Ted and Über Ted

                I know what you’re thinking.  What’s the difference?  Seriously!  Well, quite a bit, actually, or not so much, depending on which point in my life we’re talking about.  Hell, it can depend on my mood at any given time of day.

                But wait.  Before I go on, let me say up front that I’m writing about my mental problems.  I have them.  I experience very serious depressive episodes.  In years past, I’ve contemplated suicide.  I’ve ruled that out because I’ve been to too many funerals for young people, especially in my family.  I wouldn’t want to put my parents through the loss of another child, nor my siblings through the loss of another brother.  Having lost a niece to suicide, I wouldn’t want to put my kids and grandkids through that.  I’m stuck with this, at times, miserable existence that I sometimes hate.  I may as well try to pull my head out of my proverbially depressed ass. 

                And as I type out my hand-written words—that’s just how I can get the flow as a writer—I recognize the depth of the sadness of relying on not wanting to put my family through pain for my suicide prevention plan.  It’s not the best plan, and right now, it’s not the plan.  I’m in a better place emotionally now, and I haven’t really considered suicide in years.  When I did, though, thinking about the pain it would put my family through kept me alive.  So there, it worked. 

                Anyway, back to the question of the day.  What the fuck is this “Über Ted” bullshit I’m talking about?  I’m getting to that, so back off, and let me tell the story.

                Yes, I have what I affectionately refer to as “mental problems.”  I have a diagnosis of major depression.  I’ve been on medication since 2009 and off and on since 2000.  First, for many years I didn’t want to be really honest about it, partly because I was worried about how it would affect my eligibility for continued service in the army reserve.  Not long after I went on medication the last

The Face of "mental problems."

time, I felt the need to be a role model about my mental illness in my reserve unit.  I was honest about it when we had suicide prevention training, and I was honest about it during my annual health assessments.    I made quite a bit of progress with the therapist I was seeing at that time, as well.  Second, I just didn’t want to be honest about it.  I felt that my depression was a weakness, and I hated acknowledging it.  But the biggest reason I didn’t want to be honest about it is that I just didn’t want to be honest about how my mental problems were contributing to the downfall of my marriage and leading me to set a horrible example for my kids of how a man should be when in a relationship with a woman.

                For my part, I’ve made peace with those things.  I took a long hard look at myself in therapy and in life.  I was fully honest with a therapist for the first time.  Now, I’m not going to talk about my marriage in this piece.  This isn’t about that, and, for Christ’s sake, it’s been over five years.  I’ve stopped discussing my marriage with people. In the past people had a hard time with me accepting what is a fully accurate assessment of my responsibility.  Everyone, understandably, thinks I’m so fucking awesome that there’s no way that I just wasn’t a good husband to her and for her.  But that’s just how it was, and that’s as far as that goes.

                I know.  Get to the point, already.  What, the Hell, is my problem, and what, the fuck, is this Über Ted?   Quite simply, my problem is escapism.  My problem is the Über Ted.

                Ah, yes, the Über Ted, my idealized self.  For, oh, 35-ish years, I’ve held an idealized image in my mind of what I would like my life to be.   I know, lame, but there’s more.   I’ve compared Reg’lar Ted to the Über Ted throughout my life, always unfavorably, of course, and always at the expense of whatever semblance of self-esteem I may have been struggling with at the time.

                  I know.  I’m sure lots of people do that.  I’m sure just about everyone has, at one time or another, daydreamed about a better life, a better self, a better dream for a better future, better this and better that.  I’m not really talking about that.  I’m talking about living vicariously through the Über Ted.  This may seem odd because I’m sure there are many who live vicariously through Reg’lar Ted, which is probably a very normal response.  I mean, I am pretty fucking awesome. 

                Through therapy, I’ve done an enormous amount of self-esteem work.  I may have even, shall we say, “overshot the mark,” because I’m pretty much in love with myself, and who can blame me?  While out on the town recently, I told an adorable young lesbian couple that they were the second cutest couple in the bar, after me and myself.  I meant it, and they're pretty adorable.

                So, me, as a man, I’m cool with the self-esteem thing.  Now.  But I’m sure I’m confusing you.  You’re probably thinking, “Get to the Über Ted bullshit, Ted.”  I’m getting to it.  Keep your panties on.

