Bill of Change

Even while portraying his beloved alter-ego, Dr. Heathcliff "Cliff" Huxtable, comedy legend Bill Cosby was a champion of personal responsibility.  The Cosby Show rarely missed an opportunity to impart lessons relating to self-empowerment and community improvement.  As popular primetime viewing it carried a surprisingly heavy-handed endorsement of social reform from below, of change born from the efforts of industrious and humble Joe and Jane Everyman.  It almost should have carried the title of that other television staple of the late-eighties, Nickelodeon's Don't Just Sit There.  In promotion of his new book release and current concert tour, Cosby spoke to Sunday's New York Post about the dominant social issue of our time -- the spread and acceptance of listlessness, of assumed "victimhood".  Under the headline "A Plague Called Apathy", he relates that most of us, especially poor urban youths, operate without ambition, accepting a "less-than" lot with a defeatist mentality --often one inherited from resentful, resigned elders.  "You got to have fight", he pronounces.  "We don't have that fight, so life is problematic."  Cosby believes Americans abuse their afforded freedoms (such as how we spend our incomes) while not taking rightful, full advantage of others (access to superior education, nutrition, and drug awareness).  We open our wallets for processed meals and cigarettes, allowing diabetes, emphysema, and cancer to infiltrate and define not only multiple generations of family, but entire communities.  "Toni Morrison spoke at Vanderbilt University graduation last month and she was saying that money was the reason for so many deaths, so many wars and people eating the wrong foods.  And it's true, man.  But when you listen to the people who are selling 'feel good,' it's greed.  They couldn't care less about us -- and because we have a feeling of apathy, we don't care either."  Cosby believes that as long as profit can be made from selling packaged, "friendly" poisons throngs will continue to buy that easy "fix", propelling and preserving America's dark industries.  "People are greedy," he bluntly explains.  "It wasn't about somebody dying, it is all about money, so they use something called choice, which makes no sense at all.  I have the right to smoke myself to death, they say.  I don't know if you ever had relatives who are sitting there and mentally they are in a state of addiction and they say, 'No, I want to have my cigarette.'  They have a metal bottle and two things going up their nose and they have a pack of cigarettes in their pocket or pocketbooks and they keep saying, 'I know, I know,' and people push them around in the wheelchair to have a smoke."  Collectively, Western populations turn a blind eye to these publicly sanctioned epidemics.  Disease, be it mental or otherwise, infiltrates almost every social network, with minor degrees separating its victims.  And to this Bill asks, Where are the families?  What came of intervention?  Even with superstar burn-outs Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston, there is little evidence to suggest that anyone took steps to discontinue his pills or to deny her that final dose of crack cocaine.  Houston infamously drowned in her own bathtub -- a fitting metaphor for the idle impotence of those beset by substance abuse.  I consider myself one of them.

Cosby's harangue rallied my attention with his reference to the familiar sight of a set-in-his-ways convalescent.  I, too, am entrenched in a debilitating --yet repairable-- condition.  That I refuse to shake this absurd, sad sickness is a testament to my stubbornness and inability to manage anxiety.  Aside from lightly-prescribed OCD medication --along with occasional art, writing, and psychological sessions-- I predominantly reduce stress with firmly-observed patterns of exercise and restriction.  (My most relaxing periods of repose are meal sessions, actually.  But they come with a price.)  These preternatural, curious rituals help prevent my small world from being upended, promising to maintain the status quo.  I understand that change, once committed to, would improve my present situation; I both crave and deny it's intrusion.  

As it so happens, in less than one week I will have no choice but to adapt, as alterations in my environment will subsequently effect living and eating arrangements.  For the first time in three years I am to be reunited with my sister as a housemate.  She is to be in Maine through September and, being fond of her company, I look forward to what new colors she might infuse into my black-and-white routine.  I know for certain that many habits will be drastically amended and/or repealed in her presence.  Manifold walks intended to expend calories are a well-known indicator of my disorder, and she will likely frown upon their length and frequency.  I know she will also goad me into exploring new and richer foods, such as nuts, avocados, whole eggs, and pureed vegetable/fruit concoctions.  If past experience can be seen as an indicator, my older sibling will prove to be a positive force and possible sponsor for recovery.  If for whatever reason I do not feel that I am capable of improving my weight through her intervention alone, I may finally entertain the option of subletting a room in Portland, where I would participate in the intensive treatment available to those within commutable range.  Operated from the sixth floor of Mercy Hospital, this program is conducted on weekdays from early morning tomid-afternoon.  There, stringent rules and supervision are met with full cooperation from all enrolled, and rapid progress is expected.  Because of my limited payment options, this is the only rehabilitation unit anywhere that, to my knowledge, will have me in its roster --until I amass a lottery windfall or enroll with a non-Medicaid insurance provider.  (Given my bleak financial standing, mere Powerball tickets are a laughable indulgence, and health coverage through known agencies would require  reliable revenue from more than mere part-time employment.)  Playing on dining room imagery, I face a major "fork in the road", each path revealing an amply loaded plate of strikingly different arrangement, aroma, outlay.  But the intended outcome?  Despite different recipes, with contrasting methods of preparation, these dueling treatment options ultimately serve the same end:  fulfillment of the body and soul.