My life while writing – what life?

I admit that it seems that since I started writing a couple of months ago, I’ve done nothing else. I’ve taken courses at Blogging U and joined a twenty-six-day writing challenge, all with the sole purpose to get me to write every day. Between writing, editing and reading other blogs, this has become my life. I do get out to socialize a bit or to club meetings, and of course to spend time with family but I have been extremely pre-occupied; afraid to fall off the writing wagon again.

Over the past few days, I have been giving thought to structuring my days differently to make room for things I enjoy. I know daily posting is not something I can sustain indefinitely. I have great sensory awareness; I write best when I am directly affected by life around me. I need to get out to experience different things first hand. I need the smells, the visuals, the sounds to transport me to another time and place when I write. I like to feel a connection to a story.

I know I need to get back to the walks on the beach in the early morning where I can stop to watch the pelicans fishing. Getting back to yoga and the gym would be nice for health reasons. I also want to laugh with friends at karaoke or a comedy club or a movie. I’d like to people watch at outdoor festivals while listening to a cover band. I like to dance like no one is watching, think Elaine Benes on Seinfeld. I am aware that I need to live to write about life. A personal challenge for me in a new city is to get out there, “just do it.”

P. S.- Please remember that I need I ideas from my readers for my Day Fifteen assignment. Please let me know what you think I should write about. What type of post would you like to see me write; poem, an essay? Is there a particular topic you would like me to address? Please share your ideas in the comment section of this post, or you can go to my Contact Me page. https://rosalind.life/contact-me/

I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks for your help.

Day Nine: Writing and Not Writing #everydayinspiration

The letter I never wrote

My Dearest Bobby,

It’s been almost half a century since we last saw each other or since we shared about our lives and yet I looked for you a few years back when I found myself in a new city without friends. Where have all my young friends gone, long time passing?

How I had missed you! You drove west on a cross-country adventure right after college, looking for John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. I went looking for myself on the little Caribbean Island where my family roots were waiting.

The last time you wrote to me, you told me that you finally understood when I wrote to you about my special love for Edward. You wrote that you had found someone extraordinary as well and felt like you were on cloud nine. “I’m walking on air! This is the one,” you wrote. I was so happy for you. You deserved to be loved to the max. I never heard from you again; not even when I wrote to tell you of Edward’s unexpected passing. I always wondered about that and thought it strange. Did you get my letter? It was before Facebook and emails when letters often were lost and neither party knew it. I believe in my heart that if you would have gotten it, you would have reached out. You were always there for me.

Speaking of Facebook, let me tell you that there must be a gazillion Robert J. Smiths on Facebook! You had told me once. that Robert James Smith was a common family name from one of the islands in the Canadian Maritime provinces where your parents were born. I expected many Smiths but I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting so many with that name combination in our age group. I tried many variations to filter my search and convince the algorithms to give you up.

Finally there it was; a Robert J Smith from New York currently living in the Rocky Mountains! The profile picture was a portrait of a past president known as a great social reformer. I knew I had to be on to something, but the profile said this Robert J was a computer guy at some Rocky Mountain University, not a famous photojournalist traveling the world in search of a great story.

Although this Robert J was not the photojournalist you had dreamed of becoming, there were random sarcastic posts and funny tongue-in-cheek comments in reference to some joke among your friends. I remember that you were always amusing with a sharp wit. I kept scrolling on that page. The information available on the public profile gave me an indication that I may have found the right person.

It seems this Robert J was an activist like my Bobby who inspired and motivated us to march and protest many things while we were in high school. I remember the cold, wet days we spent holding signs in front of the local state-run mental hospital to oppose the abuse and demand better community options for the mentally ill and developmentally disabled. We recycled and protested about pollution. All the while you documented it with exceptional photos for the school paper.

It seemed like this Robert J was also a patron of the arts and I remembered how we spent that one summer exploring all the little museums in the city because we had already exhausted the larger ones. The haunting photos you took at the Cloisters were amazing. It was exciting watching them develop in the makeshift darkroom in your parents’ apartment.

We enjoyed that summer even if it was just the two of us. All our friends were busy with their own projects or were just not interested in the same things. Bernice approached me once about her insecurities because we were spending so much time together. I remembered assuring her that you loved her and the only reason you kept inviting me was that you being ever the supportive friend, didn’t want me to be alone as I dealt with my recent breakup with Harry.

