Max D'Aulerio's Blog

Motion City Soundtrack

I’m sick of the things I do when I’m nervous, like cleaning the oven or checking my tires. Or counting the number of tiles in the ceiling.

Head for the hills, the kitchen’s on fire!

I had a mental breakdown today. It was as crazy as Motion City Soundtrack’s frontman Justin Pierre’s hair.

But before I get into that, I have to say a few things:

Dear Kenny Adams, please just give Commit This To Memory a few spins. It really is their best record, and it means a lot to me. Hopefully you can find something in it that will make you like it, too.

Also, get used to me writing about music. If you haven’t figured this out by now, music is my passion. Brand New is my first favorite band, and Motion City Soundtrack is easily my second favorite. These are the two bands that I can connect with.

‘Cause I hate the ocean, theme parks and airplanes, talking with strangers, waiting in line. I’m through with these pills that make me sit still.

(Are you feeling fine?)

Yes, I feel just fine.

Everything about this album (Commit This To Memory) is how I feel on a day-to-day basis. Along with Relient K, I will force feed this album to myself in attempts to cheer myself up. Sometimes it works. Other times, it doesn’t. Today it worked.

Out of nowhere, I had one of the fiercest anxiety attacks I can remember. I felt like I was a nuisance and a burden to everyone. That nobody wanted me. Nobody wanted to be around me. Nobody wanted to associate with me. These are all very irrational thoughts, because I know it’s not true, but during times of crisis, they’re as real as driving 90mph down the parkway to visit your mom at work to talk about your problems. Which, might I add, is exactly what I did.

I panicked. I had two options; fight or flight. I chose “flight”. I had to leave. I wanted to just go. Just not be here/at my house. If I stayed a minute longer, I would have chosen “fight”, and quite possibly caused harm to myself or others. None of my friends were near me, and I had nowhere to go. I thought about going to the ocean. I thought about driving out to Mays Landing. I chose to go to Marmora, because the other two options weren’t productive. Talking to my mom really helps me out in the biggest way.

Good thing I didn’t choose “fight”. If I did, there’s a good possibilty I’d be in the ER at Shore Memorial. Maybe even Ancora. These are two things I don’t want to think about right now.

Everything is alright. For now, at least. I see that asshole Dr. Gowda next Tuesday (I think), and I’m going to demand that motherfucker to prescribe me Xanax. My medications are not helping my anxiety at all, and I definitely need a “chill pill”.

Until then, I’m going to listen to “Time Turned Fragile” (mainly its beautiful outro) on repeat, and things will eventually lighten up. Also, around midnight, I’m getting a milkshake at Denny’s. I need a milkshake right now.

Writing a blog when you’re content with your life is difficult. I’m not saying I’m 100% happy, but I’m 100% content with where I’m at. Okay, well, maybe 85-90% content. Some things here an there could be different. But that’s really neither here nor there.

What I’m trying to say is that writing a blog when you’re content with your life is difficult.

Okay, now I’m just sounding like a broken record.

What I’m really trying to say is that writing, in general, is difficult (for me, at least) when you’re happy. Yes, being happy is fucking awesome. Who doesn’t want to be happy? Who really wants to be sad all the time? Who really aspires to be Sylvia Plath? Come on now.

For me, when I’m upset about something, writing is way easier. My emotions are way easier to convey without me sounding confusing. Dallas Green (guitarist for Alexisonfire/singer-songwriter for City and Colour (which will definitely help me get in the writing mood (let’s be honest, Gaslight Anthem, you guys are great, but I want to be able to connect to this post))) once said that sad music is easier to identify with. Ergo, sad blogs are easier to write. Confusing? Kinda sorta. Do I care? Not really.

Again, I’m happy. I’m content. Possibly the happiest I’ve been in an extremely long time. But you guys don’t want to read how happy I am. Where’s the fun in that!? (Then again, who really wants to read about me being a pathetic, moping mess? Man, everything is so ass-backwards. Paradoxical? Does that work here? Hmph.)