                It began when I was a young pubescent-ish lad, and I started noticing how I was fitting in with others.  It wasn’t a great fit.   Somewhere in the time between fourth and sixth grades, I discovered my profound lack of athletic ability.  I also started noticing how my family couldn’t afford some of the things that other families could.  My first memory of this was when my parents bought a 1966-or-so Impala convertible.  In 1981 or 1982 or whenever it was, such a car would have been a sweet-ass ride for a high school student, and I sort of remember that my mom really liked it.  But what I more clearly remember is the look of judgment and sarcasm on Kerry Myatt’s face when she said, “Nice car, Teddy,” after my mom dropped me off for school one day.  That’s such a vivid memory for me.  The only thing I don’t remember is how to spell Kerry’s last name.  She may have also spelled “Kerry” differently.  I don’t know.

                One might think that I’d spare my own children such embarrassment, but no.  I didn’t.  For a while I was driving a white 1989 Plymouth Voyager minivan that had wood panel sides.  I affectionately called it the “Family Truckster.”  The kids, not so affectionately, called it the “Family Dumpster.”  Once, when I was bringing my two older girls, Krystal and Kasi, to a dance at the YMCA, they begged of me not to drop them off in front of the Y, which was in a little strip-mall plaza near our home.  I dropped them off by the video store nearby, and then I crept up on them and shouted, “Have fun girls!” right in front of the YMCA.  My exhaust leak echoed through the parking lot as I sped away.   Krystal and Kasi, I understand and acknowledge the pain my actions have caused you.  I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry.  Funny trumps regret.

                Alright, back to me.  There I was, nigh on pubescence, un-athletic, average, middle class, and I was noticing how girls didn’t swoon over me.  I know, crazy, right!  But don’t shed a tear for young Teddy Perrin.  He grew up to overcome all that shit.  Well, except for the athletic ability thing.  That never happened for me.   “Did God hate me?” is what I would have wondered if my family had been religious.  Thankfully, young Teddy did not have that weighing over him.  Thanks Mom and Dad!

                No, I’m just a simple American, and I was just a simple American boy.  I’m all about being part of the solution and not part of the problem.   So, I thought to myself, “Why can’t things just be different?”  Brilliant, I know.  In retrospect, I actually wanted things to have been different, but the former had started to work for me.  I began to daydream about a life that was different, and that, unfortunately, was as far as the plan went.  I’m sure lots of people daydream like this, and back then, it wasn’t a problem. 

The Rock 'n Roll Perrins, 35 years later.

                Hell, back then, my daydreams were hilarious.  At first, preteen Ted wished he was in some kind of rock star family—not unlike the Partridges.  No, very much unlike the Partridges.  The Perrins rocked, hard.  And this new, imaginary Ted was the smartest and most athletic kid in school.  Naturally, he had his choice of sweethearts.  It’s hard to imagine how that earliest version of the Über Ted would have played out because, in the coming years, the Über Ted was, for lack of a better explanation, a little more grounded in whatever plans I had in reality. 

                And as I became a teenager, and I became somewhat more comfortable with myself—somewhat—the Über Ted became a little less grandiose.  Well, now that I think of it, just as grandiose.  I just didn’t dream of being in a rock star family, anymore.  I settled for my regular one.  Naturally, the Über Ted was still the smartest kid around, and he was never, ever awkward or uncomfortable with girls.  He didn’t peak at five-foot-nine, either, nor did he have acne or my crowded teeth.  Oh, and he was the best long distance runner in the state.  Ah, but I’m being modest, the Über Ted was the best long distance runner in the country, destined for Olympic glory.  Of course, by “Olympic glory,” I mean “all the gold medals.”

Teenage Ted, Dreamer of
big, big dreams.

                In later years, if I thought about the Über Ted and his past, I softened the whole “all the gold medals” thing.   Silver and bronze medals build character in your first couple Olympiads.   Oh, and by “if I thought about the Über Ted,” I mean that I did that shit all the fucking time.

                As my high school years were ending, I was subconsciously sabotaging my college plans.  I had been recruited by the cross country coach at Columbia University, so I applied there and to Cornell, with Ohio State as my safety school.  But I had no clue what I really wanted to do, and I felt completely lost as I navigated the application process.  Going to an Ivy League school was a bit too much pressure for a young man who felt like he was the biggest, most awkward dumbshit in four counties.  So, I blew off the College Board Achievement Tests—a requirement for both Columbia and Cornell at the time—and I wrote, uh, scribbled, actually, an absolutely atrocious essay on my applications.  I can’t remember what it was about.  I just know it was very far from the best expository composition in my life. 

                After that, I settled on joining the army reserve and going to Ohio State and screwing that up by never going to class.  This led to me joining the regular army.  The Über Ted didn’t join me in uniform right away.  He was busy kicking ass at Columbia University, in the classroom and on the championship cross country team.  He learned so much cool shit and impressed the bejeezus out of all those cute Ivy League chicks.  They were so damned lucky!

