Skip to main content

Little Panic

There are three memoirs out, all exploring mental illness: "The Scar," "The Edge of Every Day," and "Little Panic."

This genre is like candy to me, and I very much appreciate writers who acknowledge that mental illness generally isn't something you recover from. A favorite craziness memoir of mine is "Monkey Mind," where the writer admits that he sometimes wears thick pads in his armpits to control his sweating at work, and also where the writer says that repeated viewings of "Singing in the Rain" sometimes (sort of) help.

My own response to intense social anxiety--which visits me pretty regularly--is this:

*Search, on your phone, "how to handle social anxiety." You'd think reading this kind of article once would solve the problem, but as I'm nervously awaiting an innocuous encounter, I forget all the tips. Also, just doing the search gives you something to do, and this allows your monkey mind to be (briefly) less aware of itself.

*Remind yourself that you have in fact endured social encounters before, and no one has exploded.

*Plan some kind of reward. I particularly like this step. Some experts argue that you should view a social encounter as a trip to the gym--and you should reward yourself afterward. Why not?

*Just try to learn something. Even in the most deadening encounter, there's likely something to be learned. A nice way of looking at the world.

My (mostly-plagiarized) tips--concluded. Happy Summer Reading to you.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...