Chris Van Hakes's Blog

I received a notification in email that my domain name required renewing. And I decided not to renew. It has been a good run, and I am thankful, so very thankful, for this part of my life, and for you, especially. But it’s time to call it quits. I’ll be over on instagram, talking about books and cake, mostly. (So not really different than in any other part of my life.)

Goodbye, lovelies! I will miss you all the time.

 

Heavy on the graphic novels this month. I don’t know why.

Relish: My Life in the Kitchen by Lucy Knisley

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I thought this  was cute and sweet and an interesting take on a young woman’s life through food. If you’re looking for recipes and innovations, look elsewhere. If you’re looking for a light autobiography through food, beautifully illustrated, you’ve got a winner.

American Born Chinese by Gene Luen Yang

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I was looking through collections of graphic novels suggested by the ALA, and I kept lamenting that I’d never read this one (it’s on basically all of the “best of” lists). Then I got it from  the library and realized…I had read it. To my credit, it only takes about an hour to read. It deserves to be on every “best of” list. Oh, and if you don’t like Secret! Religious! Allusions! To! JESUS! you’ve got to calm down a little, and also, you shouldn’t read this. Or live in America. Or, as the Religious Allusionists call it, George W. Bushlandia.

Radioactive: Marie & Pierre Curie. A Tale of Love and Fallout by Lauren Redniss

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A biography about Marie Curie (with a little bit o’ Pierre), and also the history of radiation? You’ve got yourself a fun read! No, okay, not fun, but beautiful artwork and very insightful.

The Last Girlfriend on Earth  by Simon Rich

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I read this ages ago, and I can’t remember if I told you about it. As with all collections of short stories and essays, some of them are better than others. But the first story in this collection should be read by every nineteen year old heterosexual boy. It was so good I read it out loud to three different sets of people, and every time I laugh-cried.

Dirty Rowdy Thing by Christina Lauren

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I have read a loooooot of romance novels, and most of them are Not Good. Christina Lauren’s are always good. Funny and well-written and consistently what you want and expect as a romance novel reader, and yet even with following a predictable story line, uniquely entertaining. Definitely my favorite writers of romance lately.

To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before by Jenny Han

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This was sweet and cute. I had to put it down because the main character and her sisters annoyed me a bit. Okay, her older sister bugged the crap out of me, but she’s supposed to bug the crap out of the reader. But Jenny Han writes YA romance perfectly, and very cleanly. I’d have no qualms letting a mature middle schooler read this (there is talk about sex, but no, you know, Doing It).

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Have you heard of this novel? You should read it! It’s pretty good! Okay, so I had to reread this for a workish thing, and at the end I was like, ATTICUS FINCH I LOVE YOU PLEASE MARRY ME NOW. Every man, woman, child and animal in the country should marry Atticus Finch. He’s fictional Gandhi, except super hot. I mean, unless you’re into emaciated Indian guys, which, cool?

 

 

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In the report on complete and utter obviousness, it is noted that the holiday season is hard for those with depression and other mental illnesses. Here are some things you can do for your friend(s) in those cases.

Bring/mail a small gift, if your friend likes gifts. Postcards and letters and emails also do the trick just as easily. I accept bottles of cheap red wine and Swedish Fish with letters on the back of twenty dollar bills (RIP Car Talk guy). (Actually, most gifts make me feel guilty that I’m a bad person who doesn’t deserve good things (WORKING ON IT), but this isn’t true of everyone. So, your mileage may vary.)
If you can, get your friend out of the house/the bed/the couch for a walk outside. Well, not out of the couch. Unless your friend is stuck inside a couch. Then by all means, YES, get your friend out of the couch. And repair that hole in the couch! Otherwise, just off of it is fine.
Invite your friend to your own holiday shindig. Chances are, there are multiple people in your friend’s family that make your friend feel like poo, or that also suffer from wildly out of control mental disorders, and your friend may just need a place to go where he or she doesn’t need to confront that constantly.
Write something nice on your friend’s social media site of choice. Something to remind him or her that she makes a difference by being around. Something like, “You’re the funniest human being I know, S______.” Or whatever.
Take your friend out for coffee/tea/kombucha (you dirty hippie). Take an hour out of your day to laugh with your friend.
Do something nice for someone else in need. Homeless men and women are often those who suffer from mental disorders. Think about that. Cry a whole bunch for your suffering friend(s). Then say a prayer or write a check or volunteer an hour of your time.
Take your friend to the doctor to adjust her medications, if needed. Make the appointment for her if you need to.
Ditto the therapist.

