The Travails Of Buying a Condo While Suffering From An Anxiety Disorder

I'm pretty sure that somewhere in this nitwitty blog I have mentioned I have an anxiety disorder. It's pretty much impossible to explain what an anxiety disorder is like to anyone not familiar with the illness. In extreme cases, an anxiety disorder can be completely debilitating. A person might be unwilling to leave the house, or even a room. As for myself, I have it good compared to some others. Most of the time the affliction is pretty manageable and I'm not overly bothered by it... most of the time.

About six weeks ago I realized that I could afford to have a domicile upgrade. In other words; I decided to move into a nicer place. For some strange reason I thought that my anxiety disorder would not be affected by this decision. I hired a realtor and put her to work. I looked at my first house prospect, chatted with the other realtor, and everything seemed fine inside of me, psychologically speaking. Then, a few days later, came a proverbial cloudburst. I realized that I was in for putting a lot of my life savings into the new house, buying new furniture, and then getting everything moved from one place to another. My anxiety disorder went crazy, in effect, I went crazy.

My doctor prescribed for me an anti-anxiety medication. I was told that it would be easily tolerable. Well, it would have been easily tolerable if I had flushed it down the toilet. Three days into the medication I awoke one morning... well, that's just it; I barely awoke at all. I felt very lethargic. I suffered from nausea, and of course I still had the anxiety. I missed a day of work, spending the day on my sofa, nauseated and half comatose. So much for that medication.

I realized that I was going to have to go about this whole buying process quickly. It was either going to be fast, or I was going to die. Well, maybe not die, but at least be in miserable state of anxiety.

I looked at a few places and finally decided to buy a nice, ranch-style condo. As recommended by my realtor, I made an offer significantly below the asking price, a move that worked to fuel my anxiety. I received a counter offer, but my realtor advised me to make yet another offer rather than accept their counter offer. With my anxiety now through the roof, I made a counter offer. The result was yet one more counter offer from the condo owner. I had had enough and so had my anxiety; no more counter offers. I accepted their last offer. It may have cost me a few thousand dollars. Such is the price of an anxiety disorder.

Next came the professional inspection of the condo. I watched the guy check the pipes, the electrical outlets, and the furnace. He found a couple things that were fixable but unacceptable as is. Naturally these issues will have to be remedied one way or another or I'm probably going to retract my offer. If you think this situation eases my anxiety, you would be mistaken.

Anyway, that's where I stand as of today, October 8th, 2014 at about 5:57 PM. Maybe writing about this ordeal will act as therapy and help with the anxiety. It can't hurt, trust me. Heck, maybe my next blog entry will be written in my new condo and this extreme anxiety will be just a bad memory. That would be nice.        

Old Stuff

I've got a ton of old stuff. I can be seated at my computer, swivel around in my chair and my eyes will focus on several ancient relics.

There's an open closet just to my right. I can see a team shirt I wore while playing softball around 1976 or '77. In fact, now that I look in the closet a little deeper, there are two softball shirts hanging in there. One of them has Out-r-Inn stitched on it, which was the tavern that sponsored us, sponsored us about 1979 or so. Hanging alongside the softball shirts is a coat that was purchased for me by a former girlfriend. We broke-up in 1984. There in the closet is a workshirt from the mid-80s. Up on the shelf is an analog video camera, one of those things that weighs about 20 pounds. Okay, I should to get rid of that.

Across the room is this old table. Upon it is a computer that I no longer use but have never felt compelled to dispose of. The table was in my first apartment, left behind by the previous tenant. I moved into the apartment in 1970, the table has been with me ever since. I received my chest of drawers in the same apartment at the same time. I see in the corner a floor fan. God only knows how old that is. I probably bought it at Sun TV about 40 years ago. Next to my computer monitor is a souvenir cup from Yosemite. It's 25 years old, or in other words; practically new.

In the basement I have two sets of golf clubs. One was used by my father until he bought a new set, which represents the other set of clubs down in the basement. My dad died in 1991. There is a hockey stick down there too, hanging on the wall. The stick was used during the one and only hockey game I ever played in the mid-70s.

There is one new item in my cellar; a hot water heater. I had it installed yesterday. It cost me $700. I can afford $700. There wasn't much financial sting because I've saved some money over the years. Geez, I wonder how.  

A Personal Imperfection

I have a few imperfections. I admit it. One of them stays pretty well hidden most of the time, even to the people who know me best. But the imperfection is there, this I can assure you.

I have an anxiety disorder with distinct hints of depression. The anxiety disorder generally goes by GAD or General Anxiety Disorder. It isn't always general however. About a dozen years ago I had trouble driving a car because the anxiety took the form of  obsession/compulsion. I had an unrealistic anxiety of wrecking the car and killing myself or others. Driving was terrifying. Even being a passenger was unsettling. I got cognitive therapy from a psychologist and over the course of a number of visits over several weeks, I beat the obsessive/compulsive element of the problem and ever since I've been able to drive a car with just occasional periods of emotional discomfort.