Suddenly as I scrolled through the photos on that Facebook page, I saw your smiling face; still looking like a cherub with curly gray hair. Even in the black and white photo, your eyes had a sparkle as you sipped from a champagne flute in the back seat of a limo with your wife. She looked nice. I was glad to see you so happy; I didn’t bother with the friend request.

About a year later I tried again. This time there was just one status update post. You were glad it would be your last radiation treatment. You explained that you had just started chemotherapy on Brain Cancer Awareness Day. So many memories, and some regrets, all came rushing at me. I said a prayer but didn’t contact you. I wish I had.

Months later around your birthday, I checked a third time, but when nothing new had been posted, I looked for your wife. Did I just become a stalker? I didn’t care; I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I saw the condolences on her page. So many people were acknowledging what a wonderful friend you were and how you touched their lives. They all loved you, as I did. I saw what she said was her favorite picture of you posted for your birthday. She wanted to reassure her friends that she was coping well and but admitted she missed you so much. I was glad to see she loved you so.

It was a professional portrait, and it was how I had imagined you aging with soft gray curls and a neatly trimmed beard. Your mismatched eyes were apparent, one green, one hazel. They were thoughtful eyes, caring eyes. My sweet Bobby; you found someone who loved you the way I couldn’t. I thank God for her. I wanted to reach out to her and add my condolences, but I didn’t.

I still remember you on your birthday and say a prayer. I’m sorry I didn’t love you the way you wanted; the way your parents would have wanted. I’m glad we were best friends though. I’ll always remember the special moments we shared, the decision we made that summer to protect Bernice. I question myself about that choice from time to time and naturally wonder what could have been,.

Of one thing I am certain, I am grateful that I had you to walk beside me as we were growing up and transitioning into adulthood.

Rest in peace my dear one.

You are forever in my heart – love me.

Day Eight: Reinvent the Letter Format #everydayinspiration

Let Social Media Inspire You

“I can’t decide if procrastination kills creativity or is essential to it.” Grant Snider@grantdraws Twitter

Today is the test. Has procrastination murdered my creativity? I’ve been putting off completing this assignment all day. I don’t know why, but maybe the very essence of the word procrastination is enough to make me fall off the wagon. I think I’m doing pretty well since I decided to make my blog a priority. I knew keeping up with a consistent writing routine was going to be a test of dedication to my craft. I’ve joined Writing Challenges and participated in courses at Blogging U just to make sure that something would stimulate me or hold me accountable to get to the computer to write.

writing muse — Photo by Fröken Fokus on Pexels.com

In the past, when a project was due, I was one that pondered, ruminated and at the final hour moved forward with all my might to catch up. I have found though that if I have a thought, an idea or an inspiration, I need to grab it and run with it at that moment. If the sentiment passes, it goes up like a cloud of smoke, and it’s much harder to be creative because one can’t force the arts. I can understand when someone cries that the muse is gone and with it the intention to be fresh and original.

I’ve said before that I have learned that I am a binge writer as explained by Kara Daly from Brevity’s Nonfiction Blog. https://brevity.wordpress.com/2018/03/26/staying-out-of-the-headlights-on-finding-my-own-writing-process/. I need my imagination stirred; I need a catalyst to start churning ideas in my mind. When I feel it moving, thoughts start flowing, and I write; it may be poems, essays, sometimes it’s a story without end, and I need to find a wrap-up. Lately, I’ve been better about jotting the random thoughts that come about as well. I may not use all of the material that flows, but then I have something in the pipeline for when the muses don’t stop by.

In short to respond to the tweet by Grant Snider@grantdraws; Procrastination kills creativity for me because if I wait until the last minute, I am stressed and worried about the time. Procrastination may be alright in other areas but not when I want my creative juices flowing.

Please remember that I need your help too with ideas of what you want to see me write about for the final lessons. You can put suggestions in the comments section of this blog post or go to the Contact Me page on the menu section at the top of the page. Thanks.

Day Seven: Let Social Media Inspire You #everydayinspiration

Writing Space

Most days I enjoy writing in the quiet of my room, up away from the street noise and TVs. I have a small computer desk where I perch my laptop on its stand and pull out the keyboard from the tray. I’ve got a table with a couple of notebooks and pens for jotting ideas or taking notes and always a glass of ice water. I love a bright sunny day when I can write without lamps and open the window for fresh air.

