On Depression and Aggression.

Harold C. Jones

The trouble with depression is the same trouble you get with any ailment or affliction.

It affects every aspect of your life, and in some cases will ultimately destroy it.

With depression comes sleep disturbances, loss of appetite, a withdrawal from social interaction, problems with drugs and alcohol.

Bad as it is to go hungry when there is food in the fridge, or sit on the couch and mope on a sunny day, or drop out of society and hang out in alleys drinking...there are worse things that can happen to a person. In a way, these are answers, coping strategies for the depressed. In some cases it might be an actual choice.

Some of the other little side-effects are even worse.

Depression quickly leads to irritability. When it gets bad enough, it leads to anger, sometimes not particularly rational anger to the objective observer.

Anger is the flip side of depression, and for good reason. Depression is very introspective—it carries the seeds of serious anxiety disorders. You worry. You obsess. You try to avert things that haven’t happened yet and might never happen, but if they did happen, it would cause more problems. You tend to try and control things, everything, and anything.

These anxieties will distort a once-normal person into something just a little bit warped.

Anger, anxiety, and good old aggression, which virtually always has undesirable consequences, are unpleasant feelings, unpleasant emotions. Yet they are also natural.

First we are afraid, and then we get angry. It’s a common reaction. It’s hard-wired, from when primitive hominids lived in a dangerous natural environment.

The first time you see the lion, you run in fear. After a while, you carry a spear and begin hunting the lions. When you see a lion, you shout, yell at it, jump up and down, and you run at him with the spear. He runs away and you laugh and chase him with your mates.

Anger is a kind of courage, or very much like it sometimes, and people have done amazing things when the adrenalin really gets going.

The trouble with anger is that it’s socially unacceptable. The outlets for anger are few and far between. This accounts for the popularity of blood sports like hockey, football, boxing and wrestling. 

People can yell and shout at the game or the screen.

They can indulge those emotions in a safe manner.

When I was very young, my mother used to buy peaches and tomatoes in the old fashioned wooden baskets. They don’t make them anymore, but the sides were thin veneer. There was reinforcing around the lip, a curved handle, a chunk of cheap crap for the bottom. It was stapled together with bits of the cheapest metal wire. She didn’t like giving them up, either, because they held clothes-pins, or oddball tools that my dad might use to fix the kitchen faucet, things like that.

I used to ask my mom for them. I used to take them out behind the garage and sort of toss them up in the air. It felt pretty good to nail one with the perfect kick and smash the thing into splinters. At the time, I didn’t know what a coping strategy was.

I don’t know what she thought of all that, but mothers really are special.

As a grown man, we learn to stifle that sort of anger. There’s no good place to get rid of it.

As a writer, I don’t even really indulge it. I don’t chop people’s heads off regularly in my books. Even the bad guys have some human qualities. I’ve never written a character that was PURE EVIL or any of that stupid shit because I just don’t believe in it. Even Hitler was a product of his environment—it wasn’t a genetic quirk or the touch of a wand conferring some ancient curse.

I’ve never really damned a person in one of my books.

To keep the anger bottled up, is to find more avoidance strategies. You have to avoid irritants.

This is where that psychosis really begins to feed on itself.

Every little thing that irritates you is a threat.

It threatens the safe and cozy little routine that you have constructed around yourself, out of fear, out of frustration, out of lack of coping skills.

To struggle against it causes frustration, and that is probably one reason there are so many people, and I see them all the time, who have given up trying.

I’m not judging them, I’m just saying they’re out there. It might even be the right choice for them. 

People can only take so much, and some are stronger than others. Maybe some of them never really did have any big expectations out of life. For them, maybe this is it—and that’s all she wrote.

Maybe they have decided the price is too high. They might understand better than I, the price of a mistake, and how things could be so much worse if they screwed up in the slightest.

Maybe I really am different, in that I have struggled against the miserable restrictions of my life for far too long.

And I hear that fucking voice in my head all the time, ladies and gentlemen.

“You have to kill yourself.”

“You have to kill yourself.”

“It’s never going to get better.”

And I am God-damned sick of that fucking voice, ladies and gentlemen.

Here’s the thing: in the end we end up fearing ourselves. We don’t want to share that shit with anyone.

And let’s be honest. Suicide is just redirected aggression.

“You have to kill yourself…”

At some level, it is a decision, a choice, to do not one thing but another. For some reason we might feel it’s better than going after someone else.

An episode of road rage and next thing you know a family in a minivan are plunging head-on into a transport. One wrong word from the wife and you’re headed for the gun rack. Not getting enough sex? Grab the old assault rifle and a bag of ammo and head for the cinema.

That is one reason why people choose suicide. They can’t handle their darkest, most horrible thoughts any longer. The real trouble is that they don’t see things getting any better, either. There is no relief in sight.

It might be better than really losing it and dashing off some quick and incoherent manifesto, grabbing a gun and heading to the capital city on a mission that isn’t going to do anyone one bit of good at all. 