I’m even content with my anxiety that I still deal with and the chatter that I hear in my head. I realize that my anxiety is bad, but I’m working on it not being so bad anymore. I also realize that these voices aren’t telling me that I’m worthless or that I should kill myself. I shouldn’t be content with anxiety, or hearing voices, but you know what? I am. I guess it’s because I have a great support system within my friends, family, and my drum set. They understand what I go through, and will always be here to help me through whatever it is I go through.

And I’m happily content with that.

Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

Ladies and gents, let me intro duce y’all to my favorite poet, Frank O’Hara. Frank was introduced to me a while ago by David W. Pritchard, a good friend of mine via the interwebz (even though his love for Pete Doherty/Babyshambles/The Libertines is his hubris). It was only until recently (Mother’s Day 2010) that I fell in love with Frank. No homo.

O! The irony! (Mr. O’Hara was gay, so saying “no homo” is ironic, right? (Jesus, Max, stop talking to yourself. They get it. You’re oh so witty and clever. Good for you.))

Okay, okay, okay. Sorry. Let me get on with this post.

This morning (Sunday, June 20th, 2010 (Happy Father’s Day!)), I woke up feeling somewhat depressed, but mostly anxious. Some days, I really wish anxiety could just fuck off. Today is most definitely that day. I would like to tell my anxiety to “get bent”, but I have a feeling that I’ll be the one getting bent over a chair by anxiety all day today. I’m t-minus 30 minutes from calling my therapist. An early morning phone call would do me good. And maybe a fresh pack of cigarettes.

Maxy, why you so anxious?

Because I’m thinking. A lot. About something/someone/an event/yadda yadda yadda. I’m not going to disclose that on here. Not yet.

But what I can, and will say is that Friday was the best day of my life. I know, cliche, right? But I’m serious. It was the single greatest day of my 20 years of existence. Everything I did Friday, the experience(s) I shared with the person(s) I spent Friday with, just everything. It would take something extremely monumental to top Friday. I think the only thing that could possibly top it would be my wedding day (and let’s be real here, that might never happen).

So, yesterday (Saturday), I completely rode the wake of Friday’s waves. I felt high. Everything from Friday seemed so surreal. I have drank myself stupid to the point where the next day, when reflecting the the previous day, everything was a blur. That’s what it was like yesterday, only I didn’t drink myself into oblivion Friday night.

And now, today, I’m no longer riding those waves. I’m crashing against the shore.

(Maxy, you are so poetic and/or cliche. You sicken me sometimes.)

Here I am, 9am, writing this blog. I’ve been up since 6am. My sleep patterns over the past few days have been real bad. Over the past 3 days, if I tallied up all the hours I’ve slept, it would tally up to maybe nine or ten (give or take a half hour) hours. I’m exhausted, which could possibly cause my anxiety right now. This sleeping behavior has happened to me countless times before. I would also add, right quick, that since monday, when my Zoloft dose was upped, and I started taking Abilify, I’ve felt a slight difference. I’ve been happier (thanks to Friday, and making it through last week), the voices still happen (especially last night, a little bit (heard the old man ask me “Are you fucking drunk?” Neat-o, right?), but the main thing is that shortly after taking my meds at 6pm, I feel as if I drank a half flask of Jacquin’s Blackberry Brandy. I feel warm and fuzzy, and slightly drowsy.

Here I am, 9am, writing this blog. Anxious. Thinking. I’m way in my head right now, and I hate how I get like this. I’m writing this, listening to The Format’s short discography, and have Frank O’Hara’s Selected Poems lying open in front of me. Page 66. The title of the poem is Meditations In An Emergency. The one thing about Frank is how open and honest he is. And how with this poem, I relate all too well. Example:

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on the interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of something else for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even the trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

Seriously, how amazing is that? The answer? Incredibly.

It’s like he knows me.

(No, Max. It’s like he knows how to express his feelings and emotions that basically everyone experiences, yet he does it poetically. You’re no different. It’s not all about you, you self centered, egotisti-)

Enough, enough.

I’m basically writing trying to stave off my anxiety, and the thought in the back of my head that I’m about to run out of cigarettes. I’ve been smoking a pack a day. So unhealthy. Thinking about quitting soon… Yeah, no. I’m not. ANYHOO, writing this has kinda sorta helped. Not really. Calling my therapist now.

