Social(ly Avoidant) Media

Do you ever get the feeling that you're consuming too much?

This question could apply to a handful of things: too much food, too many resources, too much awful news whenever you happen to stop on CNN while flipping through channels. But in this case, I'm talking about consuming too much social media.

A few days ago, I was cruising through Instagram when I realized there was someone I wanted to follow but hadn't found yet. Looking her up was simple, and with a single click, I was subscribed to her feed. During this process, I noticed a striking number: 99.

This woman followed only 99 other Instagram accounts. I, meanwhile, was following over 600. 

The difference in these two figures spurred me to action. I realized that those 600+ accounts would live without me. Although I didn't shut down my Instagram account--I love it far too much to let go--I did unfollow just under a third of the people or businesses on the list, clearing out anyone I had clicked on for truly specious reasons. It was satisfying to see their names go from green to gray.

We live in an increasingly digital world, and every time we open up a device with an Internet connection, the amount of content we are likely to see skyrockets. That can't be good for us, operating as we are in an environment that bounds from one topic to another in mere seconds, and that's taking only television or online news into account. Add in Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram, among others, and you have endless ways to suck time away from your family, friends, or projects. 

While my account is still active, I have quit using Twitter for this very reason. The number of links offered up in the span of only a minute is dizzying; the Twitter feed is in constant motion. Even if I could speed-read, I doubt that I could get through all of the content available for my amusement before a new day began and the process started all over again. That's some Sisyphean shit right there.

I've even stopped paying close attention to the links available to me on Facebook. I may be interested in a wide variety of topics, but trying to read every article about each of them means giving up other things, like writing time. And I'm not about that life.

But more than anything I've mentioned, I'm curious about how we got to this point. Even though we have more news available than ever, which helps marginalized groups make themselves heard, there's a paradox at work: it's difficult to discover those voices precisely because there is such an abundance of media at our disposal. When did we decide that we must play into the hands of distraction in such a way? And what can we do to scale it back to the point where various media and social media outlets bring us together rather than contributing to the fractiousness we're experiencing right now, both in America and around the world?

These are the questions I'd like answered. Meanwhile, I'm happy that I axed so many accounts on Instagram. This way, I get to see more content that actually means something to me or might prove inspirational.

-Cate-

The Way to Treat Your Books

Any person who is a relatively serious reader knows that there is only one way to treat a book. But a problem arises when no one can agree on what that way is.

In the past months, I've learned some interesting things about the various approaches my friends and family members take to the act of reading. Take, for example, my mother. When she gave me my birthday presents, she discovered that she had accidentally left a price tag on a book. She hastened to remove it, though I told her the price didn't matter because I love a good book deal. But she responded in a way I didn't expect: "I hate when there's a sticker on a book."

I've known my mother quite awhile now--all of my life and half of hers, to be precise. And yet, I never could have told you that she has this quirk. Only a few days earlier, a similar situation had arisen with my father, who took pains to explain that the crease on the cover of a book he'd borrowed from me was not his fault--a charge I hadn't made against him in the first place, as it happens. That's when he informed me that he strives to treat my books with care because they are mine and not his.

While I appreciate the consideration, I was a little surprised by this information. I'm not overly gentle with my books in general. If a spine cracks, I don't get upset. Although I use bookmarks much more frequently now, I used to dog-ear pages all the time, particularly in college and grad school, when I wanted to leave myself visual clues as to the amount of reading I had left to do. I don't know how many books I've highlighted over the years, and not always for class; sometimes I do it to revel in the brilliant turns of phrase I've found.

My friend Sharon, on the other hand, is one of those people who can't stand the plight of "mistreated" books. She made a Facebook post awhile back about a particular moment on Gilmore Girls, writing, "This episode is why I hate Jess. He steals Rory's book and THEN WRITES IN IT. WHO DOES THAT CRAP? THAT'S NOT HOW YOU TREAT BOOKS, YOU HEATHEN! ESPECIALLY SOMEONE ELSE'S BOOK."

This rant of hers led to over twenty comments from various people. While I concede that it's rude to write in a book that isn't yours without permission from the owner, I disagree that the act of writing itself is unacceptable. As I pointed out to Sharon, making notes, underlining, and highlighting passages is normal behavior among scholars and (certain) book people.

I suppose the adage, "Different strokes for different folks" applies here. In my case, I'm less inclined to mark up a book that is rare or vintage, and for reasons unknown, I am averse to highlighting hardcovers. Meanwhile, you will never catch Sharon doing any perceived harm to a volume. And these are simply two different ways of showing appreciation for the words you're consuming.

