no personal space. I have no personal identity. I have no life to give up to suicide, so simple, so painless. These things were taken inexorably from me by the same society so desperate for my reintegration. When it burst into and violated my former life. Raped my soul and tossed me lifeless like a played-out Raggedy Andy among the flotsam and jetsam of its failures to learn, anew, how to eat, sleep, and shit. Senseless and insane. And this I did:
My sanity is my own and
My life is reborn and I own it.
I need no personal space and
I need no name and
I need no safety because
I am Falling Man.
Falling Man am I.
Falling Man.
Falling I am safe and
Falling I live.
Of safety I know zero and care less.
Tripping
Not many people up at this hour. There must be a flight to the far
east because what looks like the entire population of South Korea is
milling around, outside of, and inside of the entrance and everywhere
else, besides. I'm in line, by myself, buying a ticket. No baggage
to check, thanks. South Korea has, on the other hand, emptied
every Target store south of San Francisco and plans to take it aboard
as carry-on luggage. A single, frustrated guard is pointing hopelessly
at the little rectangular box at the entrance to the roped-off lines.
YOUR CARRY-ON LUGGAGE MUST FIT INTO THIS
BOX A man in his sixties carrying a surf board stares at her
with obsidian eyes. The guard attempts to explain the requirements to
the next group of passengers. The line moves slowly, glacially,
forward. I muse, This guard really needs a donut.
Goddamn anal-retentive California politics. It's only a matter of
time before smoking dope and shoving Methadone up your ass will be
something you can do at a bar while cigarette smoking will be
criminalized. I step outside to smoke, careful to stand at least 20
feet away from the entrance. The sun has risen, it's about 8:00 AM,
maybe later. It's unusually chilly. I draw the collar of my charcoal
gray trench coat closed and up around my neck. Fortunately my gloves
are tight-fitting so I need not remove them to take out and light a
cigarette. I stand shivering in the cold air, watching my steamy
breath mingle with the cigarette smoke, idly observing the traffic
coming and going. Picking up passengers. Lines of yellow cabs. The
Koreans are gone. Just men and women, mostly business people, hurrying
to appointments, talking into cell phones. Climbing into taxicabs. New
York Yellow Cab. New York?
Falling Man, you got a problem.
Landing
I pull out my cell phone and call Em. She does not answer. I need a place to stay. I call back to San Francisco. Wye answers. Desperate. Where are you? I'm OK, I am in JFK. Contact Em. Find out where I can rent a hotel. I wait. Smoke another cigarette in the freezing NYC morning. No one sees me. I am invisible. Em calls. She is upset. She did not expect me to show up unannounced in New York. She cannot come to me, I cannot go to her. Hotel, dammit! I need a destination. She gives me the name and number for the St. Marks Hotel in the Village. Are you sure that's the correct number? Yes, I think so, she says. Thinks so. Great. I thank her and jot the number down on my matchbook cover. Goodbye Em. Goodbye. Sorry for the hassle. Good bye. My voice is loud within me but my heart is gone. Goodbye.
I detect that I have purchased a round-trip ticket (good) but will
not return to San Francisco until Thursday. It is Tuesday.
I will stay in NYC for two nights. I call the St. Marks Hotel to
reserve a room. My cell phone battery is dangerously low—this had
better work the first time or I will be in deep shit. The St. Marks
does not accept credit cards. What!? I confirm this, incredulously. I
promise to pay in cash in advance for both nights. They promise to
hold a room for me. It is a smoking room. Of course. This is New York.
People actually smoke here and do not believe that cigarette smoke is
more harmful then the belching, poisonous carbon monoxide fumes of the
overweight and senseless SUV monsters they do not drive. I would love
to challenge a politically correct San Franciscan to choose between
spending twenty-four hours locked in a hermetically sealed garage with
their SUV running the entire time or with me chain smoking.
One will cause death by asphyxiation and the other by boredom.
I catch a taxicab, something that is still possible to do with relative ease in NYC, to downtown Manhattan. It's been thirty years since I last visited New York and as we leave Long Island to enter Manhattan I am struck again, as if for the first time, by the awesome size and beauty of the urban monolith that is Gotham. My mania is now over twenty-four hours running and the colors and air and sounds of NYC feed it and pump it and fuck it like a ravenous nymphomaniac. I am hysterical with euphoria and cannot wait for my Pakistani driver to Get There Now!