                Oddly enough, I began to recognize that some parts of my life weren’t so bad.  It’s been hard for me to wrap my mind around that sometimes because in those years, I often felt that my very existence was so utterly horrible and pathetic, but I realized that joining the regular army wasn’t so bad, so the Über Ted signed up.  Or, he had signed up, rather.  Only he had realized as a senior in high school how he had no clue about what he wanted to do with his life.  He just joined the regular army out of high school and didn’t need to waste a year with a non-term at Ohio State and staying with friends, like I had, before I realized that I just needed to do something.

                No, the Über Ted joined the regular army, and our timelines met after his tour of duty in Korea as we started our service at Ft. Riley, Kansas.  I was doing double duty, actually serving in the real world and vicariously serving as the Über Ted.  I know.  That seems like a lot, but apparently, I’m a much better multitasker than I present as in the real world, you know, to people.

                Let me be clear.  I wasn’t constantly thinking about how sucky I was and how much better my life would be if I were the Über Ted and perfect.  I thought about it a lot, though, in my quiet moments, alone, when I felt rejected, when I felt foolish, when I felt dumb, when I felt hideous.  Very often, indeed, but not constantly.  Simple self-confidence would have gone a long way for that young Ted, but for that Ted, self-confidence was as foreign as could be.  It was such an abstract unreality when compared with the self-image I had.  The Über Ted had a better chance of becoming Real Ted than that Ted had of feeling worth a good God damn.

                Okay, now.  Put your tissues away.  This was just something I experienced.  It was all in my head, anyway.  I’ve had a good life.  I served well and honorably during my regular army years, and so did the Über Ted.

                Then, we went to college.  I went to the University of Maine to major in English.  The Über Ted made it past the wait-list at Bates College, where he matriculated to become a man of letters.  When I realized and accepted that UMaine wasn’t such a shithole, the Über Ted joined me there.  I did pretty well.  Indeed, it was difficult to convince myself that I was a fucking moron while I was performing so well academically and earning such a variety of honors.  I accepted that Phi Beta Kappans are at least book smart, but I was sure that I was the stupidest one of them.

                I did have an experience at UMaine that was rather emotionally traumatic.  I read James Thurber’s The Secret Life of Walter Mitty for the survey of American Literature, and it was horrifying.  If you haven’t read it—and I haven’t read it in around 17 years—let me summarize.  In the story, Walter Mitty is a fucking loser, idiot who daydreams through his mundane life with grand and heroic thoughts of a different life.   I hated reading it and seeing how foolish and escapist living vicariously though daydreams was.  On a critical note, as a daydream escapist, I thought that Thurber didn’t capture this phenomenon very well.  Mitty’s daydreams were far too disconnected to be taken seriously.  It would be more believable if there had been even a little bit of exposition along the parallel narrative of Mitty’s daydreams.

                And you know, I’ve thought about writing this as a longer piece, focusing on the parallel between the Über Ted and Walter Mitty.   The working title is Suck it, Walter Mitty.

                Did I participate in the classroom discussion of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty? Quite simply, fuck no.  I wasn’t quite ready to share my own secret Über Ted life with the world.  Also, my professor didn’t help me feel that the classroom, or anywhere else, might be a safe place to discuss the Über Ted, either.  I don’t remember his exact words, but this is what his discussion of the story felt like, “Walter Mitty is the biggest fucking loser moron in literary history, ever.  While it may be hilarious on the page, any people who actually do this and think these sort of thoughts not only do not deserve to breath the same air as us normal people, but they will also get a ‘C’ in this class.”  Then, he looked in the eyes of every student in class that day to see who might be harboring such dumbfuck escapist thoughts.  Somehow, I hid my true self, and I kept my “A.”

                At this point, having realized that living vicariously through my idealized self was not a healthy or effective use of my brain power, I decided to stop.  But having developed this as a coping mechanism for dealing with my self-loathing over what had been over 15 years by then, I couldn’t stop. Or, rather, I just didn’t know how to stop.  There was no way I was going to talk to someone about it, either.

                I just kept living and accepting things about me and letting the Über Ted integrate them into his story, too.  I met the woman who is now my ex-wife, Kathy, and her kids, and we became a family.  I helped her raise those kids, and I love them.  I’ll always be there for them, and their children.  The Über Ted was along for this ride, too.  We were pretty integrated, except for me hating myself and wanting to be a different, smarter, better looking guy and a better husband and parent.  I just wanted to be Über Ted, but living my life.