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

-Frank O’Hara

Hah, I really crack myself up some days. I’m too witty for my own damn good. And I’m just trying to make a stressing situation somewhat comical. What I’m about to tell y’all is something I have only told a select few. Not even my best friends Greg, Dave, or Kenny (finally peeped you. You’re welcome) know.

Now, for those of you who don’t know what aripiprazole is, it’s an atypical antipsychotic and antidepressant used in the treatment of major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia. It’s commonly knows as Abilify. And I was put on it yesterday.

Hold up Maxy, you’re schizophrenic?

Yes, and no. Do I see a giant bunny rabbit telling me that the world is going to end in 28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds? No. I don’t. Do I hear voices? Yes. I do.

Now, when it comes to these voices, these auditory hallucinations, they’re somewhat different from what you would expect. You would think I’d hear the voices like this invisible person would be sitting across the table from me, having a legit conversations with me. It’s not really like that. 90% of the time, what I do hear is inside my head. What I do hear are my friends. Mostly Greg, Jackie, and my mom. Mostly, it’s them calling my name, like they’re trying to get my attention. I’ll hear a nagging “Max. …Maaaax. Hey, Max. Maaaax.” and they won’t stop until I acknowledge them. I’ll just say “What?” out loud/in my head. Most of the time, after acknowledgement, they stop. Other times, they’ll say something fast, like they’re trying to tell me something, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. 5% of the time, I’ll hear what sounds like muffled conversations from the other room. Like the TV is on, low volume. Of course, I’ll go to turn off the TV, and it’s already off. The other 5% are whispers in my ear. Mumbled whispers. Recently, the whispers have gotten more frequent. What’s really unnerving is that the whispers aren’t my friends. Last Tuesday, I heard  what sounded like an old man complaining. It was mumbled, soft, but there was a bad tone about it. The most recent whisper was Sunday night. I was trying to fall asleep, and I just couldn’t. I looked at the ceiling of my room, frustrated, when I hear “It’s okay.”

Safe to say I haven’t been sleeping well.

So, after the “old man” voice, I told my therapist. And she urged me to see a psychiatrist, so I could have my medications tweaked. So, yesterday, I saw Dr. Gowda.

I have never, ever wanted to bitchslap a doctor more than I did yesterday.

This tubby doctor sits in his chair, eating his pistachios, and he asks me whats the matter. He asked me if I did cocaine. After I told him about the voices, or some of the other stuff (that I’ll save for another post), he’d get this shocked look on his face like he’s never heard anyone talk about stuff like this. Bitch, please. You’re a psychiatrist. Don’t act like you don’t write prescriptions for the crazies. If Dr. Gowda was my therapist, and not my drug pusher, I’d be even more miserable than I am now. Thank God for Noreen Perkins. Also, Dr. G suggested I get back on track with my nutritionist (which, he does have a point. I should.). But the irony of that statement was overwhelming. He is a big guy, and he’s eating while I’m trying to explain to him all the shit I’ve been going through. Ugh.

So, Dr. G tweaked my meds. Instead of 50mg of Zoloft a day , I’m going to be on 100mg of Zoloft. And I’m now adding 5-10mg of Abilify a day.

These next few weeks will be really different. So please, bear with me. Thanks.

Have you ever felt the need to write something, anything down? You feel as if you have so much to say. You want to get it out there. You want to be heard, possibly make a difference. And then, when it comes time to actually write, nothing comes out?

Yeah, me too.

Right now, as a matter of fact.

I feel as if I should just start pouring out my heart and soul into this post. I feel that what I have to say could make somebody feel something. Anything. Yet, there’s a part of me that says “Max, what you have to say really doesn’t mean shit.” And, you know what? That’s probably true. Seriously, what does any of this have to do with anything? It really isn’t important, at all.

What I’m really trying to say is that I have a lot to say. Yet, I really don’t know how to “say it” (a.k.a “write it down”). I have a really difficult time trying to convey any point I ever try to make. I feel that writing down anything that I feel is cliche. That it’s stupid. Dumb. Worthless.