I have an enormous amount of cash on me. I must have withdrawn it from an ATM along the way, although I have no recollection of having done so. I assure the clerk that I shall abide by the rules of the hotel. He is not assured. I assure the clerk that I shall abide by the rules of the hotel. He attempts to double-charge me for the two nights. I remove my sunglasses and stare directly into his eyes. I assure the clerk that I shall abide by the rules of the hotel. He corrects his mistake and hands over my key. I climb up the almost vertical flight of stairs to my little aerie in the top of the hotel. It has an open window that looks down on St. Marks Place. The room is Spartan but comfortable. Exhausted, I throw myself on to the bed and lie there for several... minutes?
Crashing
I am ill. I recognize the symptoms. I have contracted staphylococcus and it is in the beginning stage. I remember not having been able to receive my last two Neupogen injections from the mail order pharmaceutical death camp that supplies my medicine. My immune system must have been weakened when I entered mania. And I have just spent six hours confined in a metal tube with 150 other people, breathing their air and otherwise sharing their space in as intimate a fashion as possible without actually achieving orgasm. I take inventory.
I am wearing my contact lenses. OK, I need to leave them in for the duration of this stay—I cannot risk losing one or both and I am still a novice at placing them in my eyes. I will need to buy lens cleaner that I can use directly in my eyes. I start a list on the hotel stationary. I have several packs of Marlboro's—no need to rush out for cigarettes. I have so much cash on me that I am unable to count it without becoming confused. My cell phone is almost dead. I will need to buy a phone card to call back to San Francisco. The hotel in its infinite paranoia does not allow direct calls from the room telephones. I turn off the phone to conserve its energy in case I need to refer to information on the PDA. I am tired but wired with mania. The staphylococcus will begin to take me in twelve to twenty-four hours. I need to do something about this although I can function, if necessary, while feverish with it for up to three days. I have no medication. The Hepatitis C therapy can be skipped for a week without lasting effect. But I am without my Abilify. In my current stage of mania I will become psychotic sometime tomorrow. I will not be able to return to San Francisco. This is a problem.
I call Wye and give her the number of the hotel to call me back. She does and we speak for a while. She is understandably upset. She promises to call Em to have her contact me. But Em never calls me during my stay in New York. Wye promises to call back. I fall asleep. The call does not reach me. Wye reads the Riot Act to the hotel staff and from this time onward they are aware that I am very ill, may expect a visitor (despite hotel policy), and are completely cooperative during my stay.
Wye talks me through this and saves my life.
I write.
A New York Diary
Tuesday, January 24, 2006 ~11:00 PM
To Do List:
1. Contact the Icarus Project
2. Contact Em
3. Locate a clinic for the staphylococcus infection and Abilify
4. Buy deodorant
5. Buy an AC adapter for my Samsung i500 cell phone
6. Buy a travel bag or shoulder bag or something.
7. Buy a pen knife.
8. Buy some colored markers.
9. Buy razor blades and shaving cream.
I manage to reprogram the television in my room to locate its channels from the cable to which it is connected instead of its internal antenna. I watch The Fifth Element.
I speak with Wye for about an hour. I have arrived at the hotel at 6:00 OM and napped from 7:00 to 10:00 PM. The truly wild mania has passed, it's much more mellow now after the nap (and probably subdued by the infection). I'm still hearing the brain WHOOSH noise very frequently, which suggests the Abilify is still active. I hope it stays so until I can get more or until Thursday morning when I return from New York.
The cell is almost dead. I need to find a Sprint store to get another battery and AC adapter. Fortunately Wye and Em have my hotel number.
The staphylococcus infection is severe. I have three boils on my ass, one on my right shin, and new sores popping up all over the place. One of the boils on my ass broke and bled all over the place. The shin boil is dreadfully painful. I tried squeezing both but they would not break. I put antibiotic salve on each but I doubt it will have much of an effect.
Leaving the way I did I haven't my eyeglasses. I bought contact rise and eye wash.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006 ~2:00 AM
Sad Son of Ilium
Sunlight falls in besotted joy
upon the walls of Ilium.
Protected,
secure and proud,
manned and strong.
Oh reckless Paris, alone in Troy,
behind her walls infected.
Your muse impales,
Your yearning loud.
Your heart so pure. So wrong.
Glittering in unbroken light
is a silent goddess.
Rejected
by the scornful crowd.
Ignorant. Apollo's throng.
Weep sad son of Ilium.
By Hiram accepted.
Prepare to fail.
Dare Gods now long forgotten.
Ignore Cassandra's song.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006 7:00 AM
Wrote the poem above late last night. It's been humming in my head for weeks. So my voice is back. But what of my heart? Will I see her?
I hate these goddamn exploding matches! I smoked my last American Spirit; have moved on to Marlboro's.
The infection on my skin is surrealistically painful. The butt boils hurt but seem bearable. I must get to a clinic.