-Cate-

PS The images intersperse throughout the text are photos of my own copy of Fahrenheit 451, which I have had for approximately 15 years. With each re-reading, the spine weakens a little more and I fall in love with a new line or paragraph. Someday, it will succumb to the ravages of time and use, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

What's In a Name? Or, the Charlotte Hornets Debacle

I'm big on the meanings of names. Not in a hyper-Dickensian, Aged Parent kind of way, but in a practical, "Hey, that's interesting" sort of manner. You may recall that I wrote a two-part post about my own name back in 2014, for example. And so it should not come as a shock to anyone that I have very strong feelings about the history of the Charlotte Hornets, North Carolina's only NBA team.

Way back in the mid-1980s, construction began on a new arena in Charlotte that was to be called the Coliseum. The building was a sort of salmon pink, and it was elliptical in shape. Odell of Charlotte was responsible for its design. George Shinn used the Coliseum to convince the NBA to place a team in North Carolina, and that's when the Hornets were born. They went on to play their inaugural season in 1988.

Not so many years later, in 2002, the Hornets pulled out of Charlotte and moved to New Orleans without changing their name. It's not completely unheard of for a team to move; one need look no further than the NFL's Rams, who started in Cleveland, moved to Los Angeles, decamped to St. Louis, and have now returned to California. But in this case, the name change seemed imperative. 

Because the Hornets moniker didn't come from the mascot playbook, like a spartan or a warrior. The Hornets were part of North Carolina history, after a fashion.

Charlotte, which is in Mecklenburg County, was named for King George III's bride, a German princess called Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz at the time of her marriage and later Queen Charlotte. During the American Revolution, when colonists were busy rejecting the authority of King George all along the eastern seaboard, General Lord Charles Cornwallis declared that Charlotte the town was "a hornet's nest of rebellion." While in modern times Charlotte is referred to as the Queen City, North Carolinians clearly never forgot what Cornwallis had to say, and that is how the basketball team got its name.

New Orleans, of course, is a fine city with its own historical significance. But the team had no business parading around Louisiana with its original appellation intact. Meanwhile, Charlotte's replacement team was called the Bobcats. Not a bad mascot, as far as that goes, but lacking all of the character of its predecessor. Lucky for all of us history buffs out there, the Hornets returned to North Carolina in 2014 with their name and team history intact (alas, their bangin' original logo was replaced with something more modern and streamlined). The replacement team in New Orleans has a mascot more appropriate to that state: the pelican. 

I do hope that we have all learned our lesson from this arena-hopping time in Hornets history. Because names can be extremely important, and not just when you've chosen to take the stage name of Holden McGroin.

-Cate-

Why I Disappear Sometimes

If you're a regular reader, you may have noticed that I went radio silent for about six weeks from late April to early June. Normally, I would post a sentence or two about an impending hiatus. This time, however, I said nothing, because I didn't plan this break.

In the course of a typical blogging day, I try to write at least two posts, if not three or four, so I have a buffer zone in case my life gets hectic and I can't find the time to blog for a few weeks. So what you read may be a month old by the time it posts to my front page; this is why my more topical entries are often a bit out-of-date. And that's exactly what I did during the last go-round. The problem is, I stopped writing sometime in March.

I meant to blog in May. There were no matters so pressing that I could not find the time to do so. Instead, a crushing sense of futility descended upon me, and I gave up for a minute.

Given my anxiety and depression, this is not an unusual phenomenon. However, I work at overcoming it because I can't check out on my entire life. I have a job to do, appointments to keep, bills to pay. Yet something is bound to fall by the wayside, because the act of surviving can sap my energy to the point where all I want to do is hide under the covers.

This is why I disappear.

I call it clamping down: streamlining my activities and conversations to the point where I communicate with only a few people and do very little beside hope that no one will knock on my door and ask for something I'm not prepared to give.

At this point, I can't promise that I won't disappear again. At some time in the future, it will strike again: that weight. But for now, I'm back. Even if I don't have much to say, I'll keep writing. And I hope you'll keep reading.

-Cate-

The Missing Piece

It started in April.

I had taken three puzzles to Louisiana, each a thousand pieces. At first, I thought I was just going to put a single one together to pass the time when I couldn't concentrate on reading or a movie and didn't have the motivation to go out.

By the time I wrote this post (on June 12th), I had completed twelve more. 

This isn't normal behavior for me. I tend to do puzzles only when I'm extra-anxious, because they allow me to focus on something other than the things rolling around in my head, with the added bonus of bringing order to a little corner of the world.

At the outset, I wasn't aware of how bad my anxiety had gotten. But subconsciously, I must have known, because I felt compelled to take pictures of each project, which were consequently date- and time-stamped by my camera roll, as if I was documenting the duration and frequency of the attacks.