Not only that, the one thing I really don’t like is feeling vulnerable. Putting myself out there is an insane task. After so many years of dealing with bullshit, I finally made the decision to seek help, yadda yadda yadda, and put myself out there. It’s as humiliating as it is humbling.

Example: Tonight, I went to the diner. I opened up to Frank, basically out of nowhere. I told him about my shitty high school tenure (which I will most definitely get into in another post). The shit I’ve been dealing with mentally, and the shit I’ve been dealing with physically.  I let myself become vulnerable. And the one thing I hate about that is pity. But for me, it’s hypocritical. Don’t feel sorry for me, but please, feel sorry for me. But is it really pity if the people actually care about me? I don’t know. Am I making sense? Hello, is this thing on?

Like, when it comes to vulnerability, one thing I don’t like to admit is that I really love the Disney & Pixar movie Wall-E. I’m a total hypocrite about this movie. I refused to see it. I totally scoffed at Greg when he said it was a great movie. I thought “What a fag (Sorry). He only went to see it because his girlfriend (at the time) is making him.” Then, once it came on HBO, I was like, “Whatever, I guess I’ll watch it.”

I cried. Yeah, I legit cried. A 19 year old kid (at the time) crying to a movie about robots. What. A. Faggot. (Sorry.)

It was one of the cutest movies (Yeah, I’ll admit it) of all time. It was so sweet, and so honest. In this movie, you got our little guy Wall-E, who picks up trash for a living. When he isn’t picking up trash, he watches old time movies about love. One day, a ship sends down a female robot, Eve, to try and find plant life. Wall-E, so desperate to find love (from all those silly love movies he watches) totally thinks Eve is a babe. What Wall-E really wants, however, is to just hold Eve’s “hand” (they’re not really hands. She’s a robot. You get the idea). He ends up falling in love with her. He legit follows her into space to be with her. Blah blah blah. In the end, Wall-E gets the girl (duh. You think Disney would do us otherwise? Come on now), and he can now hold hands all he wants. (Awwhhhhh.)

Oh dear God, how that story parallels my life. I’ve dealt with so much trash (metaphorically speaking), when all I really want is some sort of connection. No lie, holding hands is amazing (A majority of the time I have held hands, I’ve been drunk. But recently, that trend has been changing), and that’s all I want to do; just hold hands with that someone who makes me truly happy. That’s all I want. I just want to hold hands.

And, just now, I’ve realized two things: I’ve made myself vulnerable to you readers, and in doing so, I’ve said what I’ve basically wanted to say for tonight. By putting myself out there, I was able to express how I really feel.

Lately, the weather has been so bipolar, and consequently, so have I. Hah, Brand New may be my band, but Relient K also knows me all too well.

My moods have been kind of all over the place. Each day is different. But today, like the weather out right now, I’m sunny with a high of 75. I’m genuinely happy today. I woke up feeling happy, I happily drove my dad into Atlantic City, smoked a cigarette with a huge smile on my face, and am now screaming the lyrics to all of Relient K’s Mmhmm.

I’m pretty sure that if you were a random passer-by, you’d think I’m crazy (partially correct). You’d say to yourself  “look at this chubby kid, smiling. What the fuck is he smiling about?” Hah, whatever, I don’t care. Let me be happy, damn it! Fuck what you think about me!

Maybe it’s the zoloft finally kicking in after almost two weeks of using it. Maybe it’s because last night’s Hand Me Down Buick practice was great. Maybe it’s because after practice, we played two series (best of 7) of civil war. Or, maybe it’s because I said some nice things to somebody, and if I know it makes her day better, then it makes my day better. Maybe it’s Relient K. Maybe it’s all of the above.

I think it is all of the above. I think I should also close this irreverent blog post with a RK lyric to how I’m kinda sorta feeling.

“And when the doors were closed
I heard no I told you so’s
I said the words I knew you knew
Oh God, Oh God I needed you
God all this time I needed you, I needed you”

I’m just a man who knows how to feel.

(Yeah).