YOU have done one or all of these things for me. I’m here because of you. Thank you for my life.

(BRAIN Goodall! Get it? Get it?) (Ahem. Anywaaaaay.)

Here are some things that Brain Goodall has found in her extensive research of taking a shitload of meds only to have them not work almost all of the time:

1. Brain Goodall has observed (of herself) that she has a mid-afternoon to late evening slump in mood. She noticed that the subject (herself) responded to splitting the meds up over the course of the day to tackle the problem. (This is fooling Brain Goodall’s employers COMPLETELY. What a ruse!)

For instance, the subject (herself) would split up the doses into three separate doses and take one upon waking, one before lunch, and one around 3pm. The subject found this to be very effective.

2. Taking B vitamins and large doses of SAMe (1200 to 1600 mg, spread throughout the day) helped to boost Brain’s mood.

3. Subject should not drink more than a few alcoholic drinks throughout the week.

4. Subject will really regret the mixing of the drinks and the drugs when she is crying the next morning over a broken shoelace.

5. Seriously, subject, two glasses of wine a week is FINE.

6. Much to the subject’s dismay, she has found that a lower carb/lower sugar diet helps with mood. WAH. Subject misses cookies most days.

7. Subject has also found that blaring “feel-good” “music” during “sadness” “helps.” Subject also likes to make herself “laugh” by using “quotation” “marks” as she has seen them used in “actual” “school” “assignments” by people with “actual” “graduate” “degrees.” (Last set of quotation marks used in seriousness.)

7a. Music like Taylor Swift and also this song:

8. But subject would take recommendations for more songs. In the comments? Pretty please.

And seriously, Dr. Goodall suggests breaking up the dosage. It’s made a HUGE difference.

1. Spelling the first name Tom as “Thom.”

2. Pecans. The sexiest tree nut.

3. Shawl collar sweaters on men. MROWR.

4. Ice Cube. It’s the snarl.

5. Also, John C. Reilly:

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6. The names of Instagram filters. Brannan? Sutro? Kelvin? MROWR.

7. The actual instagram filter Hefe.

8. The Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz. Not the actor. The actor as The Cowardly Lion.

9. Johnny Depp.

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10. Inspirational posters modified to nonexistence in corporate settings.

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It just goes to show you that if Charles Manson can get a spouse, anything is possible.

(Except that Ice Cube is actually sexy. Step off. I was here first.)

1. I’m going to keep posting here when I want to.

2. Then I’m going to make the posts private, like I’ve been doing.

3. So read it while it’s hot! Or, you know, lukewarm. Or Luke Danes.

3a. (I may have been watching a lot of Gilmore Girls. I’m going to voice an unpopular opinion: Luke Danes and Lorelei are not a good match. Lorelei is annoying and Luke is grumpy. I want to know if Amy Sherman-Palladino has any good men in her life because every single guy on that show is Not So Great. )

4. Unless the post is innocuous, like … about books. Books never harmed anyone, right? No one would ever harm a book! Or burn a book? Or ban a book? Never!

5. I’m going to continue to get creeped out by old guys who are into young ladies. I’m not going to be creeped out by old ladies who like anyone at all, because I watched a lot of Golden Girls when I was young and they’ve acclimated me to the sexuality of Blanche Devereaux. You can’t stop a cougar, alright?

6. I’m going to continue to talk about mental illness and childhood abuse and growing up in less than ideal conditions (and then, of course, hypocritically locking the posts) (because I want to open about this stuff, but until everyone ELSE is also open about it, I also want to be, you know, employed).