Looking back, I think that the inevitability of reaching my *cough*sputter*cough*th birthday contributed to this, as well as some situations at work. So why, then, have I continued past my birthday and into my summer break?

Whatever the case, the thirteenth puzzle was an unlucky one. Mom and I worked diligently to finish it one afternoon only to discover that a solitary piece out of the thousand was missing. Appropriately, it had disappeared from an image of Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he's the only one who can solve this mystery.

-Cate-

Spot the Difference

When I finished my undergraduate degree, a professor of mine gave me a copy of Lorine Niedecker's Collected Works. Years later, knowing that I am no fan of Emily Dickinson's but that Niedecker's work is influenced by and at times strongly resembles Dickinson's, that same professor asked me if I had disliked Collected as a result. It was an interesting--and valid--inquiry, one that I was able to answer truthfully by saying that I in fact found that I enjoyed Niedecker's work.

Having recently come across the volume in question, I wondered what it was, exactly, that attracted me in Niedecker's poems but repelled me in Dickinson's, and I think the most honest response is that there isn't necessarily a strong set of criteria. Sometimes, it's just a gut feeling that you have.

Here's another example. I love Quentin Tarantino's oeuvre, and my experiences with him began in high school prior to the release of Kill Bill, which was the first Tarantino film I saw in real time rather than on DVD or (gasp) video. But when Inglourious Basterds came along, I hated it with a force that surprised me. To this day, I cannot fully articulate what made me dislike it so much. The acting was superb. The editing was impeccable (RIP Sally Menke). The production values were unimpeachable. Yet there it was: I couldn't stand the thought of a repeat viewing. When Django Unchained premiered, I worried that perhaps I had lost my connection with Tarantino's craftsmanship and would despise it as well, but I was pleasantly surprised when Django proved to be at turns hilarious, haunting, and heroic. 

What, then, was the difference between Basterds and Django? I can't even say. The former simply felt wrong to me, just as Dickinson's poems always have. 

The reading, listening, and viewing experiences are, for the most part, deeply subjective. This is the easiest way to explain my quandary. Yet I continue to find myself shocked when people I meet profess their undying love for Emily Dickinson. What is the difference between us? It's nothing more than a matter of personal preference.

-Cate-

The Cost of Mental Illness

Mental illness is expensive.

I recently had to find myself a new mental healthcare professional, after moving to Louisiana for work. Although she will, of course, remain nameless, I will say that I like her so far.

The problem is, she's so damned expensive.

Because she is a medical psychologist rather than a psychiatrist, and because she works alone rather than in a group office, she does not accept insurance, so all of my visits are paid for out-of-pocket, $125 at a time. For one harrowing stretch--the intake period--I was paying this amount weekly, but now it's monthly. There is my monthly supply of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications, which are largely covered by BCBS but also require a certain amount of copayment; I'll call it $20 for the sake of argument. 

Then there was the genetic analysis, which led to the revelation that I may be metabolizing my medications too quickly, which makes them less effective, and that I may suffer from a deficiency of a certain B-vitamin. At this point, the doctor recommended something to address this, which costs approximately $63 per month.

So let's review: if I see my doctor every four weeks and take all of my pills according to the label directions, I'm spending around $208 per month--gas to the office and insurance premiums not included--in order to stay relatively functional. That's $2496 per year, or about ten percent of my pre-tax income, simply because my brain is incapable of balancing certain chemicals on its own.

This number hurts.

It doesn't hurt only me. It also impacts millions of people around the world who cannot afford the mental healthcare they need, and it affects loved ones who have to watch their friends and family members suffer. It has an effect on society, both in economic terms--employees may be unable to work due to their mental illness, or people may not be able to get a job at all due to lack of resources and care--and in terms of stigma, which can be pervasive and brutal and lead people to leave their mental illness unacknowledged or unaddressed for the sake of "fitting in."

Because there are still people out there--legislators included--who believe that depression is a matter of being weak-willed. "What do you have to be sad about?" they ask, even though anyone who has ever been there knows that this is not the way it works, not even a little. And there are companies out there making billions of dollars from medication that could prove to be lifesaving but is sometimes difficult to obtain due to a dearth of mental health services in some areas. 

These issues don't affect me nearly as much as they do some people, and it makes me incredibly frustrated knowing that others have to go without this basic care due to financial constraints or societal issues. I suppose my point here is that we should be taking mental healthcare more seriously as a country--or better yet, as humans--and offering the support that others need and deserve. It may not lessen the financial burden, but it can certainly raise a person's spirits to know that they can discuss their very real issues with someone without judgment.

-Cate-