Not So Secret, Obviously

I'm writing a book about managing the disastrous effects of mood disorders without mood-stabilizing drugs. If you're a veteran of The Circular Journey, you're familiar with many of my techniques—my "power principles." They are the foundations of my recovery program, although they're not so much the "secret" principles as the "obviously desperate."

For example, when feeling blue, I like to go for a little road trip. I lower the windows in my car—Wynd Horse, if you're keeping score (yes, I named my car, and no, I won't apologize for it)—turn the music up to 11, and belt out everything from Jagger to Joel, Diamond to Houston. My neighbors have suggested I stick to humming, but I believe enthusiasm trumps talent.

 Another daily routine is taking a twenty-minute walk in the sunshine. I chose one of the parklike savannahs near my home, where songbirds provide backup vocals for my internal monologue. They're much more forgiving than my neighbors.

I've tried medication, of course, but I'm one of the almost 70% of people for whom the drugs just don't work. Through my own journey to regain control of my life, I have learned that not everyone diagnosed with a mood disorder needs medication to live stable, productive lives.

Just to be clear about living a stable and productive life--it doesn't preclude public appearances while waving the hands, raising the voice, and dancing around like a 4-year-old needing a bathroom break.

Having said that, it's crucial to note that many people do need medication, and we should all follow qualified medical advice. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must state my interpretive dance therapy has not been FDA-approved.)

Now, about writing this book. I'm not new to writing—I've published over 80 non-fiction articles in magazines and newspapers. None about mood disorders, unless you count that one piece where my laptop crashed right before a deadline. 

I know how to organize and present information in short formats, guiding ideas from introduction to summary like a well-behaved tour guide. But stretch that journey beyond 5,000 words, and suddenly I'm a guide who's forgotten the map and is pretending my rambling is an intentional scenic detour.

Thankfully, I found and read Austin Kleon's inspiring book, Show Your Work. Kleon suggests that we share our works-in-progress on social media channels. He believes sharing imperfect work is a valuable part of the creative process. "The act of sharing is one of generosity," he says, and I must assume he's never witnessed my karaoke performances.

The idea frightens me a little. Still, Austin Kleon is someone I consider a winner, so I've decided to follow his advice and start showing what I've got. I should mention this isn't my first rodeo with "putting myself out there." Each previous attempt was like riding a bike using body English to steeer--it never ends well.

All this talk of 'showing my work' and 'putting myself out there' reminds me of a Seinfeld episode where Kramer decides jockey shorts are too confining and boxer shorts are too baggy. 

When Jerry, horrified, says, "Oh no, Kramer! Tell me it isn't so," Kramer responds with, "Oh, it is so, Jerry. I'm out there, and I'm loving every minute of it!"

So here I am, metaphorically going commando with my writing. I'm out there, and I can only hope to love every minute of it—even if I end up in a ditch underneath a bicycle.

Indigo Wonder

It's like this," I said, explaining to Ms. Wonder why I was having trouble keeping up with her photography exhibits. "It's the sewer harpies I mentioned before. They're agents of pure evil, and they seem to be getting stronger. I think it has something to do with my giving up the reselling business."

Princess Amy

She closed her eyes, lifted her chin a couple of inches, and held up a hand, palm open as if to ward off any negative energy I might be emitting.

"If you're going on about soul vessels, Celtic goddesses, and Charlie Asher, just stop now. Your agents of evil are nothing more than Princess Amy. In fact, Amy is simply another term for your dysfunctional limbic system, but I can work with that." 

"But...," she continued, "listen carefully because what I'm about to say is the most important part. You need to understand this—there are no sewer harpies." 

"Mabd is the worst of them," I replied. "I can handle Macha and Nemain, but Mabd is pure evil." 

"Amy is just making all this up," the Wonder said, ignoring my comment. "You're blowing things out of proportion—these are just random events that have Amy worked up, and she tells you it's supernatural."

"I’ve heard all of that before," I said. "I’ve considered it and even believed it, or, if not truly believed it, I accepted it as good enough to get on with. I’ve told you before that it’s not the events themselves but how frequently they keep occurring that bothers me. Like the Demon King."

Once again, I saw eye-rolling, a lifted chin, and a deep breath, followed by an open palm. It reminded me of Arnold Schwarzenegger's famous line, "Talk to the hand."

"Let's get grounded, shall we?" asked the Wonder. She wasn't making a suggestion; she was getting down to business, and I realized paying attention would be in my best interest.

"First," she continued, "we need to address the demon king once and for all. I've told you a hundred times that the Thai water opera demon king you sold on eBay was not authentic. It was just a souvenir sold at the Bangkok airport."

