Ann Liguori of CBS New York writes that Jonathan Martin, the victim of teammate Richie Incognito’s bullying, a sets a powerful example for kids everywhere for stepping forward
Meanwhile, Antrel Rolle of my beloved NY Giants, claims Martin is just as much at fault for not standing up to Icognito. Hey Antrel, it’s not so easy for everyone no matter how big you are or how much you bench press.
Brent Schrotenboer of USA TODAY Sports details Incognito’s long history of bullying
Amazing how bullying even exists at America’s highest level of professional sports and between teammates. This isn’t even hazing, which I’m against, but straight out bullying including social media and racial slurs used by a white player against a black player. Good to see the Dolphins refusing to stand for such behavior and for setting an example for young football fans by saying they will not tolerate bullying.
I’ve been struck by the leaves changing over the past few days as if I’m seeing them with new eyes. I don’t think I ever realized how much I love this season, just how beautiful is this natural wonder we call “autumn.” I know that sounds kind of ridiculous, but it’s true. One of the many horrid aspects about depression is that it dulls the senses and forces you to question not just your likes and loves, but your entire existence.
Autumn colors in Little Neck, Queens
When I had my first nervous breakdown back in 1996, I became very existential about life. I broke down religion, societal rules and mores, and the mind to the point where the floor had been swiped from beneath me and I fell like I was flailing through space. I came to the conclusion that everything was arbitrary, that had I been born in Africa or the Middle East or in a different time period,everything I believed would be different, and that everything I’d ever known was somehow affected by those who came before me. I did my best to convince everyone I knew about this and found it astonishing when some people refused to accept my newfound discoveries about life. Eventually I recovered, though not fully. My existential beliefs are still with me (though not to the point where I cannot function), and after my second breakdown in 2010, I began to attack myself more than ever. One of main questions was: Who am I? And coupled with that was: Do I really like what I like?
I’m not talking about people. Obviously I love Elaine and Sienna, my parents, my sister, my friends. What I mean by this is if someone led me into liking something, say baseball, can I really claim it as my own? Further, I’ve become the person who needs to check reviews before I can decide if I like something. If it’s against the grain, I’m scared to say I liked it. If Rottentomatoes.com gave a film 96% positive and I didn’t like it, I’m afraid to voice my opinion. It’s a horrible thing when you no longer trust your own opinion. I love reading, but sometimes I feel like I’m doing it just so I can say I’ve read x number of books. Since depression has deeply affected my memory (another aspect of the disease…I have so much trouble remembering film, books, etc., now), it makes me doubt myself that much more.
But over the last couple of weeks, a couple of my true likes have come to the surface. I went fishing with one of my best friends in Florida a couple of weeks ago and I had an amazing time. I realized just how much I love fishing even know I’d never eat what I catch because I find all seafood disgusting. During therapy the following week, I talked about how much fun I had and my therapist asked where that love of fishing came from. I had no answer like I do with baseball, film, television, reading, G.I. Joe, and about a zillion things which I attribute to one of my other best friends. I’ve always been fascinated by the underwater world, by the creatures that dwell beneath the surface. I wanted to be a marine biologist when I was a kid. Even the theme of Bar Mitzvah was “underwater” with styrofoam sculptures of an octopus (my favorite animal) and a manta ray standing on each side of the kids’ table. To this day I love aquariums and fishing and so I claim those likes.
Fishing in Tampa. I can’t deny the pure joy on my face
I also claim Greek mythology. I’ve been enthralled by Greek myths ever since I was first introduced to them in elementary school going so far as to write really terrible plays in second grade with names such as, “Dionysus Goes Bad.” I was like a kid in a candy store when I visited Greece, jabbering and taking pictures of a valley where Oedipus supposedly met and killed his father while my sister said, “It’s just grass!”
I also claim my likes of animals and natural beauty: wombats, The Grand Canyon, vampire bats, autumnal leaves. I like media and its cultural impact. I like satire. I like “Breaking Bad” and “Arrested Development” and The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. I truly like, nay, love these things.
But here’s the biggest thing. I’m claiming all my likes and loves including those I believe didn’t come organically to me. Baseball is a part of me as is film, ’80s music, G.I. Joe. I don’t care that the first G.I. Joe film got panned. I loved it! It made me feel like a kid again!.
Depression, as I’ve often said, is a war. You’re constantly attacked by irrational thoughts and self-doubt. I can’t say that I’m going to be able to hold this feeling each and every day, but for now, I’m staking my claim and realizing it shouldn’t matter if my friend got me into something.Nothing changes the fact that the leaves of autumn are beautiful.
The war will rage on, but at least now I have this blog to look at when the irrational thoughts try to take me down.
“You taking pictures of me?”
“Sorry?”
“You taking pictures of me?” He was about 5’10”, stocky, scruffy face, cold eyes.
This had to be a joke, right? I mean, we were surrounded by kids, costumes and cupcakes. Superman and Batman faced off in one corner (probably better than the upcoming film – sorry, couldn’t resist). Thinkertots was filled with princesses, owls, strawberries, superheroes, Buzz Lightyear, prisoners, and of course, my Sienna Shark. Parents held all sorts of cameras and smartphones trying to get that perfect shot of their children. Some of the parents were costumed up. All of the teachers were. This was a safe, festive place.
“Let me see,” he demanded. I kept expected him to break out into a wide grin and say, “Kidding, man!” It wasn’t to be.
I clicked through the last few shots I’d taken of Elaine holding Sienna and there he was in the background, glaring.
“Delete them,” he said and stalked off.
