This past weekend, with several good friends in from out of town, I had the privelage of visiting the Freedom Center/Underground Railroad Museum. Sitting in my own backyard, a mere 5 minute drive from my house, sits one of the most beautiful and perplexing points of interest I’ve ever been to.

Built only a year or so ago, the building itself sits nestled in between the baseball and football stadiums. And seeing as how neither of our teams exactly rock your face off, I hope that the Freedom Center gains equal spotlight in the city. Physically, the building is incredible. It has an earthy, strong, well-worn look to it, but with very modern design. It’s unpretentious, majestic and powerful concurrently. For some of the recent architectural blunders that Cincinnati has pulled recently, they should be commended on the erection of this building.

The heart of this museum, the spirit of it’s contents, are what makes it truly magical. Having visited countless museums the world over, this is the only one to date that has a personality. The staff is passionate. The exhibits scream with life-affirming exhaultation. And all the while, the duality of it’s existence is plain.

See, the underground railroad existed because humans can be the most vial, disgusting animals alive. Yet even though man created slavery, man also created this network of hope and opportunity. So the museum is one constant juxtaposition of exploring the climate of slavery, as well as lifting up the heroes of the underground railroad. I was brought to tears more than a few times, in watching and reading the stories put forth by the museum.

Though admittedly, the exhibits are quite verbose (to read everything in the museum, you would easily need more than one day), somehow it is not overwhelming. Perhaps because the topic of slavery itself is so overwhelming, so heavy and almost impossible to wrap your head around. I certainly would like to revisit it again, to catch (what I’m sure is a ton) what I didn’t get a chance to read.

It almost seems pointless to write about this at all. If anyone has any ounce of humanity in them, any compassion or empathy, the $12 in admission is invaluable in what you gain from sharing in what the museum has to give.

I’ve never in my life been both so ashamed and so proud of my own humanity at the same time.

The acoustic version (off of MTV Unplugged) of Alice in Chains “Down in a Hole” is quite possibly one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs I’ve ever heard.

The entire album is exquisite as well.

The process of designing your own wedding invitation is quite possibly the most nerve-wrecking experience ever. Not only is my future mother-in-law the client, but in one single packaged system I have to visually define who [the future wife] and i am/are. And that’s scary stuff, yo.

Jumping into print design for me is a lot like going to high school for the first time. Looming in the distance are unknown large, shadowy figures ready to embarass and ridicule you. Rumors and horror stories of “what happened to so-and-so” and the impending feeling of getting what’s coming to you as a freshman that makes you sick to your stomach at lunch every day. Or, something like that.

See, I do web design. Not print. Print to me is what the “big boys and girls” do. I never adequately learned the print process. I think almost exclusively in terms of web. I think heirarchacly, not systematically. There’s no such thing in web design as paper choices or paper sizes, 2-color or 4-color process. There’s one standard screen size, a handful of universal fonts and unlimited color palettes. Almost everything in web is a pyramid shape in how they relate to one another (index at top, work down in relevance), but not in print. Print scares the crap out of me.

The problem at hand is the continual, nagging relationship that I have with my fears. After college, I took the plunge (out of desparate need for money) into a job as a web designer. I got over the cold water shock and eventually adjusted to life in the big pool of web design. However, looking over at the *other* pool over there is a different story. I don’t think I have the chops to play with those kids over there. Heck, I don’t even know how to swim the same way that they do.

Why in the holy hell I decided that I wanted to do this is beyond me. I mean, I know that it seemed natural and logical, seeing as I’m supposedly a “designer” and all. But seriously, I must have been on drugs because now that I actually *have to do this* (read: beyond just saying, “sure, i’ll do that”) I want to run and hide. I know relatively nothing about paper choices, rag count, spot colors or packaging systems. The possibilities are so wide-open it makes my head swim and knees weak. And besides all of that, I have the mother-in-law calling the shots. And let me just tell you that she and I have, uh, different tastes (or rather, she has different tastes than her daughter…who is doing the presentation of concepts since I’m Capt. Wussy when it comes to this). Let’s just leave it at my version of an invitation is not cream linen paper, center-justified script font, 24pt, in gold foil stamping.

I think I’ve sat here, repeatedly banging my face against my desk for easily the last hour…just *trying* to come up with something. Anything. I have a few designs but go all ADD and can’t finish one because I get another idea.

It’s hard to teach yourself how to think differently. Ugh.

I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up too soon, but holy ostritch on a bike I need spring to come.