"The solution to your problem," she continued, "is to find humor in the circumstances that trouble you. You're right to turn to The Circular Journey. What it lacks is consistency. My suggestion is to blog every day."

"Wise counsel, Wonder," I replied, and I genuinely meant it. She had touched on a truth that I hold dear but often overlook, as if I have more important things to focus on. "I will post every day."

"You're also doing the right thing by using music to lift your spirits. But you limit your listening to road trips. Why not listen more at home?"

"That's an excellent observation," I said, meaning it wholeheartedly. This piece of wisdom sparked something in me. "Continuous music," I declared.

"And finally," she said, "you're not socializing nearly enough. You seldom go to meetings. Your social life is limited to seeing Lupe and Claudia on random weekdays and Island Irv on Sunday mornings." 

The 'meetings' she referred to are a part of the recovery program for those who have abused alcohol and other substances, like the white powder we used to sprinkle in our hemp doobies.

"There are no lunch-hour meetings here in Waterford," I replied, "so with the Cape Fear bridge closed, I’ll be going to Southport for meetings instead. And just so you know, there are no recovery programs for coffee consumption, so I’ll continue to abuse caffeine--just saying."

"Oh," she said, as if suddenly receiving a jolt of information from the Akashic Record, "exercise and meditation are most important. You have a workout program, but you're not consistent. You need to make it a top priority."

"I refer to those activities as my Power Principles," I replied. "It's something I learned from SuperBetter."

I added that last part because I was beginning to feel like the student, and I much preferred being the teacher. I used to teach. In fact, I used to do a lot of things. Perhaps the core issue was the past tense. I'd feel better being the teacher rather than someone who used to teach.

"It's not important what you call them," she said, "as long as you practice them regularly."

I froze! What was she thinking? Not important what I called them? I watched her lips move as she continued to speak, but I heard nothing she said.

My mind had gone off track, caught in a tangled web of emotions, similar to the time I attempted to turn onto Old Thatcher Road as a teenager while riding my bike with my hands on my head. I don’t need to explain how that ended. 

Yet, my wondrous life partner was offering her wisdom of extraordinary possibilities. If you know me at all, you know that when Wonder speaks, I listen, and not only listen--I act!

First, I checked in with Princess Amy and found her in a good mood. Then, I renewed my commitment to taking sober, rational steps. "Reasonable action" is something we'll need to define as we go along—I don't have much experience with being reasonable. So, stay tuned to The Circular Journey for updates as they unfold.

I have a feeling that I'm onto something big!

Remember Me

Some days, I wake up feeling like the world has wrapped me in a foggy, melancholy blanket. This particular weekday morning was one of those. Hoping to shake it off, I set off for downtown Wilmington to meet my friend Island Irv, fully expecting coffee and camaraderie to lift my spirits.

Wilmington is a city conveniently situated on the edge of America. On a clear day, from the Memorial Bridge, you can see most of the way to Jamaica. Some may disagree with me, but I'm sure I'm right. I feel it in my heart.

When you cross the Memorial Bridge, the road drops you off right onto the streets of downtown without breaking a sweat. You're immediately embraced by the city's charm, though I’ll admit that the suddenness with which you arrive can leave even the most seasoned traveler blinking and shaking the coconut. 

My downtown excursions are usually reserved for lazy Sunday mornings, not the midweek hustle. But this wasn’t a usual day—I needed a pick-me-up, and Cafe Luna was my go-to.

The plan was simple: grab coffee, caffeinate my mind, slap the Islander on the back, and get Ms. Wonder to Oak Island in time for low tide. On Holden Beach we would join other like-minded treasure hunters scouring the sands for buried bounty, or as Wonder calls it, sea biscuits. But plans, as you are aware, have a way of unraveling.

I arrived at the cafe, and scanned the street for Irv’s car--nothing. Not a trace. My spirits, already teetering, leaned like the famous tower. I entered the cafe and found it buzzing with energy—the hum of conversation, the hiss of espresso machines—but I felt oddly alone. There was no Irv.

What now? Early mornings aren’t my strong suit. My brain doesn’t hit its stride until the late afternoon, so I was at a loss. But some instinct led me through a door at the back of the lobby, and I found myself in a large room dominated by an enormous mural stretching across one wall. Baristas bustled beneath the mural, serving drinks to the caffeinated masses.

I wandered to the counter and unburdened myself to a friendly barista, spilling the whole sorry tale. He nodded sagely and suggested a “quantum leap,” a concoction of his own invention. He assured me it was the kind of drink that could get a rabbit in shape to take on a grizzly bear. 