I felt queasy, my insides seizing up and then releasing. I immediately deleted the pics and felt ashamed because I’d given in to this guy as Elaine, her best friend and Sienna watched. I was 39 years old but felt like I was a kid, once more being bullied by my peers. This wasn’t a cop hiding behind a badge. This was just a guy. I wanted to snidely say something like, “I feel sorry for your kid!” But I didn’t. I recognized it wasn’t the place. Still the shame was all-encompassing. My day was ruined.
Elaine and her best friend told me I handled it well. I felt differently because once more I didn’t stand up for myself. I did my best to act normally, but my outrage and embarrassment slipped through. On the way back I saw this gorgeous tree, the very visual definition of autumn, bursting in yellows, reds and oranges. I stopped the car and took a picture hoping it would ease my anger. I lied and said it did.
That evening we were at my parents’ house and my rage was in full force. I sat stonily and spoke in monotones. Eventually I went upstairs to lie down. When it was time to go out to dinner, Elaine came upstairs and asked if I was okay and if I wanted to go. I said I couldn’t, that my mood would just ruin things. She reiterated that I’d done well and I shook my head. She restated it wasn’t the place and I said I was ashamed. She gave me a kiss and went downstairs. I put my hat over my face.
I’d coincidentally watched the chilling documentary, Bully, just a few days before. The film follows 5 kids and their families, including one family whose child committed suicide because of incessant bullying. It captures the powerlessness of the prey, how the families sometimes don’t believe just how bad it is, how the schools often do nothing, how other kids, including those who have experienced bullying themselves, usually turn away or join in, how the victims are too afraid to say anything. The film is a must see for any parent, a frightening look at the culture of school bullying, a world I’d experienced throughout my childhood.
But here I was rapidly nearing 40 and still being bullied, this time in front of my family. I replayed the incident over and over while lying alone in the dark, the things I could have said or done, though logically I knew it wasn’t the place. I felt guilty and furious for doing nothing and then for allowing the episode to mar the rest of my day and taint the fun I’d had before it. Eventually I fell asleep.
Elaine awakened me and told me it was time to leave. I looked at my phone and saw a text which Elaine must have sent from the restaurant:
“I support u and love you, I am in no way upset or offended that yu stayed. I am happy that you recognize what you need. This is growth, I’m proud of u”
Was this growth? I apologized to my mom on the way out.
“No apologies,” she said. “I’m proud of you.”
In the car I asked Elaine what they talked about. Elaine said she told them exactly what happened and they couldn’t believe this guy would act this way at a children’s party, that some people shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce, that in essence, the guy was a total bastard and I handled it perfectly.
I wish I’d kept the pictures so I could publish his face in this blog, but that would petty. I don’t know if what I did was growth. I don’t feel like it was. I’m still eating away at myself for not standing up, for once more being the victim. And I’m still angry. We’ll see what my therapist says. For now, this blog is done and I have a little girl who craves my attention.
I stress over everything whether rational or irrational (mostly the latter). Lately I’ve been stressing about blogging, how I’m falling behind, losing my readers. I have so many things I want to blog about and I feel overwhelmed. For instance, I really really want to blog about “Breaking Bad” but my former writing instructor’s voice keeps telling me such a piece is no longer “timely” and therefore I’ve lost my chance. Sounds ridiculous, of course, because it is. Still, it’s hampering me. Another thing I’m stressing about is designing Sienna’s latest photo book. Usually I create one every three months, but I’m two months behind. I’m anxious each time I try to work on it because it has to be perfect (perfection being a nasty habit about which I’ve already blogged), and the longer I wait, the harder it is to do. Last night as I was lamenting working on her next book, Elaine suggested writing about my difficulties in hopes it’ll release me both from my backed up blogging and my photo book anxiety. So this might not be the best blog, but at least it’ll be out there.
When we first told people Elaine was pregnant, one of my best friends advised me to take pictures – lots and lots of pictures – because I’m naturally going to forget things as Sienna enters new stages. I’ve followed his advice, but have added my own craziness. Because of sites like Shutterfly that allow you to be creative and design your own photo books, I’ve become obsessed with preserving perfect memories. I spend hours constructing these books, sometimes staying up all night as a coupon deadline approaches. The front and back cover pictures must be perfect. The title must convey the book’s substance. Each page must be beautiful and include enhancements (that Shutterfly allows you to add or images I’ll download from the ‘net) and my own witticisms. For example, if Sienna’s wearing a zombie shirt in a pic, I might add a shot from “The Walking Dead” and the word, “BRAINS!!!” It’s gotten to the point where I’m no longer doing these books just for Elaine, Sienna and I, but for an unknown audience that’ll never see them. If I notice a grammatical error upon receiving the book, I get seriously pissed at myself for ruining the thing. It’s wholly irrational and ludicrous, but what else is new?
I wonder if I’m alone when it comes to photo book anxiety. Do other people go nuts trying to create the perfect album? Is this a universal reaction to the numerous possibilities presented by sites like Shutterfly or does it just happen to me, someone who gets obsessed and anxious? All I know is that I’m being irrational and yet I’m not currently able to stop these feelings that rush at me like a charging bull.
My mom once suggested I go slowly when designing these books – a page here, a page there – instead of waiting until the last minute. I’ve tried that, but it hasn’t worked. I find I’m more creative (if that’s what it is) when under the gun. But with each book comes a need to top myself, and this time, I’m completely blocked. There are dozens of folders sitting on my desktop filled with pictures that demand perfect placement and accompanying words and enhancements. It’s scary how much power they have over me or to be more realistic, how much power my irrational mind has over me. It’s just a damn photo album, but to me it represents so much more. Just like this blog is just a damn blog. Now if I could just believe that.