I cannot . . .
My psyche is in an uproar of late, I’m in the throes of fighting like mad a dysthymic dip which threatens to strand me in the batcave, unwilling and unable to emerge, and so I must – each day, while I still can, force myself to interact with others, actively BE in the world.
This is a very bad episode. Very, very, very bad. The kind of bad that scares me. Fortunately, this level of low kicks the mania into high gear as well, and so, ironically, it is nearly undetectable to most people, to almost everyone in fact except those who know me extremely well and can read the danger signs. In fact, when these hit and I know I have to force myself to continue being engaged in life rather than running and hiding, it appears to others that I am in a better rather than worse mood than usual. I laugh more. I talk more. I am funnier. I am spinning faster. Only a very few people notice the edge inside it, hear the tick of the depression time-bomb inside the cacophony of my being “out there”, my being alive.
Now, one of the features of these is that there seems always to be some news story or life event happening at the same time with which I become obsessed. In the olden days I would often blame that story/event for causing the “fit” – but, I have realized after decades of living with this that it is not the story/event causing the fit, but the fit causing me to focus on the story/event.
It is my bad luck that there are a number of “events” going on with people I know personally right now, some involving me, some not, but all of them causing me angst. However, these PALE in comparison to my obsession with the story of Andrew and Anthony Johnson.
I mean — can you fathom this? These twins in their sixties who lived alone in a house in Tennessee and were found, dead and decomposed, skeletal remains, in matching chairs in that home having been dead for approximately three years.
THREE YEARS THEY WERE DEAD BEFORE ANYONE CHECKED ON THEM. In, I believe, recliners. Matching recliners. (I might be making that part up. But . . . )
You can read about it HERE … or HERE … although both are virtual regurgitations of an AP feed; this story is going to require a writer like Truman Capote to find its core and make it make some sort of sense — how in the world in THIS WORLD where we are all so freaking connected and in everyone’s business on so many levels and so many ways did two men die, side by side, and rot for three years before anyone ever thought to check on them?
People didn’t see them. Didn’t miss them. They rotted away alone and unnoticed. It was going on as people all around their home and neighborhood, relatives, went on with their lives and not noticing a thing. Not thinking to notice. They died and decomposed alone. Unseen.