Today it was 68 degrees. In Ohio. In February. And I didn’t even see one cloud. I have no idea what kind of tomfoolery is going on Upstairs, but someone certainly screwed up and hit the global warming button this morning. Hey, you don’t hear this kid complaining in the slightest. I’m all for divine mishaps.

It’s incredible to me just how much of a natural mood enhancer (take *that* St. John’s Wort!) the sun can be. I’ve always known that I was seasonally affected, with the gloomy days of winter being my arch-nemesis. Though the past two years have been a cakewalk compared to fall and winter of those gone by, I’m still nevertheless impacted by the sun pulling the snowbird routine and packing up to go down south. And the funny thing is, I never realize it until the sun comes back out, and I’m all like, “holy ostritch on a bike! I’m in a good mood!” It’s like forgetting that you love that one CD that you just never listen to. Nothing is sweeter than rediscovery.

So in honor of Global Warming day, I drove out to the mini-airport for a nice, brisk, hour-long skate. And then I took pictures. Of everything. Becaust it was 68 degrees outside, that’s why.

I would pay significant cash to have a repeat performance from Upper Management tomorrow, but alas I hear it’s supposed to be mid-30s and possibly snow. Normal.

So while I do my little happy dance today, my sinuses are getting prepared to up and leave when the pressure system takes a nose-dive tonight.

Some days though, all it takes is some sunshine and a breeze to recharge the soul.

My head quite possibly could explode (in a Muppet-esque fashion, of course) and I’ve become an absolute a**hole. True story.

Talking with my mother last night, she helped me to realize something. See, I’m pretty dumb when it comes to diagnosing discomfort in my life. Well, not so much diagnosing, but just noticing that it’s there. It’s like running and running and running and realizing that something’s not right but not paying attention. Eventually you look down only to realize that one of your feet is gone. Kinda like that.

So with the prodding of my mother, I realized that I’m 4 for 5 in the top things in life that can stress you the hell out. Sweet. I always was an over-achiever.

Death of a relative, getting married, job change and moving. While the job thing isn’t a definite, it’s distinct possibility. Come May(ish), the Roomate has to move out, setting our common-law marriage in peril, and no longer earning us the title of “heterosexual life partners.” Being so, I have to figure out whether I’m moving to Louisville, and if so, where the holy heck I’m going to find a job peddling my half-assed web abilities.

While the death of my grandmother is not like losing a parent or sibling, nonetheless it weighs on me daily, adding weight to what apparently has been on my shoulders.

And then there’s the wedding preparations. I take back that I wanted to design that invitation system. You can pick the colors, flowers, table decorations, favors, bridesmaids dresses. Hell, take the music list too. I take back the notion that I care about anything, offering more than 50% input on all aspects of the activities. I request that things go back to where they stereotypically should be: this is the bride’s day, so the bride can plan the whole freaking thing. I just show up on time and say yes. No?

Oh, and I’m taking on three freelance projects to make some money to pay for the honeymoon and some couches.

So because of said factors, how does Brian cope with all this stress? I’m a royal ass at work. I’ve become exactly what I hate: irrational, trigger-happy, dramatic and whiney. I explode at every email asking me to do just one. more. thing. I am disgruntled and cynical. I’m impatient and aggressive. I’m sure all those in my office have had more than enough of my antics. And believe you me, no one is more tired of this craptacular attitude than myself.

So starting today, no more Mr. Bitchy. No more “OMG can you believe this assinine request I just got!?!?” No more whining about life or wishing that things would just resolve themselves without my intervention. At some point, you have to just pick up a shovel and start moving the mountain out of the way. I can’t just sit at the base of mountain and pout.

When I was in Philadelphia a few weeks ago my mother mentioned something that left me rather puzzled. Apparently, she had been talking to my sister about me, catching her up on a few things (remember, no talking in six years. That part is crucial here). I guess she had mentioned to her that for many years, I had suffered from depression. Needless to say, this shocked my sister.

Apparently, to others in my life, this comes as a sideswipe. I’ve had more than a handful of people tell me over the years “oh, I would have never guessed that,” with reference to my emotional status. Somehow, for some reason, the fact that I suffered from depression for years and was suicidal comes as a great shock to many I know. I can’t figure it out. How could it consume so much of my own life, but not be reflected to those I know?

As I just reread that last paragraph, it sounds so contrived. I shirk from the throngs of people who latch on to the claim of depression. Not to devalue their states of mind, but perhaps out of cynicism I think many people’s idea of depression is feeling sad for no reason, and a handleful of pills will solve it. So when I say that I suffered from depression, it is with the most serious regret and embarassment. I do not wear it proudly as a badge, status of club membership or even affirmation that I’m human and still “feel.”

