I’m Not Okay. Okay?

Born in the mid-60s and having grown up in the 70s, I grew up in the decade that followed the assassination of J.F.K., his brother, Bobby, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The Civil Rights Movement had reached its peak and spawned social change. The 70s saw the end of the Vietnam War and ushered in desegregation. My brother, ten years my senior, graduated in 1973. During his high school days, he witnessed several riots that were spurred on by the tumultuous social issues of the day. As I’m fond of quipping, we didn’t have mental health issues back then. We just sucked it up. Society hadn’t transitioned to the kindler, gentler version it would become several decades later when all kids received a trophy. There were winners and losers because that’s how life worked. During the introduction of the TV series, All in the Family, Archie Bunker sang, “…and men were men…” That somewhat epitomized men’s role. They were expected to be men - tough - an amalgam of bravado and chivalry. If a woman were cold, a man would take off his jacket and offer it to her. He would gladly brave the cold and suck it up. Men didn’t cry or show emotion. I only saw my father cry once - when my mother died. My grandfather was as Irish as they come (think booze, temper, and the willingness to argue over anything) and from a very different time. The only time I recall him crying and showing emotion was when his son, my uncle Bob, who served in the United States Navy, returned to the states after more than a decade in Japan. Even those were alligator tears, just a few drops that ran down his cheeks before being hurriedly wiped away lest anyone see. Men were expected to remain in control - calm, cool, and collected. In essence, they repressed their feelings. Out of sight, out of mind, right? It reminds me of a Family Guy episode in which Lois stated she represses her feelings and then asks, “What’s the worst that can happen?” The next scene is a shot of her brain with a section oscillating to the refrain “I’m a tumor, I’m a tumor.” While it’s tongue-in-cheek, it makes a valid point regarding the consequences of repressing emotions.

Of course, we had mental health issues when I was growing up. However, they weren’t on the forefront of society like they are today. The pharmaceutical industry was in its infancy. Prozac hadn’t been invented. The proliferation of prescribing medication for anxiety and depression hadn’t begun. We had bigger issues to deal with - social injustice, homeless vets, and the Cold War. That isn’t to say mental health issues were non-existent. Such a notion is a fallacy. The reality, though, is society was different. It was simpler. Cable television was nascent, there were no cellphones, and the Internet with its tidal wave of instant access to information, multitude of apps, and various social media platforms hadn’t been invented by Al Gore. Much research and data support technology’s contribution to the increase in mental health issues. Today, technology’s presence is ubiquitous and is a leading source of social angst. This is why, I suppose, mental health is a popular topic of discussion - something that the workplace, universities, and schools incorporate into their standard operating procedures and benefits. Gone are the days of sucking it up. 

In addition to growing up in simpler times, I served in the military during a time when service members were expected deal with their issues on their own. No one would ever consider going to therapy lest it impact their career, regardless of confidentiality, which was more discretion than confidential. On occasion, someone might talk to a chaplain. But there was doubt as to whether what was said would remain with the chaplain or make it back to one’s chain of command. Instead we just sucked it up. I’m guilty of telling folks, “Suck it up, cupcake.” I told people that because that’s what I was told, and that’s what I did. Yes, the Navy took care of its own - as long as one remembered the mission came first. Instructors, petty officers, senior enlisted, and officers were of the mindset that one’s family didn’t come in your seabag. Add to that formula the majority of folks (76% during my time in service) are type-A. We don’t ask for help. If you ask us how we’re doing, we’re always fine or okay. We’ve been trained to ignore pain and discomfort because after all you can’t succeed in the military if you aren’t tough. The warrior’s mindset is one of complete control and discipline. We’re trained to suck it up, we’re told to suck it up, and we practice sucking it up from day one. Ignore and override becomes part and parcel of who we are. 

Just over a month ago, I lost my dog, Rose. She was nearly thirteen years old the day I had to say goodbye. She had a tumor in her mouth that began to grow exponentially over the holidays. While she was scheduled for surgery at the end of January, I had my doubts she would make it that long. My doubts were confirmed when it spread to her ears. It was the most painful decision I ever made and still haunts me to this day. Although she wasn’t quite herself in the days leading up to the fateful vet visit, she was still the happy-go-lucky dog she’d always been. In the vet’s office, she eagerly accepted treats, wagged her tail, and smiled at me as she stood by the door waiting to leave and go home. Only she wasn’t going home - not in the sense she was used to anyway. Logically, I knew I was doing the right thing and that if I had waited a day or two or three, the end result would have been the same. But knowing that doesn’t ease my conscience or make me feel any better. I second guess myself every day and am overwhelmed with guilt. I feel like I betrayed her that day. The process of “putting a pet down” is sometimes described as the final act of love because it relieves pain and discomfort. While it might be described that way, to me, it felt like a betrayal. She still had that spark of life in her that made her who she was. Yes, the end was in sight, and keeping her around would have only delayed the inevitable. I know all of that. But it doesn’t assuage my feelings.