Everybody, at one point in their life, will listen to music. When they’re happy, sad, or just using it for background noise. And no matter who you are, you will always have that one song, or album that you can always go to. Some people I know go to Four Year Strong or The Wonder Years. Others seek out Ben Gibbard and Death Cab for Cutie. My Juggalos and Juggalettes seek comfort in the Insane Clown Posse. Hah, just kidding, I’m not friends with Juggalos. But you catch my drift.

Well, I feel that one of the best ways for you, the reader, to understand my personality, is to know where I go. Especially now, with all the shit I’ve been going through, I can say that I finally have that album. For every depressing, confused, anxiety-laden moment of my short existence, there is a song for each emotion. May I present to you Brand New’s The Devil And God Are Raging Inside Me.

Now, even though I’ve been listening to Brand New for only a few years now (got into them my junior year in high school, while they’ve been around since 2001), I feel like they wrote this album thinking “Oh man, this whole album is totally about Max D’Aulerio!” (They didn’t. It isn’t.) When I first heard TDAG, I semi related to it. I was still in high school, and I grasped the overall feel of the album. I understood how much emotion went into it. But I never connected with it.

Fast forward four years. I’m 20 years old, trying to deal with anxiety, depression, and bipolar disorder. Most days, it feels that this album is the only thing I can connect to. From Jesse’s whispering melodies to his emotionally charged screams (well, he doesn’t “scream”… more like yells. Aggressively yells. Very aggressive.) to the music’s mellow flow, which is then disrupted by high energy rock, wrought with feedback and all sorts of noise. The outro of Luca, for example, comes out of fucking nowhere. Jesse whispers “so touch me, or don’t. Just let me know…” and then BAM, “WHERE YOU’VE BEEN!”. First time I heard that, I was driving, and I almost crashed the car. Instrumental songs like Welcome to Bangkok and Untitled are polar opposites. Bangkok, for me, is my “Hey, I just arrived on the scene, and I’m ready to fuck shit up, because I’m pissed off and confused at the same time” song, while Untitled is my “I’ve had it, I’m defeated. I’m giving up, even though I shouldn’t” song. My stand-out musical moment on TDAG is definitely the last minute of Limousine. It’s all feedback that is manipulated by distortion. But there’s something about it. There are some days when my head feels exactly like how the outro of Limousine sounds.  It’s very hard to describe, or convey that feeling to you. You would just have to hear it to maybe understand. It’s unsettling.

Musically, it’s cohesively organized chaos.

The music of this album is amazing. The lyrics are, however, better. Way better. There isn’t a song on this album that I can not relate to. From Sowing Season’s bridge (“I am not your friend! I’m just a man who knows how to feel! I’m not your friend! I’m not your lover! I’m not your family! Yeah!), to Millstone’s “I used to pray when God was listening. I used to make my parents proud. I was the glue that kept my friends together. Now they don’t talk, and we don’t go out.” Basically every lyric of Jesus Christ speaks to me. I’ve questioned my religious beliefs and spirituality countless times. Words cannot describe my love for Degausser (“Goodbye to sleep. I think this staying up is exactly what I need.” “Take apart your head! Chew it up and swallow it!” (the unintelligible bellowing chorus by Mr. Lacey is so electronically charged, it’s insane), to the last lines of the song, “The storm is coming, the storm is coming in”). Everything about that song is how I feel on a day to day basis. It’s also a great song to listen to right before a thunderstorm on a hot and humid summer day. Then comes You Won’t Know. That song is so emotionally charged. When I saw Brand New live, they closed with YWK. Jesse Lacey stood on stage for five minutes, screaming “YOU WON’T KNOW”. He put everything he had into it, and it took a lot out of him. Not the Sun’s lyrics, albeit sub-par when compared to the rest of the record, are still very relate-able (“Be my serene. Tell me you know what I mean. You’ve set on me, but you are not the sun”). Then, closing this album would be Handcuffs, with the lyrics written by guitarist Vin Accardi. “I’d break in a towns worth of houses, and rob whole families blind. I’d do it to you, like you’d do it to me, if I knew you’d get away fine. I’d drown all these crying babies, if I knew that their mothers wouldn’t cry. I’d hold them down, and I’d squeeze real soft, and let a piece of myself die. It’s hard to be the better man, when you forget you’re trying…. I’d drive my car off of the bridge, if I knew that you weren’t inside. With the peddle  to the floor, who could ask for more? A fantastic way to kill some time…. It’s hard to be the better man, when you’re still lying.”