It’s going to get you killed, and maybe that’s what you want at this point in your life.

We can’t get at the things that are really bothering us. And we just can’t take it anymore.

But all that fucking shit has to go somewhere.

“You have to kill yourself…”

“It’s never going to get better.”

Yeah, I get real tired of hearing that, ladies and gentlemen.

What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?

There might be some things in this world that are better off left unsaid.

This really isn’t one of them.

END

Mickie.

Harold C. Jones

A tiny, fringed buckskin purse dangled on its strap. Inside was everything she needed, a driver’s license, a compact. 

Lipstick, chewing gum and a little money, plus her usual five dollars tucked away for a taxi in an emergency. A handful of French safes, the key to the back door and that was about it.

When Mickie saw the two cute guys in the red Fairlane, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped forwards into the brighter light and gave them a cute little wave, bringing smiles and causing quick mutual looks between them.

A long wolf whistle came from the driver’s side as the passenger stared. There was music going in there and the light was about to turn. It was Crimson and Clover, one of her favorite songs.

Not for one minute did she hesitate.

“Hi, guys! You, hoo.”

The one in the passenger seat looked astonished and then grabbed the driver’s arm. The light turned green and they were about to pull away. He looked back, eyes a bit wide. She was a vision of wholesome 

American loveliness in her handkerchief-sized cutoff jeans, faded and fringed all around the edges. The halter top, thin cotton and hot pink besides, revealed her nipples, her tummy and a lot of bare skin everywhere else. He stared into those big, baby-blue eyes.

Gotcha.

“Hi.” She waved again, bobbing up and down slightly, as if she was in a hurry and needed to get to the bathroom.

The driver hurriedly hit the right blinker, gave it some gas, and neatly turned hard right into the curb.

The boys stopped right at her feet where she stood at the crosswalk. She stepped up to the door, putting her hand on the edge. She leaned forwards and the passenger’s eyes refocused hurriedly.

The desert night was warm to begin with, but it was rapidly cooling.

The driver leaned over to look her in the eyes through the window.

“Yes, Miss?”

“Hi. Nice car.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. Uh, can we help you with something?”

She smiled.

“I’m Mickie.”

“Uh—Hi. I’m Flynn to my friends and this is Herman.” Flynn to his friends and Alvin to anyone looking for a 

beating was what he almost said, although he knew that women weren’t interesting in that sort of talk.

Talk was cheap, as everyone knew.

“Hello, Herman. Nice meeting you, Flynn.”

The one in the passenger seat bobbed his head and risked a quick look up from her feet, which were a sight in the dark brown sandals with the thong straps tied calf-high. He took his time over her breasts and honey-tanned cleavage, but he came back to her.

“Uh, hello. Hi, Mickie.”

Flynn seemed nonplussed.

“So, uh—”

She was about to speak, but Herman seemed a bit brighter. That Flynn sure had big arms, though. Herman was pale but cute, and definitely still more boy than man.

“Would you like a ride somewhere, ah, Miss Mickie?”

She smiled from ear to ear, hands on her hips and her long blonde hair framing her face in a manner she had always thought of as elfin when looking at herself in the mirror. She tilted her head as if considering the possibility for the first time.

She stabbed Herman with a look.

“Yeah—why, you practically read my mind there, Herman.” She gave Flynn another kind of look, as if to say, my, what a smart boy, that Herman.

He stared into those eyes with parted lips, heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. They both did.

Herman, seventeen years old and blushing like a dewy rose in morning sunlight, hastily hopped out after a jab in the short ribs from Flynn.

“Why sure, Miss Mickie.” Flynn had been dreaming of a girl like this for about his entire life as far as he could recall.

They both had. They had sure as talked about it something awful as well—on almost any given night like this, perhaps they had even talked or fantasized just such an eventuality as this. They had read a few stories and looked at a few pictures in magazines.

Herman, with a mop of thick brown hair, dark eyes, six-foot-one and all of one hundred fifty pounds, got out and held the door for her. It was cute. He was looking up and down the sidewalk, checking as if to see if anyone in particular had witnessed this noteworthy event. She clambered in and it looked like Herman, perhaps not so bright after all, was going to get in the back. He looked a bit lost as he contemplated the open car door and Mickie within. She took another look at the blonde Flynn character, the upper leg hard and bulging up against her own.

“Hop in, Sugar.” Mickie squeezed over, ever further inwards, leaving her lean and tanned legs trailing over into his side as he got back in.

She sat up straighter, her left hand as she reached between his legs, brushing Flynn’s thigh as she braced herself, giving Herman a nice smile and then feeling around under his left hip, looking for the seatbelt but there wasn’t one there. Herman sucked air and looked away even as some of the rigidity left Flynn’s body.

“It’s okay, Sugar.” Mickie lifted Flynn’s big arm, and casually draped it around her shoulders as Herman stared fixedly at her knees, her calves, her bare toes and drinking in the heady wine that was her scent.

His lips framed silent words, anyone listening to the wind in the palms might guess what they were.

Oh, my, Gawd!!!