My sleep has been interrupted by nightmares.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006 9:50 AM
I'm in the Beth Israel emergency room. I spoke with the psychiatric doctor on duty who got delayed during the interview by a (personal?) emergency. I had a blood draw by a nice technician. I think the psychiatrist wants to talk with Dr. Ess and Walgreen's about the Abilify. He seems less concerned about the medication than my passing desire to extend my visit to NYC through the weekend—a flight of fancy if ever there was one.
I am back in the waiting area outside of the psychiatrist's office. A new patient has just arrived. She was taken away to acute care.
An incredibly cute administrator took my PacifiCare information. She sounded Jamaican, perhaps west African.
I met with Dr. Ess (ironically, a psychiatrist here with the same name as my own back home). Apparently the other fellow is an intern. I gave the doctor a digest of my condition and circumstances of my arrival in NYC. Sweet young men—both have visited San Francisco. They allowed me to step out and smoke a cigarette. I think the intern's name is doctor Hartman.
[Back in the hotel room] I got lost coming back from Beth Israel, where it took three hours to test my blood, write prescriptions, etc. To make matters worse, I couldn't find the pharmacy I went to last night. I finally stumbled on it and it took one and a half hours to get all three prescriptions filled. PacifiCare covered the antibiotics but $60 came out of my pocket for the Abilify.
Took a dose at 4:00 PM and utterly exhausted, napped until 6:00 PM. Called Wye before and after the nap.
Thursday, January 26, 2006 1:10 AM
My Lost Heart
I speak not of some quivering remnant,
Cast from Eden,
Bloody and heavy flesh,
Throbbing yet in vain.
Not meat served at a crowded table.
Still steaming upon a dirty plate.
For greedy feasters to watch it die,
And in panting hunger to await.
My heart dreams of broken chains,
Oblivious to carnal pains
My heart has no aching pulse
Has no beat, does not repulse.
Heaven's light sees not flesh
That dies in pools of sticky blood.
Heaven refracts. Delights afresh.
Reveals a glittering flood.
My heart knows not of pain
Or icy rain or snide disdain.
My heart loves and suffers no stain.
Like sea gulls drifting in the breeze,
My heart floats above the shore.
Above the crashing seas.
Hears only the surf, no more.
Alas. I know not where my heart lies.
I hear only the distant sea gull cries.
Thursday, January 26, 2006 2:15 AM
And so it goes. I lie here in exhausted pain, unable to find a comfortable position to sit, to sleep, to eat, to dress, to walk, to pee. I paid a mighty physical and spiritual price to find my voice and my heart. The former is returned to me. The latter is still elusive.
The Abilify is working. I feel only sadness but not rage. The whoosh of the fall continues. Over and over again—like static bursts through my brain. Every movement is accompanied by several bursts (Whoosh! Whoosh!) Some thoughts, too. A constant companion and reminder of my schizophrenia. Time to color...
Thursday, January 26, 2006 3:00 AM
While making the bed I accidentally dropped a lit cigarette to the floor and unintentionally extinguished it by stepping on it with the heel of my right foot. By accident, of course. So now I can add a new burn to my litany of bodily discomfort.
I need to sleep.
Thursday, January 26, 2006 6:40 AM
Fitful dozing. Decide to start my day with two Ibuprofen and two antibiotics.
Thursday, January 26, 2006 9:15 AM
I'm at JFK. I have just finished a cinnamon and a cheese danish, I've set myself down at the window by Gate 40 from where my flight leaves at 11:00 AM.
Although I had a dreadful night, I feel much better and less physically ill today than yesterday.
One thing I must remember to note in the transcript of this experience was the total lack of panic in me during the flight to NYC. It may be due to me having already been manic. I need to compare the return trip to that one to see if I have indeed conquered flight fear.
Thursday, January 26, 2006 11:10 AM
So I get a window seat, anyway. The young lady assigned to the seat next to me has a bad knee. We switched places.
Thursday, January 26, 2006 12:50 PM
I am en route from NYC to SF. The takeoff was mercifully smooth. We have been served drinks. Am having tea and taking a...what? A meal break.
I begin to see a pattern in the cyclic rise and fall of my moods and the emotional transitions. I will sketch this and continue to refine it.
Thursday, January 26, 2006 1:30 PM
I don't know why I even try to bother to sleep on an airplane. Of course, sitting in the back row doesn't help. The seat cannot be fully reclined.
We just flew over a remarkable mosaic of canyons, plateaus, and in the distance, snowcapped mountains. I thought it was the Badlands of North Dakota but my fellow passenger thinks it is Bryce National Canyon in Utah. Why would we be flying over Utah?
I need to come up with a behavioral strategy for minimizing...
Home
It's not the fall that kills you.
It's the sudden stop at the end.
Keep falling and you live.
—Falling Man