See, my depression didn’t arise from anything discernable. No great tragedy or definitive happening caused it. Like a creeping fog, it swallowed me quietly over the years. If you believe in emotional makeup belonging in any part to genetics, then my family fits the bill perfectly. Like Ryan Adams, I was “born in an abundance of inherited sadness.” Almost every member has struggled with it for the grand majority of their life, and all to a greater extent than most Americans (I believe). And as far as I know (for me at the very least), no medication has ever made it go away.

Still, it strikes me as odd that people that I know (and even more so, know well) can’t recognize this element of my personality. Perhaps because of the embarassment, but to me it seems glaringly obvious. I’m not as surprised that people don’t know about my suicidal period, but I don’t think it’s too far of a stretch to see it. Truth is, for several years I was suicidal. Intermittantly, through my last 2 years in high school, and a few in college, this stalked me. I never went as far as the planning stages, but it was way more than just a passing thought. But how could this not make it to the outside? Was it not evident in my art? Have you ever talked to me? I know I never spoke of it with anyone, but still…

I feel rather betrayed by the fact that friends do not know this about me. Perhaps it’s unrealistic. Perhaps its my own self that I should be upset with, for hiding my true emotional state so convincingly that I’m perceived as stable and happy. I don’t know. I’m not even sure why it’s taken me so much by surprise, but it has.

It’s easier for me to speak of it all in retrospect. For the past two years (to the month), I’ve been in depression remission of sorts. My tendencies will always be there, genetic and not. But I’ve learned to help myself through in other ways, and am also just plain blessed for the reprieve. But it’s still something that I fight off daily…that impending, relentless march of saddness and pain.

But the question still nags me: am I an emotional con-man or do people just not know me that well?

Sometimes you just run into walls, at full speed. Sometimes you are aware of it before impact. This time was no exception.

As the Pennsylvania Turnpike snaked through snowy mountains and past twitchy state troopers, I could feel the gravity of the situation change, as if to indicate the oncoming disaster. I had to see my family again, and under the worst circumstances possible.

Now, for those that do not understand my family dynamic much, it goes something like this: I have a great relationship with my parents, but don’t see them too often. My other relatives I haven’t seen in at least 10 years, least of which is my sister whom I haven’t spoken to in six. My small extended family is geographically distant, and thus the few American relatives that I have I’ve never really gotten to know. No family reunions. No Christmas mornings together. These people, for all intents and purposes, are strangers to me.

As I checked into the Best Western on Sumneytown Pike, snow lazily drifting from the black sky above, my heart sank. The reality of the situation hit me square in the jaw as my cousin walked through the door. I have no sense of family.

One of my biggest dreams as a child was to grow up and have merry, joyful reunions with my sister’s future family, my parents gracefully slipping into their golden years, and my own eventual family as well. As a child, I saw it as a Norman Rockwell painting. Perfect. Static. An unchanging certainty. Well, needless to say, this did not happen and never will. My family has changed to the degree that we will most likely be as we are now: fragmented and disconnected. It doesn’t take a great leap in thought to realize what once was my most cherished dream is now one of my greatest fears. I have only my parents in this world now.

As they lowered my grandmother into the vault, to be buried next to her husband, daughter, parents and brother, I longed to know my roots. Tales of rolling Irish countrysides, towns filled with cousins, have always been told to me, but never really sunk in. But here, standing at Holy Seplechure Cemetary in Mt. Airy Pennsylvania, I believed it. Tracing the dates on the headstones with my eyes, I looked around at those holding flowers. I will probably only see these people one or two more times in my life. We truly are strangers, brought together by tragedy. We share pain, but not joy. What a sad family.

On Sunday morning, as the fiance and I headed back towards the midwest, I felt more alone than I ever have been in life. Seeing my mother bury her last living parent, watching my father display signs of age and weariness…the days where I will be in the same position are not far off. Never before had I felt it, the notion of having one foot in the grave. In Pennsylvania, I did.

The lack of emotional security of our American young people is due, I believe, to their isolation from the larger family unit. No two people - no mere father and mother - as I have often said, are enough to provide emotional security for a child. He needs to feel himself one in a world of kinfolk, persons of variety in age and temperament, and yet allied to himself by an indissoluble bond which he cannot break if he could, for nature has welded him into it before he was born. [Pearl S. Buck]

How terribly true.