“So. Where did you want to go, ah, Miss?” Herman sounded pretty cool, although it wasn’t his car. “Flynn and Herman to the rescue!”

He leaned over and gave a thoroughly-stunned Herman a quick grin.

“Right, little buddy?”

“Erg.” Herman shot Flynn a dark look, an exaggerated look, and Mickie snickered, patted his knee and got him grinning in gratitude again. “Oh. Ah, yeah, absolutely.”

It wasn’t exactly Flynn’s car either, it belonged to his dad, but he had permission to use it while the folks were away at his aunt’s in Chicago. This was no time to point that out, Herman decided.

Flynn was a full year older than Herman. While Herman had his beginner’s permit, it might be a while yet before he had wheels of his own, working evenings and weekends jerking soda for ninety cents an hour. 

Flynn helped his dad build houses on weekends and in the summer for more like a buck-forty, hence the wheels on occasion. It was more usual to get the pickup truck.

“Oh, anywhere, really.” She reached over and gave Herman’s hand a quick squeeze. “”I’ve got a little money. Maybe we could get some beer.”

“Sure, Mickie.” You had to be twenty-one to buy liquor and beer, thought Flynn, mind racing with the implications. “Whatever your little heart desires.”

There sure were a lot of implications, and yet she was so pretty, so fresh and young and vibrant.

She sure had a lot of confidence for what was a mere slip of a girl.

Herman’s hand was a bit moist, but when she squeezed, he squeezed right back, not looking at her exactly, but sneaking a look at the rearview mirror in the center of the windshield.

He was trying to get a glimpse of her face, failing that he snuck a look across at Flynn, looking fairly bemused as he drove at a sedate thirty-three miles per hour down the wide boulevard street, lined with tall still palm trees and the bright neon lights of the city that never slept.

Mickie leaned forward and turned up the radio just a little bit.

This was going to be fun.

***

There was a pounding in his head. At first he thought someone was at the door.

The phone was ringing too.

Flynn groaned.

Eyes blinking in the glare, he rolled over and looked at the alarm clock.

His mind went back to last night, a jolt of something went through him, and he swung his feet to the floor. 

Alone in the house, he padded naked to the living room where the phone was. He ran his hands through his tousled mop, still marveling at his luck. His face felt like a glazed donut, but oh, well.

“Flynn! Flynn!”

“Yeah, yeah. Shit. I’m here.”

“Can you believe that?”

It really happened, Flynn felt like saying. Something stopped him. What, he couldn’t exactly say.

He laughed, and Flynn just stood there with the phone in his hand. What he wanted to do was to go and open up the front curtains and put the coffee on. But Herman was there too.

“So how are you this morning, Herman?” The grin faded in recollection.

While the image of Mickie spread-eagled on the trunk of the Fairlane down that deserted dead-end road would stick with Alvin Flynn for the rest of his life, there had been something funny about Herman’s begging off at the last minute, pleading a little too much beer.

Something about not liking sloppy seconds, not that Herman had actually said anything like that. Not last night—maybe he was jealous of Mickie plastered all over him like that.

For crying out loud, someone had to go first—it was up to Mickie, really.

“Hung, over.” The answer finally came as Flynn savored the taste in his mouth, convinced that it had all been real and no fluke either—there was more where that came from. “Like, wow, man.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah, me too.

What were you supposed to say? And yet you had to say something.

Herman would never be able to tell Flynn how it felt.

But the stab of jealousy to see Mickie in Flynn’s arms and to wish it was him—and to know that it was over, and you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore, and that for the love of God why couldn’t it be me?

Oh, God, why couldn’t it be me.

“So, what are we doing tonight, little buddy?”

Herman repressed a sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. Whatever.”

Flynn stood there looking at the curtains, holding the warm set up to his ear and grinning just like a Cheshire cat.

Yah-hoo!

Guess who ain’t a virgin no more.

A thought struck him.

Flynn was home alone and why not?

Why not.

“Whoo—ee.” He let out a rebel yell sure to shock the dog and maybe even lift an eyebrow next door.

Flynn was still young, still full of piss and vinegar, and to hell with them anyways.

“Halleluyah!”

The phone was very quiet after that little outburst.

I will be damned.

“Day-am it all, little buddy, we got laid!”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m happy for you, Buddy.”

That’s me, and so cool, too.

Flynn laughed and laughed and laughed.

All recollections of Herman’s half-hearted efforts, finally begging off due to a blasted headache of all the things—oh, how they had chuckled about women and their headaches during many a bull-session over the long, lean years together.

Flynn had forgotten it already.

***

Herman lowered the phone, knowing that for the rest of his life, he would be living a lie.

Flynn was gone. He knew that now.

All of those girls, it was not just Mickie. The hair, the eyes, the teeth, the tits and the asses.

They had the legs and the mouths and the lips, the cute little up-turned noses, the pussies and the belly-buttons and everything in between.

He only wished he could hate her for it.

Mickie…Mickie is everything I will never be.

END

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