On the way home that day, and the day I picked up her remains, I cried like I never have. More than just sobbing or weeping, I wailed as a painful emotion deep within me fought to escape. It was uncontrollable. I’ve cried every day since her passing. More than just a dog, she was my companion, and I was her human - the one she identified with, the one she chose to follow around the house. Over the years, I lost pets, and yes, it was difficult. My parents and grandparents are deceased. Their losses were painful. Relatives and friends have moved on. Their passing was indeed difficult. Rose’s loss, though, was the most difficult because in many ways she loved me more than most people. That may sound crazy but it’s true. Her love truly was unconditional and complete. She was loyal until the very end. Whenever I was out of the house, she always had one, if not more, of my shoes. When I went to the bathroom, she’d sniff under the door to confirm my presence. While I was out for my morning run, she’d wait at the window until I returned. During the six-months I worked from home due to breaking my ankle, and on the Fridays I worked remotely, she laid under the desk, always at my feet. The click-clack patter of nails on the kitchen floor when opening a bag of cheese is gone. Trips from the grocery store are absent a curious snoot checking out all of the bags. The jingle of her collar has been silenced. My life changed on January 9, 2024, and my world turned upside down. I lost interest in just about everything, resigning myself to reading, watching videos on my iPad, and sleeping. I practically abandoned working out, running, and participating in my once regular activities. I was not okay. And it was impossible to suck it up. 

With the prevalence of mental health time at most organizations, we’re fond of telling people it’s okay not to be okay. But what does that mean? I suppose it’s a way of recognizing that we all deal with issues and situations that upset the normal balance of life and we should recognize that in ourselves and others. But does that mean we should be striving to be okay? Should we be trying to reach mental homeostasis? Is that the desired end state? I think such thinking is naive. The reality is we all experience situations and life events that wound us and scar us emotionally regardless of nationality, race, gender, or age. At any given time, I’d venture to state very few of us are in fact okay. On the contrary, it’s more likely the majority of us aren’t okay. We’re just sucking it up. Because that’s what we do. We don’t want to burden others with our problems. And if you’re a type A-plus like me, you’re never going to ask for help - at least not directly. I leave breadcrumbs that a discerning few manage to find and follow their trail. So, what should we do? How should we handle those situations? 

I’m not a mental health professional, nor do I have any expertise in the field. But I am an expert on myself. I understand the type-A mentality quite well. So, I offer the following advice. First, ask often and ask sincerely. Experiencing loss creates a sense of loneliness. There is a void in life. I feel lost quite frequently. Rose’s passing still isn’t real to me. Many times I had to stop myself from calling out to her. I look for her on occasion. My daily routine sometimes feels like being stuck in a dream - one that I’m hoping to wake up from soon - because she isn’t there. It’s easy to feel insignificant and meaningless. Being asked how I’m doing makes me feel like I matter and have value. Relax. I’ll most likely tell you I’m fine, or I’m getting there. It’s highly unlikely I’ll unburden myself and place you in that awkward position. Remember, type-As don’t ask for help. Simply asking makes a difference. 

Second, if I do happen to discuss the situation, please know that I don’t expect you to have any magic words or answers. There aren’t any. Unless you’re a therapist, I don’t expect you to be one. There is a plethora of information on active listening. But you don’t really need it. My best advice is simply to apply a variation of the  Golden Rule. Listen the way you’d like someone to listen to you if you were in the situation. Most of the time, I’m not going to talk about it. Neither is anyone else. But you never know. We all need a shoulder to cry on now and then. Be that shoulder for someone and provide comfort. Simply be present.

Third, remember, as I have said many times, an act of kindness is an act of love. To love one another is the greatest commandment. Offer a cup of coffee, proffer a lunch invitation, send a gift card. Just stop by someone’s desk, send a text, or make a call. There’s no obligation to talk about a specific topic. Remember, during this time, there is an overwhelming feeling of loss and isolation. People want to know they are not alone, that someone cares, that they matter. It’s so easy to move from day to day and feel like no one cares. Type-As like me are adept at putting on our game face and convincing everyone that we’re okay - because that’s what people expect. We hide behind our masks, burying our emotions. In doing so, we isolate ourselves from others. A simple act of kindness lets someone know they matter.

I’m fond of explaining my views on life by stating “I’m from the 70s.” Well, I am. We’re all indigenous to the generation in which we grew up. Molded by society, we mirror the accepted standards. Additionally, we bear the burden of individual personality. We are who we are. As I stated previously, I don’t ask for help. I have the “never quit” mentality. Yes, I’d rather die than quit. And in many ways, I view asking for help like quitting. Instead of asking for help, I leave a trail of breadcrumbs. What does that look like? It’s as simple as insisting a co-worker go on a food run even though he was getting over a cold. Or telling a family member I’m running some errands (my way of asking to come with). It’s asking for company on a run, or riding longboards together. Yes, it’s subtle. But that’s who I am. And it’s who a lot of other people are too. Remember that. 

So, if you’re curious, no, I’m unapologetically not okay. I don’t know that I should want to be okay, if it means “getting over her.” Rose’s life had value and meaning. She made a significant impact on me and was my best buddy and will never be forgotten. I sleep with her collar under my pillow, I touch it before going to bed and prior to leaving for work every morning. I take her leash with me every morning when I walk Kiwi, our other dog. I’ve spoken to a grief counselor several times, which for those who know me and my views on therapy tells them  all they need to know. Dr. Seuss said, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” Sage advice that’s easier said than done.  I’m thankful I broke my ankle and had six months at home with Rose. One year ago today (February 11) I came home from the hospital after surgery due to a displaced trimalleolar fracture suffered during a skydiving accident. I have a picture of Rose laying on my chest while on the sofa, eyes closed and content. I miss her and the intangible happiness she brought to my life on a daily basis just by her presence.

Sure, it’s okay not to be okay. But I don’t want to be okay - at least not for a while. In fact, I don’t know if I ever want to be okay. And I’m okay with that.

This blogpost is dedicated to the loving memory of Rose.