For most folks who have this form of disorder, their first negative experiences come fairly early in life. I first started getting signs when I was in my late forties; much later than the norm. For the last fifteen years or so the disorder has been with me. I can't shake free of it and probably never will. The good news is that most of the time it is not much more intruding than a background noise. But there are times when it just kind of jumps out at me and then just as quickly ducks back undercover, just lurking.

Now and then the disorder grabs a hold and sticks to me for a longer period of time. Maybe a week or so. I will feel despondent and worn out. I try to hide it because no one can do much about it. But for me, when those times come, I will occasionally get a moment when the discomfort subsides and I get an instant of feeling good. This "instant" is just that; perhaps fifteen seconds or so. Like the sun bursting through an overcast sky. That bit of sunshine may not be much but it can be enough to let me know that the sun still shines.

The last month or so the anxiety and depression have been unwelcome guests a bit too often. I am back with a psychologist and taking cognitive therapy. I also have medication which I have not yet taken due to the very real possibility of adverse side effects which happened to me about ten years ago when trying a different medication.

For me this isn't a totally crippling affliction. I still go to work, laugh, and crack bad jokes. But it can be like going to work and cracking bad jokes while standing in the cold rain; much of the fun and enjoyment is absent. But I'm an optimist, and I know sunny days are just ahead. They always have been.          

Being Seldom Seen Really Isn't So Bad

This blog is called the "Seldom Seen" blog because, well, no one knows anything about it. According to the visitor counter, I've had like six views in five years. That's not an altogether bad thing, by any stretch of the imagination. The wrong person sees this blog and it could ruin their day, maybe even a whole week. Fortunately my mother can't see it, unless she faked her death, which she might have done, just to get away (obviously it's not "too soon"). What if Joy Laughlin, now Joy Laughlin D'Avanzo happened to see this moronic blog? She's an old high school classmate of mine and if she ever saw it she would lose complete respect for me, if she had any to begin with, which seems unlikely.

I'm afraid some terrorist group is going to come along my blog while searching the internet. Some organization like Isis. They'll think those Americans are a bunch of numbskulls and they'll figure they can move right in. So yeah, being seldom seen isn't so bad. However for me it is therapeutic. I can practice both my typing and my spelling. I can talk about my long-ago past; as a young teenager I would ogle the girls in Playboy Magazines. I can yak about how clowns still kind of creep me out. I think I have mentioned in one of these blog entries that men's locker room benches are so unsanitary that I refuse to sit on one even if wearing a suit of armor. Point is; the blog does serve a purpose, just not a worthwhile one.

Doug Miller and Willis "Pillsie" Moore

 

Ordinary people rarely get any long-term recognition after they are forever gone. They are usually forgotten in short order by everyone but their families and friends. A few years back a guy died who I worked with for 20 years. His name was Doug Miller. He was an ordinary nice guy. There was talk about honoring him by putting his name on a bench outside the building. This was never going to be a granite statue in his honor. It was going to be just a simple brass plate with his name on it screwed to a bench. Still, it never happened. Those in charge of the project never got around to doing it. Now a few years later, there is a percentage of new employees that have never even heard of Doug Miller. I’m not mad about it. It’s just the way it is. People come and go, making way for yet another in an endless parade of generations. 

Recently my companion and I traveled to a corn festival in Strasburg, Ohio, located in a distant part of the state. We've been going to the same small town festival every year for nearly 20 years. A couple of times while en route we have taken a brief side trip for ice cream in the remote village of West Lafayette, Ohio. There on the property of the Dari Hut is a modest brick memorial to Willis “Pillsie” Moore. Part of the memorial is a showcase with photos of Willis and his wife, and a miniature, six inch baseball bat, just like the ones Willis would carve for kids.

See, Willis “Pillsie” Moore was the school custodian at the village elementary school from 1921 to 1956. He befriended many of the students. In his spare time he would carve the little baseball bats and give them away. But he gave other things away too, most notably; kindness. He would occasionally fix a broken bicycle, glue the binding of an old book, and generally lend a helping hand wherever he could.

Willis retired in 1956 but he remained in the village and died there in 1982. Through the years the citizens of West Lafayette did not forget the kindly school custodian. In 1993 they decided to erect a simple but proud monument next to the Dari Hut, the monument dedicated to Willis. It is on the site of the old elementary school. In 2003 Willis “Pillsie” Moore was voted into the town’s Hall of Fame, voted in for “humanitarian service” along with long-time area politicians and local athletes.

I like to visit the little memorial. It’s somehow reassuring that a person can be remembered for simply being a thoughtful, unselfish person. No earth-shaking political speech required, no great invention needed. 