My ideal space would be a loft on the second floor of a Spanish colonial townhome on the edge of the Old San Juan historic district; with a view of San Juan Bay. I would also be satisfied with a loft apartment in the same place but now over a Spanish style bakery with the aroma of fresh Mallorca and expresso spiraling up through the open doors on the balcony which overlooks the cobblestone streets. Who am I kidding? Neither one of these would be conducive to productivity. I would spend hours daydreaming or people watching or maybe not indoors at all. In that case, I will stay in my own little corner, twirling in my office chair, in front of my computer desk.

Some of you may have noticed I am working in a group to continue to improve my writing. For the past few days, at the end of each post, I have identified the task for the corresponding day. Today’s assignment has a part two. We have been asked to collect post ideas from our readers that we can refer to in the future. What would you like to see me write about? We are to gather ideas that will in some way be integrated with our Day 15 assignment. I would certainly appreciate your help. You can leave an idea in the comments section or go to my Contact Me page from the blog menu.

Here is the link to Contact Me —- It should be fun.

I look forward to hearing from you. Contact Me

Day Six – A Space to Write #everydayinspiration

Home is Where the Heart Is

I was “home” this weekend visiting family. It’s funny we are all far from our childhood home and our parents have long past on but spending time with my sisters always feels like home no matter where we are. From the belly laughs to the tears it all feels just right. I am reposting this story, which is one of my favorites, in honor of spending time with loved ones.

Baby Girl woke up startled she didn’t recognize the loud voices in her home that morning. Strange things had been happening for days. Stuff was disappearing from all the rooms; like the picture frames on the mantel and the books her sisters liked to read to her at night. There now were big boxes all over the house. New ones appeared each time something else went missing. Nothing seemed to be where it should be, and the whole family was too busy to play with her.

Suddenly Baby Girl realized she was alone in the room and she was scared. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck stand stiff against her collar, but she had to go to the bathroom, and she was hungry, so she quietly ventured out into the hallway. Baby Girl peered out from behind the long wall. She did not see Lovey or Annie. Where had they gone without her so early in the morning? She called out to them as two big men crossed in front of her with the boxes. They smiled at her but went on their way carrying boxes out the open door. She glared at them. Where was Mama or Dad? Baby Girl called out again. No one answered.

Since the front door was open and the big men were not around, she decided to let herself out and go to the bathroom. She knew Mama and her sisters did not like her to go out by herself, but she was just going to the backyard. She had done it many times with the girls. She started creeping along the side of the house, the gate was closed, and she couldn’t open it. She continued slowly and carefully, close to the fence until she found a spot. Business was done but still no sign of her family. She couldn’t even hear them. She went back to the front of the house to check. Did those men have anything to do with her family’s disappearance? She sniffed the air – nothing. Should she worry?

Sometimes Mama and Dad went for a walk in the woods behind the house early in the morning before everyone else was up. Maybe Lovey and Annie went with them this morning. Baby Girl knew how to get to the woods. She would walk along the long white fence until the end and then walk into the woods no further than the Big Pointy Rock. Her sisters always promised their parents that they would go no further than the Big Pointy Rock so that Mama could still see them from the kitchen window. Baby Girl was getting hungrier; she wanted to find everyone so that she could get some breakfast. Off she went into the woods.

Lovey and Annie had gone with Mama up the street with a box of baby toys and books for the new neighbors. Dad went to take a few things to the dumpster. Lovey and Annie agreed to give those things to their babies because they were big girls now and would be getting Big Girl things in the new house. As they were walking back, Lovey and Annie noticed that the movers had left the front door wide open. They ran the rest of the way calling out to Baby Girl. The movers said they had just seen her near one of the bedrooms, but she was not in the house! She had not eaten her breakfast. The girls went outside and called again. They shouted her name all around the house and at the end of the fence.

In the woods, Baby Girl had followed a big green lizard past the Big Pointy Rock until it ran up a tall tree. She couldn’t reach it but as she was looking up, she spotted a big beautiful dragonfly and followed it as it danced in the air through the woods. She did not hear her family calling, but she did hear a splash from the gurgling of a brook nearby. Fish were jumping out of the water! She wanted to catch one of those, it smelled like food, and she remembered she was hungry.

Back at the house, the girls were upset, and Mama and Dad were worried. They had to leave soon, and they could not find Baby Girl anywhere. They put the last boxes in the car. As she hugged them goodbye, the neighbor next door, Mrs. Levy, promised to keep an eye out for Baby Girl and would call them right away. “I’m sure she’s just having an adventure. She’ll be back.” She reassured them.