7. I’m going to continue on my fight to tell you that you should not be using “literally” that way.

8. I’m going to continue to miss cheese.

9. Did I tell you about how on my elementary school playground there was a metal structure that looked like the Hamburglar’s head and we would climb inside it and it was like being inside of his brain? It’s true. I wish I had a photo of it, but my elementary school playground burned down.

10. This list is getting away from me. I should stop now.

It’s terrible when someone formerly fun and free-spirited decides he’s serious now. Like Jim Carrey doing a dramatic role. That’s what I’ve become. I’ve become a Jim Carrey. I used to have this one funny thing I could do, and now I unironically drink roasted dandelion root tea (tastes like dead things!) and discuss the seriousness of mental disorders. I’m going on Charlie Rose soon to discuss my craft. Which leads me to…

What am I doing with this blog?

What I’m doing, actually, is writing an entry to get that other entry off the top spot, and also waiting for a book vendor to call me back. I also have a tab open and I’m reviewing a children’s book (summary of review: it’s pink). I’m a multi-tasker. What can I say?

Oh, right, what am I doing with this blog? I don’t know. I am wondering a few things, and I’m not sure where to go with things.

1. I would sort of kind of like to take my book down from sites. I want to do this because I am a sensitive little butterfly and knowing that even a little part of me is out there in the world unprotected makes me anxiety-ridden.

1a. But so many of you have been SO GREAT and SO SUPPORTIVE that I don’t want to take it down just because of a few people and my anxiety.

1b. But my anxiety. Oof.

1c. But my book! And quite honestly, the sales were wonderful and I will be forever grateful to you.

2. I have locked most of the entries on this blog, re: anxiety. I am also off almost all social media because of this. I’ve thought a few times of unlocking posts that don’t mention personal details so I won’t lose jobs and stuff any longer, but…

2a. MY ANXIETY!

3. Maybe I should just quit it all, for now, writing-wise? I am on the cusp (I always confuse the words cuff and cusp, and imagine myself standing on a very big wrist of a very big man) of some good work things, if all goes well. They make me happy in a way I haven’t felt in a long while.

3a. But I love writing! And I can just be a writing hobbyist! Right? And it is very much a part of who I am that I can’t express in any other way. If I could channel my writing energy into interpretive dance, maybe I would. (I wouldn’t.) But I can’t. (I won’t.)

3b. But the idea of people reading my words has me all anxious and barfy and anxious. Even when people like it, I think they’re just being nice to me.

3c. Not that I should care! I have been working in therapy on not caring what people think.

3d. So I shouldn’t quit?

3e. But my anxiety! And I’ve been doing so well. But then I write a post like the last one, where everyone responds very kindly, but the idea of being out there and so vulnerable had me sobbing into my blankets and totally incapacitated.

4. I don’t even know what I was talking about. If you want to weigh in KINDLY, please do. If you don’t, might I offer you some dandelion root tea?

 

This post is a long time in coming. This is scatterbrained and not well-researched or annotated and totally anecdotal, but is totally, completely truthful. I know a few of you are wondering how I fared against the dragon of depression, and I am happy to say that I’m like Beowulf in this scenario. I totally beat up Grendel AND his mother too!

What’s that? Beowulf is mortally wounded by a dragon?….Oh.

That’s actually a pretty accurate summary of my depression. Just when I think I’m done with it, WHAM! George Michael comes into the room. And he’s carrying my depression with him.

So, depression is ongoing, and for the first time in my life, I admit that I am not suffering from depression because I am a bad person, or because I am weak, or because I am making it all up in my head, or because depression doesn’t exist in other countries, culturally, and so clearly I’m a big baby about it.

What happened first was a Big Event. I know it makes terrible reading to tell you about Big Event, but trust me when I tell you that I am not at liberty to talk about it, and that it is the kind of stuff that makes people want to renounce all their material goods and move to Alaska and live in an abandoned school bus until accidentally poisoning themselves. That’s a generalization, but you get the gist. There was the Big Event, and that cascaded and caused me to unearth all of the other events in my life, which caused me to totally and utterly be debilitated.