It certainly isn't a brass plague on a bench, but Doug Miller did get mentioned in my silly blog. He deserves higher recogniton. Maybe a lot of us do. 

Avoiding Senior Citizen Embarrassment (by guest blogger Gus Newcomb)

My name is Gus Newcomb and I’m 76 years old. I've been divorced for 16 years; have three kids and five grandkids. I live alone in a decent townhouse apartment in Milwaukee. I am retired but I volunteer at a food bank, am a member at a golf club, have a number of friends, and generally try to keep busy. But I’m not getting any younger. There are times when I wake up with some pretty significant aches and pains. Sometimes I will awake and find something like a knee or perhaps my hand has swollen up. The other day the heel of my left foot was so sore that I could not put any weight on it. I don’t know why it was sore, I do not remember injuring it, I figure it must be that the heel is 76 years old and it’s getting kind of fatigued.

Gus Newcomb

Truth is, I carry a cellphone not so much to call anyone socially, or to receive calls, but just in case I have a sudden health issue and need to call someone for assistance. It’s kind of sad, really. I've always considered myself to be self-reliant. I’m still self-reliant I guess, but I’m no longer self-reliant without a safety net.

One of the oddest things about advancing age in my situation is that should I suddenly need hospitalization, requiring someone to enter my apartment; I don't want to have its contents embarrass me. Consequently, over the last year or so I have felt obliged to vacuum at least once a week. In fact, these days I feel it necessary to keep my sink and kitchen countertops free of debris. I rinse dirty dishes and put them straight into the automatic dishwasher. I now feel an obligation to neatly place my clothes on hangers rather than depositing them on the bedroom floor after wearing. Just in case I’m hospitalized for a few weeks and someone needs to turn on my computer to pay a bill, I no longer keep photos of women on the hard drive. In fact, I have made it a habit to clear the internet history every so often, just in case the wrong person gets curious should I not be around. And now that I'm older I have gotten into the habit of wearing holeless socks and clean underwear. I'd hate to be rushed to the hospital in an ambulance and have some pretty nurse pull down my trousers and find I am sporting stained underwear. That would be the ultimate old guy embarrassment. We elderly dudes might be ancient and creaky, but we're not dead.   

  

Sometimes Being Popular Can Suck (By guest blogger Heather Caine)

Heather Caine

Okay, my name is Heather Caine. I’m now 15 years old. I do not want to sound stuck-up or a snob, but I’m pretty popular at school. It’s not like I’m way cool, but I am kinda popular. I am a reserve cheerleader at school and next year I’ll probably be on the regular squad. Last weekend I went to a pizza party with a guy from the school basketball team. His name is Kevin. The party was in the basement of one of the guys on the football team. Just about all of the cool kids were there. After the pizza we all kind of chilled and watched a movie. About halfway through the movie Kevin wanted to make-out. I did not want to so I told him I wasn’t in the mood. To tell the truth; someone else was on my mind.

Okay, there’s this guy who sits behind me in History class. His name is Cal Denton. Sometimes during the class I will hear him say stuff to some other people who are usually sitting somewhere behind me. He doesn't yell or even talk loud, he just sometimes says stuff in a quiet voice. He has this great sense of humor and he can be so funny. I mean, I sometimes just have to laugh. Then there’s these other times when he will say stuff that is really nice and even sort of sweet. I overheard him tell Mindy Connors that she was wearing a really cool necklace. Cal will say nice things like that.

A couple of weeks ago Gary Waters was with a bunch of his friends walking down the hallway when he knocked the books out of the hands of Teddy Catlin. Gary then laughed and called Teddy a “spazaholic”. Gary Waters is like twice as big as Teddy. Anyhow, Cal was right behind Gary when all this took place and he just calmly whacked the backpack Gary had dangling from a hand, and then he kicked it down the corridor. Gary turned around and saw Cal standing there and I thought a fight was going to break-out right there in the school corridor. But Cal just looked Gary in the eye and in this calm voice said, “Look who’s the spazaholic now.” I swear I could see the fear in Gary’s eyes as he just backed away and went to pick up his backpack. Meanwhile Cal helped Teddy pick up his books. It was one of the scariest, and yet coolest things I have ever seen.

The next day in History class I turned around in my seat and told Cal that I saw what he did in the hall to Gary. Cal just sort of smiled, shrugged and said that he had gotten mad and that he usually doesn't act like such an idiot. It was a way cool, totally awesome thing to say.

Okay, I’m going to be honest now; I really like Cal. I’d like for him to ask me out sometime. Trouble is; I know he won’t. See, he’s not really all that popular around the school. Heck, he sort of sided with Teddy Catlin there in the hallway and to be truthful, the kids think Teddy is kind of gross. I suppose I could get brave and ask Cal out for ice cream or maybe just to chill and hang-out, but I’d bet he would say no, and besides, what would my friends say about me going out with Cal Denton? 

Sometimes being popular can really suck.