Anger and Sadness at the passing of Philip Seymour Hoffmann

 Philip Seymour Hoffmann
1967 - 2014
"Every junkie's like a setting sun..."

So many messages of sadness about PSH. I can't seem to get past being angry. I read the news just before leaving for the gym for my workout and by the time I got there, I was furious. I added weight to every rep, and reps to every set, but no matter how much my muscles strained and burned, I couldn't stop stewing and thinking.

About the talented young actors I went to school with who never made it.

About the parents who are so ashamed, but still force themselves to ask for help as they fill out the financial aid request form so their kids can get into swimming lessons or play basketball at the Y.

About the 'Can Man" who pushes a grocery cart up and down North Broadway laden with bags of the dirty aluminum he collects so he can afford a cheap room and enough beer to put him to sleep at night.

About my fellow patients in the mental hospital who refused to let depression and addiction rob them of their will to live.

About the two guys who sleep side by side, on sheets of cardboard, under filthy blankets, in the open pavilion at the head of the Legacy Trail, where I lace up my $100 shoes and run for fun.

Every one of them with a thousand reasons to wish they were dead. And every one of them refusing to give up.

By the time I hit the treadmill for my cool down, I was seething with so much rage that I felt a little bit dangerous. Then I looked up and saw "B." B is around 11 or 12 years old. He is much smaller than the other kids his age, and he gets bullied a lot at school. He is  also smarter, funnier, more determined, and much, much faster. He could easily win his age group when we run in the big races with Run This Town. Instead, last fall, B chose to train with the smallest, youngest member of our team. He coached the little guy along for two months, and when race day came, instead of competing for hardware in his age group, or even the overall standings, B ran side by side with his charge: they crossed the finish line together.

Yeah, it's sad when a talented, famous, successful millionaire kills himself. I hope he is free now from whatever demons were haunting him. But PSH was blessed with an awful lot of things in life, and an awful lot of young people looked up to him. A lot of kids wanted to be like him. And I'm angry.

Angry at him for giving up on life, and dying on the floor with an Oscar on the mantle and a needle in his arm.

Angry at myself for every time I've turned to food or tobacco or work or bourbon... looking for a place to hide from life.

Angry at my friends who think they are too smart or strong or lucky to get tripped up by their addictions the way PSH was this morning.

And just when my anger threatens to become as toxic as a bloody hypodermic in the gutter at the corner of Bedford and Grand, I lift my mind's eye down the hall, and see B on the pool deck... clowning and encouraging a young swimmer who's even smaller than he is.... then diving into the long blue lane, and slicing the length of it like a joyful dolphin.

Now that I think of it, I guess I am more sad than angry about Philip Seymour Hoffmann's death. He wasn't cut out to be anybody's hero. That may be the only part he ever came across that he couldn't play the hell out of. I sure wish he'd had a chance to meet one of my heroes, though. Maybe B could have shown him that life really is worth living.

Funny how a man's role models can change over time, isn't it?

Rest in Peace, PSH. I hope you've finally found the peace that seemed to always elude you here.

Pennsy

To Be a Light, Not A Shadow

A New Voyage

Here are the money quotes from one of the all-time good news/bad news letters I've ever received.

After reviewing all of the information carefully, we have decided that your health has improved since we last reviewed your case and you are now able to work... We realize that your condition prevents you from doing any of your past work, but it does not prevent you from doing work which is less demanding... You are no longer disabled... your last payment will be for 10/2013.

Well, then. Here's a new adventure for Pennsy. Thanks to my Social Security Disability Insurance, I was able to continue to have an income throughout my recovery from cancer. I have been able to devote myself and my energy to learning a new profession, and to building my body far beyond the strength and endurance I ever knew as a young man. During my recent mental health crisis and separation from my wife, SSDI has been the only thing keeping me off of the charity roles. I would have had no medical insurance this summer without it. I am grateful. But in a few weeks, that part of my life will come to an end.

The good news: As of today, I am officially no longer "Disabled." Many people never live to say that. My doctors report that I am strong enough to return to full time work. I've been to enough funerals this year to know how lucky I am to hear those words, too. I have the opportunity to begin a new voyage, and I have two months grace to get under weigh.

The bad news: I have yet to prove that I can actually work a full time job without physical or mental collapse. And I have 8 weeks to convince somebody (and myself) that I can be a productive and valuable employee who is worth at least the money I've been getting from SSDI for the past three years. The people who know me best, know only too well how very far and hard I can fall.

My initial response to the news was powerful and violent. Was this the last straw? Had life finally broken my heart? Was it time to give in and let the depression win? I though long and hard about what would happen to me when there was no more money. As it has done so many times before, my depression whispered "suicide" in my ear. For a while, it seemed like the best solution; the only solution; but the thought of Mrs P discovering me after days of silence and the phone call she would have to make to my mother changed my mind. They don't deserve that. Both have fought too hard and for too many years to keep me alive through both cancer and mental illness. And I thought of the kids at the Y. The kids I run with. the people in the classes I teach. Who would have to explain to them that Mr. Bob had done such a thing? What about the people who believed in me at the Y when any other employer would have been glad to be rid of me? I thought of the Strong Eight: the women who fought cancer beside me as we laid the foundation for the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program together, two summers ago. We trusted one another with our hearts. How could I do this thing that would almost certainly break theirs?

And if there were enough people in my life who cared that much... people who mattered that much to me... surely there was a reason for me to keep on fighting for my life.

You know who you are. I woke up Saturday morning because of your love. It's as simple as that.

Yesterday, on Facebook, after a long, long sleep, I posted "I finally have the will. Lord, show me the way." And that is my prayer. God made me wait a long time, but I at last have a reason to live. I will be a light in this world, not a shadow. I don't know how I'll be making money on November 1. But I know what I'll be doing.

Somehow, somewhere, I'll be helping people to fight for their lives, as I must do, as we all must. "The ones who give up... they all die," the doctor said. Physiology and personal loss be damned. I'm not giving up on my people... or on myself.

I'm going to work. That's my next voyage.

Peace,
Pennsy