In the woods, Baby Girl paced back and forth along the edge of the water, she wanted to catch the fish but hated getting her feet wet. She heard rustling in the bushes and looked up to see two baby deer. The deer are back Baby Girl thought with excitement. She forgot about the fish and ran after the deer. She ran and ran but couldn’t catch the deer. The baby ran straight to Mama and Dad Deer who stomped their feet at Baby Girl. She stopped in her tracks and realized she was standing in front of the Big Pointy Rock. She remembered she was hungry and headed toward the house. She hoped Mama and Dad and Lovey and Annie were back.

To her surprise Baby Girl found the gate to the yard open; and so was the screen door to the back porch. She discovered her bowls were on the back porch. How strange she thought, but things had already been odd for days. She was glad because she was sooo hungry. After she ate, she wanted to go inside and lay in her bed; she was tired. She called at the door for Mama or Dad or Lovey and Annie, but no one came.

Just as she was going to check to see if the front door was still open, she saw Mrs. Levy coming toward her. She liked Mrs. Levy; she smelled like food and always had a special treat for her. “Baby Girl, where have you been? You had us all worried! I heard you barking and called your family. Lucky for you they were not too far yet. They are on their way back to come for you. Let’s go to my house to clean you up before they get here.” Mrs. Levy picked her up and took her home. When she was clean, she lay on the rug by the door and waited for her family.

When they arrived, there were hugs and kisses everywhere. They were all glad to see each other. In the car, Lovey and Annie took turns holding her tight. They told her they were afraid she was lost and they didn’t want to go to their new home without her. Baby Girl didn’t understand all the fuss. She was home. She was where she wanted to be all along, snuggled in between Lovey and Annie as they all took a nap in the backseat of the car.

#everydayinspiration

Reflections of A to Z Challenge April 2018

A few days after I had started blogging again, a blogger I follow posted her theme reveal for the April 2018 A to Z Challenge. https://promptlings.wordpress.com/2018/03/19/a-to-z-challenge-2018-theme-reveal/. As I read her post, I got excited because this Challenge sounded like a perfect way to develop the habit of writing every day. My life is less hectic now, and I felt there was really no excuse but to be consistent with my writing. I knew the exercise would help me to be more disciplined. I also enjoy and actually fare better, when I am working with a team or in a community. I thought this was perfect!

Without much thought to the process, I clicked the link and signed up. I did not post on all twenty-six letters, but I was glad that I was able to get as much done as I did. The A to Z Challenge April 2018 did serve its purpose for my personal goals. I have made blogging part of my daily routine. I didn’t get much feedback, but I did enjoy exploring other blogs. Because of my limited experience with blogging, I learned a lot from the different styles of writing, and of course, I enjoyed the creativity. It also encouraged me to take more pictures when I am out and about.

There were some issues that made the A to Z Challenge more demanding than it needed to be. The first was I was sick the first week of the challenge and the next week I was trying to catch up until I convinced myself that was not necessary. I breathed a sigh of relief and moved on. Second, my theme was broad and not clear – even to me. I chalk it up to the fact that I really had no clue what I was doing when I signed up, and I had no overall plan. Sometimes I felt like I was on Sesame Street trying to find a prompt from random words for the “letter of the day.” Somedays it was amusing to me as I sang … “the letter of the day is here…” in my head of course. I was able to come up with a post whether from my unfinished work or an idea that popped into my head while humming that tune all morning.

The only negative thing I can say is that for some reason I did not feel connected to the group. Perhaps I misread the instructions, and as I indicated I earlier, I didn’t understand the process. I tried to get back to the original page where I had signed up to review the instructions, but I could not find it. I did not understand it was a page outside of WordPress.com. I did not get the daily badges with a different letter each day. I still don’t understand much about the spreadsheet or how to post to a community page. I’m hoping this will get there.

Overall, there is no question that I would do it again. Thanks so much to the hosts for organizing it; looks like there was a lot more behind the scenes work than I realized. I’m hoping I can get things straight for next year. Looking forward to 2019. Lindi Roze

Mental Health stories of courage and resilience Part 3

Y is for the true You inside

Welcome to part 3 of the Mental Health stories that are part of the memories I carry with me. This mini-series resulted from the April 2018 A to Z writing Challenge. If you’d like, you can go back to part 1 and start at the beginning. Again at the end of the post, I will add a couple of links to provide resources for additional information.