This is what I did: I sat in bed. Sometimes I went to the bathroom.

That’s it.

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t read. When I ate, I was violently ill. I couldn’t take care of my family. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t talk on the phone or to anyone in person. I couldn’t stand up in the shower without getting tired. I couldn’t concentrate on TV or movies. My brain was broken. I understand completely the term, “out of my mind,” now.  I was out of my mind.

Please keep in mind that during this time, I was on medication and in therapy, and regularly talking to loved ones. It barely made a dent. Until I finally told my Person what was going on: I was a horrible human being with the blackest of souls, and existence was my punishment. There was some  talk of dying. (A lot of talk.)

And then my Person told me that I was not a bad person with the blackest of souls. I told him he was wrong, and so I did the bravest thing I could think of: I told him the truth. I told him every ugly thought in my head, every awful thing I’d done. This took weeks. I did a lot of horrible things. And I figured at the end of unloading all of this, my Person would understand my black soul, and let me be. That’s all I really wanted from this unleashing. I wanted to show him that I was bad for my family, and bad for the world, and a mistake in general. I was in horrible pain every second of the day, and I knew my family was suffering because I was a burden, and I just wanted to die. To put everyone out of their misery. Like euthanasia. Exactly like that, in fact.

Of course my Person is a good person, and every time I came back with something horrible to say, he would say, “That’s all you got? That’s not even bad.”

Every time. It helped that what I was telling him were ways I was told I was bad. (For instance, one of my favorites was how I believed I had poor eyesight because I didn’t work hard enough in life. I was actually told this when I was little, so I’d never really logicked out the math of that particular crazy.) (And there’s SO. MUCH. MORE.)  There were other ways I believed in my own rottenness. I tried to overcome all of my faults, but, you know, I just had too many.

Of course, after the weeks of unloading, I started crying. I started seeing my life for what it was. I used to cry a lot, but at books, or movies, or tissue commercials. I rarely cried when something happened to me. Because I was an awful, terrible, no good person.

After all the crying (months of it), I got angry. There was raging. There was ranting.  There was more crying.

And then there was fiddling with my medications. There were new tactics, new therapies, new exercises. There were new boundaries, too.

And then, after ALL of that, I started to see that depression is not something I have because I am a terrible person, or because I’m making it up. I have depression because of an abusive past, because of genetics, because of family dynamics, because of a whole host of factors. I knew this whole time that my Tom Cruise vitamins were helping me stay alive,  but I didn’t really believe it about myself until recently. I thought I was an exception. I thought I was a big baby, and my medications worked because of the placebo effect. I believe it about everyone else, but I’m the exception. It has taken so much work to get me to see depression as a legitimate medical problem, and a very serious one at that.

I suffer from severe depression, and I likely always will. It is a serious disease. It is a big deal. I am not making it up. I have almost died from it several times.

If it weren’t for my Person telling me this over and over, I would not believe it. If it weren’t for my Person, I am absolutely sure I would be dead. If it weren’t for my own tenacity in trying new drugs, I would be dead. Suicide is the third leading cause of death in the US. It is real, and it is hard to treat because it is easy to hide, it doesn’t look real, and one of the major signs of severe depression is believing you don’t have severe depression. There’s also a strong correlation in a poor family life (understatement? ha!) and depression, and that means that kids everywhere don’t have a Person, and that they’re going to die from this.

It’s like having a heart attack and then refusing any kind of medical help. And then having another heart attack. And another. And refusing help. And having caretakers who refuse to help. Or who actively hurt you. Over and over and over again.

So, I have a severe medical condition. I have to monitor it hourly. I might die from it some day. There are a lot of reasons I have it, none of which have to do with the blackness of my soul. My soul is black all on its own, from the marathon episodes of Gilmore Girls and gummy-bear-hoarding.