                I had graduated, and I was working outside my field, but I was working.  I loved my wife and kids, and I was happy with them.  But I was miserable in me.  I hated that I couldn’t stop hating myself, and I just wanted it to stop.  Daydreaming about the Über Ted was replaced by me constantly talking to myself about what a worthless, piece of shit, fucking moron I was.  I had invested hope in waking up to be the Über Ted, and that felt like the stupidest thing anyone had ever done.  “Miserable” doesn’t begin to describe how I felt.  Then again, it’s a very simple way to describe how I felt, and I think that many of you can relate to it as the introduction of the description of my old feelings of worthlessness.  Anyway, Kathy could see that I wasn’t right, and she pushed me to get help.  Ultimately, she had to call the police one night when I was beset with desperation, and I took a Leatherman-like hand tool off to the nearest bit of forest to do myself in.  A policeman caught up with me on the trail, and he brought me to the emergency room.

                When I left the house, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do.  Jam one of the blades into my neck or temple or chest, I guess.  I didn’t have a fully formed plan.  As many who are close to me will attest, I’m not good at planning anything.

It may have been in the ER that night with Kathy and the crisis worker, it may have been during the follow-up appointment with a psychiatrist, it may have been in my first appointment with a therapist, or it could have just been in a conversation with Kathy, but I started telling some of these select few about the Über Ted.  It wasn’t all that liberating.  As one prone to self-criticism and a tendency for perfectionism, it felt like defeat.  I felt like the King of the Dipshits.  I was worse than that dumbfuck Walter Mitty because people knew.  I mean, at least the Über Ted had some direction, unlike that piece-of-shit Mitty’s day dream self.

Part of me wants to reread the story, but most of me doesn’t.  I just watched the trailer to Ben Stiller’s 2013 version of the film, and I wanted to cry.  Fuck Walter Mitty.

I did feel exposed, but through the cavalcade of therapists over the next few years, I had the opportunity to make some progress.  I also had the assurances of a board-certified psychiatrist that because I knew that this Über Ted stuff wasn’t real, I wasn’t insane.  So, I had that going for me.  And I was able to process through some of the bullshit that had made me a miserable, depressed, pathetic daydreaming loser.  I was able to achieve a level of self-acceptance that I had theretofore never reached.  Unfortunately, I never really worked through the Über Ted bullshit, and I just accepted that as part of “being Ted.”  I made myself suppress the desire to be the Über Ted.  It wasn’t that hard.  Sure, he snuck back in every once in a while, mostly around my discomfort with my physical appearance.  The Über Ted was taller, a little more muscular, more handsome, and he had a full head of hair and could grow a full beard.  A full head of hair and a full beard, for Christ’s sake, is that so much to ask for from a man’s deranged fantasy of becoming his idealized self?  I thought not.  But, whatever.  I’d catch myself thinking about the Über Ted, and I’d just say, “Cut the shit, Ted.”

It seemed to work for a while, at least until I started going through the separation and divorce with Kathy when I fell into a pretty deep depression.  I was fully honest with my therapist and with myself—for the first time—about my part in the downfall in the marriage.   For a while, all this honesty with myself kept Über Ted away.  It was kind of weird for him not to have his fingerprints all over a period of serious depression.   I’m not going to go so far as to say it was nice.  I hated the man I’d let myself become.  This period of depression was just different. 

But don’t get me wrong.  The Über Ted was still lurking around.  He was changing, along

Visitors to TedHouse enjoy this
picture on my hand made
bedside table.  So hot!

with my self-image.  I was beginning to accept what a magnificent specimen of manhood, intelligence, creativity, and awesomeness I am.   And I had begun to see just how God-damned good-looking I am.  I mean, seriously, look at me.

But the Über Ted isn’t just a pretty face with a great mind and an amazing ass.  He’s always been a man who did things, and for a while, Reg’lar Ted was, too.  I had started TedBlog, and I made TedBar and some other furniture.  I got interested in cooking and in creative cocktails.  I made foolish videos for the YouTubes.   I was doing creative things, and I loved it. 

Then I got busy with “busy-ness,” and I stopped making time for the things that I enjoyed.  I had to do a lot of overtime at work, and that ate away at me.  My free time became less of a time to create cool shit and more of a time to rest and sleep away the stress.  And, in the interest of full disclosure, I drank some of that time away, but I did create a few of my own cocktail recipes.  So, really, I was still pretty creative. 

I bought a house 50 miles closer to work, hoping the ten hours per week that I was no longer spending on the commute would be spent getting the rest I needed to be creative during my “TedTime.”    Anyway, I love TedHouse, and I’ve loved the process of decorating it and making some of the furniture, like the desk I’m writing on now. 