I dimly remembered hearing that story somewhere else in a faraway time. Perhaps I heard it in another universe. (If you're unfamiliar with the bit of transdimensional skulduggery involving the multiverse, stay tuned; I'll explain in another episode. For now, it's enough to know that the bears in the matchups never make it past three rounds.)

Desperate times call for desperate measures, someone said, and so I ordered a double. The man was not wrong. By the time I finished the second, the fog had lifted, and the scene around me was warm and bright. Outside, the day seemed new. My feeling of being alone and lost was replaced by a buoyant sense of possibility, and I felt braced to take on the day.

Back on the street, I felt infused with the city’s energy. The streets were alive—people bustled as if it were some reasonable hour, tramcars overflowed with commuters, and a palpable buzz filled the air. 

At first, the sheer activity was jarring, but soon it felt invigorating. There’s something about Wilmington—maybe it’s the salt air or the hidden pockets of charm—that makes you feel that anything is possible.

Mick Jagger was spot on when he commented about looking for things. You don't always find what you want but you often find what you need. 

I walked into that cafe looking for a friend and a cure for my low spirits. Irv wasn’t there, but I found something unexpected: a moment of connection with a kind barista, a jolt of caffeine-fueled inspiration, and a reminder that even on the greyest mornings, a little adventure can turn your whole day around.

It reminds me of something we learned from our cats, and I'm speaking of the Chatsford Tribe. Long after they left pawprints on the furniture, their lessons still linger in our hearts and minds. The sweet truth they left with us is this:

Life is better when you embrace it with curiosity and a healthy dose of mischief. And if you ever need help, accept the help that comes to you, no matter its source.

Write Like Shakespeare

"Duck and cover," said a familiar voice as dawn slipped through my bedroom window. My dreams faded as I adjusted to the waking world and I realized that, in about a minute, Ms. Wonder would rise in all her glory and deliver the morning weather report—to prepare me for our morning constitutional.

It was a beautiful morning. After completing our walk, I headed to Castle Street and entered Luna Caffè, hoping for a slow, dreamy Sunday vibe, Lionel Ritchie style. Instead, I spotted them—Lupe and Claudia—seated dead center, radiating chaos. This, I thought, is TNT in late-teenage form.

I've learned that having a compelling topic at the ready makes surprise encounters smoother. It wards off awkward silences and provides an escape if the conversation veers into dangerous waters. I had one—yesterday's coffee crawl in the Brooklyn Arts District. These two would eat it up. I took a deep breath and approached their table.

"Good morning, Kitten," Lupe grinned.

It was as though an invisible DJ scratched the vinyl to bring me to an abrupt stop. How did she know about the mysterious voice that woke me each morning? (If you’re not caught up, search my blog. Top right.)

"How do you know about that?" I asked, rattled.

Lupe smirked. "I read your blog, silly."

"Oh. Right." Of course she did. She followed The Circular Journey—or at least skimmed it.

"You’ve been posting a lot lately," Claudia observed. "You might want to check your coffee consumption."

"Or your blogging compulsion," Lupe added.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Do the math. You’re addicted."

"Get real. I can stop anytime I want."

"That’s what all addicts say," Lupe said.

"And maybe focus on quality over quantity," Claudia suggested.

"Like Shakespeare," Lupe added.

"Don’t talk to me about Shakespeare and quality," I huffed. "The man couldn't even spell his own name."

"Maybe because there was more than one Shakespeare," Claudia said. "Bacon, Marlowe, the Earl of Oxford—"

"Drivel!" I'd heard enough of the theory that Shakespeare was a front for someone else. "He was the Bard of Avon, born April 23, 1564, in Stratford-Upon-Avon."

"But he never left England," Lupe countered. "How’d he know so much about foreign cultures?"

"Please. He just slapped English sensibilities onto exotic backdrops. He knew squat."

"And the theory that his writing reflects his mental state?" Claudia pressed.

"Poppycock," I said.

A woman at a nearby table, watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on a VCR, murmured, "Interesting word choice." That’s Luna Caffè for you—a vintage-minded Twee haven where even the furniture has opinions.

"His work is different from mine," I said, "but there are certain passages I wouldn’t mind being attributed to me. Like that bit about life being a walking shadow."

"That struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more," Claudia recited.

"Exactly. Just the right amount of topspin. That alone puts him in the Genome class of writers."

Silence. Maybe time to bring up the coffee crawl? Then inspiration struck.

"Why do critics assume a writer’s work reflects their personal struggles? My own writing is often the opposite of my mental state. 

"Yes," Lupe said, "but given recent evidence, you may want to reconsider that opinion."

She and Claudia exchanged smug looks. I sighed but smiled. This was why I loved meeting up with them. The conversation was always sharp, and they kept me on my toes.