I discovered some other fun facts about myself when my brain clicked and I saw my disease as a disease: I also suffer from anxiety and OCD, and I have a horrible habit of twisting my hair and picking at my lips (it’s super gross, sorry) that is AN ACTUAL MEDICAL CONDITION. I don’t pick at my lips or twist my hair now because I have AN ACTUAL MEDICATION that works on my ACTUAL MEDICAL CONDITION. HALLELUJAH! Okay, sometimes I still do, under severe anxiety, but this was a revelation to me. I don’t just freak out because there are too many things on the table. I freak out because of AN ACTUAL MEDICAL CONDITION!

There have been a lot of revelations about the wonders of psychiatry.

If you have a mental illness, or if your Person does, please tell them every single day that they didn’t cause it, and that you need them here, and you will take all the time you have to take them to the doctor or the therapist or the acupuncturist or gynecologist or reeferologist or whomeverologist to just lie in bed and hold them until they feel like they can go to a medical professional and tell about how they are dying. Tell them over and over and over, because one time, or twenty, probably won’t be enough. It will be awful and slow and take a lot of attempts, and it will be completely worth it to know you’ve saved someone’s life.

 

I am not the type of person who says, “Jesus is the reason for the season,” when it comes to the commercialism of the holidays, but I just found myself seriously looking at a hand-knit cozy for a hard-boiled egg and wondering if that was an appropriate and fun gift. You don’t believe me? Here you go:

 

Why is it not okay to just give people cash? Cash is a great gift, and it lends real insight into relationships with people. It says, “You like money!” but not in that Merchant of Venice type way.

But no. We must give each other adorable little hats for our eggs. (Face it. That egg cozy is adorable. It’s like looking at a picture of a newborn baby, but cuter and less red, with better skin.)

So, with some ado, here is a gift-giving guide of things that people sell purely to make the gift giver look ridiculous. (And yes, I do realize that my last two posts have been mocking in nature and perhaps my creativity comes only in the form of criticizing others’ hard-earned cozies. I assure you karma is a bitch and whence I create a cozy, I shall get slammed.)

Cashmere sweatpants.

Do you need more information than that?

Sometimes I think boiling water is just too onerous. Voila! 

Soup socks! Soup socks! (Okay, this isn’t so bad, but just the name made me giggle.)

Nothing says, “I think you’re the most awful human being on the planet,” like a Gold Swarovski coffee tumbler. Use it for the Emily Gilmore in your life! Because if you have an extra $110, you definitely shouldn’t give it to the food bank.

I recommend getting something your friend really hates engraved onto one of these boards, like, “the cold virus,” or “colic,” or “Rush Limbaugh,” (or, for your more conservative friends,”‘Obamacare!”) and then handing them a big cleaver and a bloody steak. Said the vegan.

There’s more, but it’s all in the line of five hundred dollar overalls and bejeweled bras, so, you know, we’re all ridiculous. Duh.

 

“Pose in this gravel parking lot.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, by the puddle.”

“I think there’s a used condom in here, and little Felicity is about to–”

“Perfect! Smile! Hold it. Hold it!”

“Goddamnit Sarah, hold the kid before she grabs the condom.”

“That kid is BITING MY FUCKING EAR.”

“Work through the pain.”

“But–”

“PERFECT. HOLD IT. HOLD IT.”

“Why the fuck does SHE get gloves?”

 

“Listen, I’m just doing this for my son’s portfo–”

“Sure, sure.” *whispers* “Do you think we could get the kid out of the photo and just use this guy?”

“Excuse me? I’m not that comfortable in front of the–”

“Perfect. Hold it! Hold it!” *whispers* “Get as many shots as you can.”

“I’ve really got to go now. So–”

“Sir, listen. We’d really like to use your image. Otherwise we’ll have to use the jokes the casting agency sent. They don’t have those rugged calloused hands like you. Or those shoulders. Or–”

“This is making me really uncomfortable. And little Finnigan has to use the bathroom.”

“Please, sir. you haven’t seen these guys. Please?”

 

“Finnigan’s dad is suing us for sexual harassment, so the company has to use the other models.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”