But the time to be creative slipped away from my grasp, and I was falling.  This happens.   I have a mental illness, and I’m prone to depressive episodes.  My old psychiatrist once told me that 100 percent of people who experience three or more major depressive episodes will experience another.   She was right, in my case, many times over. 

So, I was falling.  Like I said, this happens.  After the Newtown shooting, I was devastated.   I hated everything, myself included.  I walked through a fog for a couple weeks.  I was just shocked and saddened that mental illness didn’t become the important talking point.  I was consumed with what I call my “I hate everything feeling.”  Then, in my nephew’s basement, where I had been doing my woodworking, I made a cut, and as his saw tore into the pine, I felt my mood lift.  I didn’t hate everything anymore.  This happens, too—usually not quite so dramatically.  It happens, though, and I like stuff again. 

This liking stuff again just wasn’t happening last fall.  (Full disclosure, it’s not there all the time now.)  But last fall, I mean, I really hated everything, more each day.  There was a confluence of things that probably all fed into this to varying degrees.  I had written a novel years ago, only a draft, and it was still a raging piece of shit that needed a lot of work.  I lost the soft copy of it.  I still have the hard copy, but losing it just reminded me of what a lazy, non-novel-editing motherfucker I’d been for so long.  The Über Ted would have finished that shit.  I also had the anniversaries of the two big break-ups of my life to consider and reflect on the changes I’d made—along with the changes I felt were still necessary.  I’d had another break-up a few months prior, and I had to think about why I'd let that go as far as I had.  And there were other things, but this is enough disclosure for now.

And the days grew shorter, and I hated everything, including myself, naturally.  And my old friend came back to haunt me.

Since October 2014, I’ve missed a lot of work, many days, just lying in bed or on my couch, hating every fucking moment, wishing for the Über Ted to just take over.  The time was ripe.  He edited and finished his damn novels—and sold them and had them made into movies, of course.  He wrote regularly and did lots of cool, creative stuff.  Yeah, sure, he had his share of problems.  He’s human, just like you and me, but he took care of himself.  He dealt with his shit like a normal person.

And me, I just wallowed in misery, unable to understand how this could or would stop.  There were no magic moments when my mood just changed, and it never seemed to change gradually.  The Über Ted didn’t seem like he was ever going to take over—that worthless son of a bitch.  So I decided to give it up.   This Über Ted bullshit just didn’t work for me, and I found a therapist.  We’re working on getting my head out of my ass and into my life.  She says that we’re working on getting me out of my head and into my life.  Fuck it, I’m paying for this shit, so I call it whatever I want.  As long as the result is me engaging my life rather than some bullshit idealized self, it doesn’t matter what language we use. 

I have to admit, though, It’s not very easy to give up living vicariously through the Über Ted after 35 years.  A great deal of the time, I just don’t know what to do with myself or what to think.  I still have days when I don’t feel like I have enough energy to get out of bed.  It’s so easy to go through the motions of life with hope for the Über Ted at the back of my mind. There are times when it’s a hell of a lot harder to just go through the motions of my life.   I had no idea how deep all of this ran, and sometimes, I don’t know what to hope for or what a regular future might be like.  It still gets pretty dark every once in a while.

But I’m slowly making changes.  I’ve been doing some writing.  (You’re reading this, aren’t you?)  Indeed, writing this is going to help immensely, I hope.  How can I go back to the Über Ted if I’ve exposed him for the fraud he is?  I’m even starting to rewrite that piece-of-shit, unreadable novel. (Keep your pants on, it’ll take a while.)  I recently completed another woodworking project—this awesome desk I’m using right now—and I’ve got another one in the hopper, bunk beds for my grandkids.  Well, there are a few in the hopper, end-tables and shelves and whatever I may feel like.

Sometimes, I just don’t know what I’m doing.  I catch myself heading to fantasyland.  Not as the Über Ted, but I fantasize about being Reg’lar Ted with all the work done that I need to do.  That’s pretty dangerous for me right now, too.  It’s just another side of the Über Ted coin where I don’t have to do any work for things to get better.  I try not to beat myself up much.  That’s been pretty disastrous in the past.  And after all, this Über Ted stuff is kind of funny.   What an elaborate procrastination scheme!  It’s much better than “planning ahead so I don’t have to do anything right now.”  I don’t even have to plan ahead because my idealized self would have already done it, and much, much more.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to write about this in more detail, with fewer “fucks” and “shits.”  Though, to be sure, I’ll never tell all.  I’m telling enough, and all this feels pretty stupid.  No one needs to know all the inner-workings of this big ol’ brain of mine.  For now, I’m just trying to do some shit and, honestly, to give a shit.  It’s just going to take some time.