Class notes features
In his words
Tim Krebs '79 copes with mental illness
I want to tell you about the disorder I've been diagnosed with: schizoaffective disorder.
My experience with the disorder began when I was 25. I had gone to the local barbershop in my hometown. All the barber chairs were occupied, so I sat in one of the nearby seats to wait. As I flipped through a magazine, I heard someone calling my name in a voice so clear and distinct I turned to either side to see who it was. But there was no one. Incredulous, I asked myself, "Who could be calling my name?"
My first thought was that some enemy was behind it, but I had none that I knew of. Besides, I thought, how could someone, even an enemy, produce such a life-like voice in my head? Someone wanted my attention.
In the months ahead, voices became recurrent. They usually started after breakfast and continued until bedtime. At times they were castigatory, at times mollifying.
When the voices first came to the fore, I was living at home with my parents. I had no job and no friends. I had been out of Princeton three years, having earned a degree in politics. Perhaps I was the perfect victim for such voices, for they told me God had promised me great things, including a career as a writer, and a wife and kids. Pertaining to the second promise, I met a teller at a bank, and the voices told me she was the one chosen to be my wife. But the next time there, I saw that she wore a wedding band. At other times, in public places, I would feel everyone was talking about me, negatively, and the voices would tell me this was because I was destined to become such a great writer.
What did doctors have to say about the voices? I didn't mention the voices to the doctors because the voices told me they were jealous. To the extent the doctors said anything, it was that my disease (and hence the voices) was due to a chemical imbalance in the brain. That was all. With my parents, I was too embarrassed to address the issue, as if doing so could make it worse. They, too, insisted the source of my trouble lay not in behavior, but in the brain itself.
The voices continued; they began telling me to do self-destructive things. One of these was to jump down flights of stairs, backwards. Sometimes I did it, escaping injury, but most of the time I would admit I was scared and walk down. The voices would then berate me for being a coward. There was no "closure." Then again, there were several episodes of "playing in traffic," a not at all laughable experience. These times would find me at roadside, stepping into the way of advancing cars. Again, perhaps miraculously, I escaped injury--sometimes drivers swerved, sometimes my courage failed and I didn't take large enough steps to make contact. I swallowed pushpins and punctured my skin with them; I threw things, like an air puffer or plates with food, and threw punches at other people, because the voices told me I would be declared the anti-Christ if I didn't. I never knew what each day would bring. All I could count on was some form of disruption.
I never asked myself, "Why me?" It did occur to me this might be a kind of penance, or at least, retribution. I tried to look at the positive side of my life--I was becoming more self-aware; I was coping with life, though without major responsibilities such as a family or a career. But I felt no closeness with others, ever, even though the voices seemed so human and real. I began to associate the voices with a kind of spiritual banishment.
Now, the voices have taken a back seat to my "inflamed consciousness," a state of awareness I have that hinges on anticipating the voices before they start in. I'm aware enough of them now to be wary of them, and I can step back and reason through their false pronouncements. I've also changed my medication, from one well-known neuroleptic to another, olanzapine (Zyrexa). After the change, there was diminution in both the frequency and tone of the voices, a welcome change after a two-year run of self-destructive acts.
During this period I also spent time at Dorothea Dix Hospital, in Raleigh, North Carolina, where I had many psychotic "breaks," which required treatment in "seclusion," or solitary confinement. Even though my sense of self-worth plummeted, my Princeton background saved me from giving up hope. "If I could make it at Princeton for four years, surely I can make it here," I said to myself on more than one occasion. "Can this really be more of a challenge than Princeton was?"
I now have hope. I feel more confident than I ever did before--confident that I can face my fears with the logic a given situation requires, confident that I can help my doctor in my recovery, confident that I can be my own best friend and advocate. It is a far cry from someone who once thought God was a personal enemy, or at least, a dirty word. If I ever doubted the existence of God, or any god, that doubt was pierced by the realization that I had made it through an extremely trialsome period with my mind intact. I felt I should be grateful to someone, and He was the first to come to mind. The voices within never were able to crowd this thought from my mind.
--Tim Krebs '79
The truth may or may not be out there, but the doll is. Last summer, McFarlane Toys released a line of action figures modeled on the characters from the movie The X-Files, based on the Fox sci-fi series. David Duchovny '82, who plays Agent Mulder on the show, didn't comment about how weird it might be to encounter himself as a six-inch high, anatomically-incorrect-yet-eerily lifelike bit of plastic, but, hey, we always did think he was a doll. In fact, there are a few other Old Tiger action figures we'd like to see:
F. Scott Fitzgerald '17
Part of the popular "Lost Generation" series, fully poseable Scott comes with
raccoon coat and tiny typewriter. (Hip flask sold separately.)
Jimmy Stewart '32
Pull string in back and this cuddly figure drawls out,
"W-w-w-w-well, hey there!" (Invisible stuffed rabbit "included.")
George Shultz '42
Not technically an "action figure," this collectible comes with a sheet of
stick-on Tiger tattoos.
Bill Bradley '65
Choose your favorite outfit for this extra-tall doll: Tigers uniform, Knicks
uniform, or dark blue suit. (Batteries included, but may still not run.)
--Richard O'Brien
In her words
Haven on earth, cheesesteaks in my heart
In August, Page Bondor '90, of Southport, Connecticut, entered an essay
contest sponsored by The New York Times. Contestants were to describe a
meal or a chef that had special meaning to the writer. Bondor was one of 50
first-prize winners, and was awarded a copy of Tender at the Bone, a
memoir by one of the Times's food critics, Ruth Reichl. PAW is pleased to
publish Bondor's winning essay.
Although the paint is peeling on the Hoagie Haven sign, there is a line out the door of the little shop just as there was eight years ago. We old alums wait patiently, eagerly, among the boisterous undergrads; when we finally make it up to the counter, George's big brown eyes light up, and he will not let me pay for my cheesesteak.
The Hoagie Haven cheesesteak: since 1987 I have been savoring it exactly the same way. A crispy-edged steak, smooth, mild cheese, and the perfect crusty roll, a little ketchup deftly swirled along the length by George--no lettuce, tomato, or anything else extraneous to interfere with its simple beauty. I was always a purist. In college I would start to envision George's work of art around midnight, when dinner was six hours past and we'd been either drinking or studying for far too long. We made our pilgrimages to Nassau Street along with hordes of other hungry Tigers, hurrying across the darkened campus in all kinds of weather to make it before "the Have" closed at 1 a.m.
Our journeys were frequent enough that by junior year, George knew what I craved without having to ask. Others changed their minds (a bacon cheesesteak here, a pizza cheesesteak there, even the odd roast beef or turkey sandwich), but I was loyal to the pristine and glorious original. And George and I, I like to think, formed a special bond as we grinned at each other over the white waxed-paper bags he handed me.
When I think back now to the best times of my life--the football games, the late-night silliness, and long, rambling conversations--the humble cheesesteak was always there. Friendships were cemented and romances sparked over those grease-stained wrappers in the middle of the night. Eight years later, when I return to Princeton feeling a little older, a little more like a stranger, I go back to George, and he makes me feel at home again. And the cheesesteak is still the same.
--Page Bondor '90