To me, Handcuffs brings the whole album together. It makes everything make sense. It shows how the chaotic nature of the album could end with a mellow song, and still finish strong.

Yet, it’s more than that. The title of the album was thought of when Jesse had a conversation about Daniel Johnston, who is a musician who suffers from schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. It all makes sense. That’s why TDAG is my album. Most days, it’s like the Devil and God are raging inside of me, too.

All I can say is “ugh”. Almost a week in, and I’m getting some of the side effects. Stomach aches, headaches, and hot flashes. Yes, hot flashes. I didn’t know I was a pre-menopausal woman. Seriously. The other night, I was sitting in Greg’s basement with a couple other people, watching Arrested Development, and I just started sweating. I asked everyone if they were hot, and I look over, and Greg has a blanket on. Every one in the room said they were chilly. Like, why.

Tonights experience also happened the other night as well. I have this weird headache. I really don’t know how else to describe it. It’s like my head is heavier than my body, and it just wants to fall off. And it hurts too. Band practice tonight was just painful for me to sit through. I could play drums, but my head ached, and I just didn’t feel any sort of motivation or inspiration. It was just frustrating, to say the least.

I’m having trouble focusing, and I think I should just lay down and get some sleep.

Hey. I’m Max D’Aulerio. This is my blog. However, this isn’t my first blog. I’ve had a Xanga. Blogspot. Tumblr. All of them. My blogspot was actually serious, for like, maybe two months. I dropped the ball. Whoops.

You may be asking yourself “Hey, if you had all of those blogs, then why this?”

Well, I’m going to be honest with you. As of last week (exactly a week ago today), I started going to therapy. After 20 years of dealing with bullshit, I decided to finally get help. My life sucks, to be honest. I’m usually sad, upset, depressed, anxious, disconnected, and everything shitty under the sun 90% of the time. Last Friday, I started taking Zoloft to help treat my Major Depressive Disorder. I’m also going to see a psychiatrist, along with my therapist, due to probably having Bipolar Disorder.

If any of you readers like the kind of music I like, then to put it into perspective, I feel like Max Bemis, lead singer of Say Anything. If you know about Mr. Bemis, then you kinda sorta know what I’m kinda sorta going through. If you don’t know, I suggest you use google, because explaining it would just be long and drawn out. Basically, Max is bipolar, went crazy, and had to be institutionalized while writing and touring for …Is A Real Boy. Well, I hope I don’t get institutionalized. I mean, I doubt I’ll start thinking I’m a part of a mockumentary. Who knows. I don’t.

So, wait, Max, why do you have this blog again?

Ah, yes. Well, I had a therapy session today, and my therapist suggested I keep a journal or blog. She wants to see how well I write about myself/society on an introspective level. I can do that. Well, I can at least try. I’m very insecure when it comes to writing about myself. I keep a lot of personal things hidden. But, I think here, I’m not going to keep them hidden. I’m tired of hiding my blogs from people. Also, when I write about myself, I place a stigma over myself. The “Hey, look, an emo kid writing in his LiveJournal” type deal. While yes, I am emo, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, this isn’t a livejournal. This is a wordpress. Don’t get it twisted. Not only that, I feel that writing about my feelings, and my perspectives is cliche. Shit, even using the word cliche is cliche. Why does that word even exist? Nevermind, that is neither here nor there. Also, even finding a theme for this damn page gave me anxiety. None of the themes on this God forsaken website fit my style. I need to start getting better at html coding again. Making the header for this page? So difficult. (In case any of you were wondering, the words on the header are lyrics to Brand New’s “Not The Sun” (Oh, I’m definitely going to talk about my love for Brand New on here. You can count on it)). The little flowery things on the right side of the page? I’m sorry, but what the fuck are those. I don’t want them. Ugh.

But yeah, I’m Max D’Aulerio. This is my blog. I hope you enjoy it.