"Fine," I said, raising my mug. "I admit I might be a little enthusiastic about blogging and may underestimate the Bard."

"A little?" Claudia snorted.

"It’s not a problem," I said sweetly.

"Again," Lupe grinned, "that’s what all addicts say."

I rolled my eyes and took a sip of coffee. I was happy. Life needs people who call you out, keep you honest, and save you a seat at the coffee shop every Sunday.

Driving home, This Must Be the Place playing, I reflected on our conversation. Beneath all the teasing lay a serious question. Sure, I was writing a lot—but was I writing well? Was I chasing likes and comments, or was I saying something that mattered?

Shakespeare probably never worried about such things. He just wrote—brilliantly, recklessly, with no concern for how his name was spelled. The lesson? Write because you love it, and surround yourself with people who challenge you but never expect you to write to please them.

Crossing the Memorial Bridge and seeing downtown Wilmington stretched out along the riverfront, I felt a small but distinct surge of joy, and I thought--

Home is where I want to be but, I'm already there. And you (Ms. Wonder) are standing here beside me, sharing the same space for a minute or two. What could be better?

Get Help Too

A damp Monday afternoon last week found me in my usual booth near the window but not too near the door at the café on the corner of Highway 421 and Independence Avenue. My coffee, which aspired to be a blonde roast, had instead slipped into the neighborhood of burnt barbecue. I sipped it with the resignation of a man who has long since stopped expecting life to deliver on its promises.

It was an unremarkable moment, yet suddenly, as if struck by divine inspiration—or perhaps just heartburn caused by the coffee—I remembered a recommendation from Dr. Coast, my therapist. In our last session, she suggested that my life could be vastly improved with one of those artificial intelligence mental health apps. Apparently, they’re all the rage, much like kale smoothies and minimalist furniture.

Now, to be clear, I wasn’t looking for one of those apps that peddle serenity through zen-inspired synthesized music and stock photos of people gazing wistfully at the horizon. No, I needed an app designed to navigate the tangled jungle that Dr. Coast refers to as my mental state. Preferably an app equipped with a machete.

Dr. Coast is quite fascinated by the rise of artificial intelligence. Her recommendation came to her during our last session when she advised me to "Take a deep breath," and I, in the fog of my existential crisis, heard, "Take a deep nap." An easy mistake to make, really, and arguably the superior option.

A quick Google search turned up the very app she'd named. The advert proudly described it as a "breakthrough in the mental health space." It promised "instant clarity and algorithmic wisdom," which, to my caffeine-addled mind, sounded just the ticket.

The tagline, "Instant results with minimal effort," was the clincher. As a modern man, I hold certain principles dear, one of them being that if enlightenment can be achieved without making an effort, all the better. I’m sure you share my sensibilities. After all, you’re a regular here on The Circular Journey, so we’re kindred spirits of sorts.

In the blink of an eye, I downloaded the app, canceled my therapy appointment, and prepared to bask in the glow of my new, algorithmically-enhanced mental clarity.

I won’t spoil the ending, but allow me to provide a touch of foreshadowing: picture a bulldozer in a china shop, wearing a blindfold, and whistling merrily.

One week later, I was back in therapy with Dr. Coast, grateful to be in the presence of someone who did not suggest chanting verbal mudras for serenity or rearranging my bookshelf for emotional realignment. It had been a trying time.

Over the week, I learned that life’s deepest questions cannot be answered by an AI-powered oracle, no matter how many reassuring push notifications it sends. The truth, as it turns out, is far simpler: real conversation, human connection, and the occasional chat with a cat are the true pillars of emotional well-being.

A profound revelation, no doubt. However, when Dr. Coast suggested I delete the app—presumably to avoid being bested by a talking algorithm—I hesitated. That’s right, I demurred. Not because the app had worked wonders (quite the opposite), but because the entire fiasco had led me to an even greater epiphany:

Not all of life’s complexities are solved in therapy. Sometimes, the path to enlightenment involves outdoor escapades, physical challenges, or noble pursuits like learning a new language, documenting local graffiti, or launching a highly questionable AI experiment just to see what happens.

Most importantly, the best approach to mental well-being is rarely a binary choice. It’s a grand, multifaceted adventure. And no matter which path you take, you must include the holy trinity of happiness: a good cup of tea, a hearty laugh, and a friend who doesn’t judge you for occasionally talking to your shoes.

One final thought: While human therapists have the distinct advantage of warm handshakes and sympathetic nods, they do not, regrettably, come with a convenient FAQ section. Apps, for their part, cannot provide the comfort of a reassuring pat on the shoulder or a well-timed "There, there."

There’s a word for that, but it escapes me at the moment. No doubt, Wonder will know.