At some point, my life path crossed with those of the individuals that I write about this week. These are not stories of magic wands and happy endings but of audacity and survival. I may not know all the details of their lives, but I cherish the snapshots they left behind. They remind me that, at the core, we all have our “you,” our essence that makes us who we are. In these posts I will tell you about two women; their stories are very similar, but each one of us is unique in the way we face our challenges or our demons.

Della Mae and Margaret had a lot in common. I met both women when they were around middle-aged. They both were married once; both had children they did not raise. They had experienced multiple long-term hospitalizations in the wards of state mental hospitals in the 1960’s and 70s – before patient rights and deinstitutionalization. They both carried the dual diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder and Substance Abuse. Their Bipolar Disorder was with manic episodes, and their substance of choice was alcohol. Alcohol abuse is common among persons who try self-medicate and manage their symptoms without professional help; it’s socially acceptable, legal and at least initially slows the racing thoughts.

Della Mae was born and raised in the South. She met her husband shortly after high school while he was stationed at a military base near her hometown. They were married and moved North. Together they started a family and a business. She helped with the secretarial and administrative duties at the company for many years. Eventually, they were divorced; he had custody of the children – a boy and a child.

I met Della Mae as part of discharge planning from the state hospital. She was familiar with the system. She had been to various state-run hospitals since her first “break” decades ago. She didn’t talk about past; it was not necessary in order to make plans for the future. She was angry at herself and the world because she had gambled with life and lost it all – again. As she walked through the gray metal doors upon discharge, she squared her shoulders and held her head high carrying all her worldly possessions in one shopping bag.

Della Mae went to live in a small supported housing apartment with another woman, also making her way back to the community after a lengthy hospital stay. Staff was onsite but not in the unit. She started volunteering, eventually obtained a part-time job at a local non-profit and bought a used car. Because of her age, she was able to get on a waitlist for Affordable Housing for seniors. At first, she was reluctant. She did not want to be living with “old busybodies,” but soon realized age was an advantage because general subsidized housing vouchers had a ten-year waitlist. She had her own apartment in a little over a year.

Things were stable for Della Mae. She had not required a psychiatric hospitalization for several years. I was meeting with her less frequently. Her daughter Kara, now an adult, started coming over for visits. One day Della Mae called me to move up her appointment, she needed to talk. We went for coffee at a small quiet shop near her apartment because her daughter had stayed with her and was taking a nap.

As soon as we sat down, Della Mae told me she had started decreasing her medications. She had not told her doctor yet, but she had made up her mind. It was her right to refuse treatment. She explained that on her medication, she felt numb. Things were going on in her life and her daughter’s that merited some kind of reaction, but she could not feel a thing, not sadness, nor rage, not even joy at reuniting with her daughter.

Della Mae and I talked about the risks, but she knew all about it. This was not her first rodeo. We scheduled an appointment with her doctor and therapist to review her Safety and Crisis Plan to try to mitigate the risks. No, she didn’t want her daughter involved. We talked about that point of no return where nothing was going to stop the snowball effect in her life. Even though her history told a different story, she believed that if she remained sober, she could make it work. This was her life, and she was in charge.

As it turned out, her daughter had also been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Della Mae’s rage and sadness were from not being able to protect her daughter from that. Kara had left her father’s house to stay with Della Mae, but that jeopardized the subsidy at the elder housing complex. Della Mae could not ask her daughter to leave, and that’s where the snowball started for both of them. The stress and conflict around the housing situation proved to be what tipped the scale. Eventually, Kara was also referred for supportive community services, and they both began to restore what they had lost.

There are plenty of people who are able to rebuild their lives without community supports, but I am telling the stories from my experience. I found that in the absence of a robust natural support system these dedicated professionals have helped countless individuals fight stigma and get back to a life worth living.

Please check out the links below for additional information for family supports as well. Many times family and friends want to help but don’t know how. There is also information about Peer support groups and peer mentoring programs. No one has to do this alone.

SAMSHA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration) at https://www.samhsa.gov/
NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness (a grassroots organization run by families and consumers) https://www.nami.org/About-NAMI

Mental Health Stories of courage and resilience Part 1

A to Z challenge and the letter Y

A few days ago I wrote a whimsical post about the fun side of living on the edge of reality. As I wrote that post, I made a promise to myself and to the ghosts of past clients, that I would tell their stories of courage, resilience, and survival. I knew just where to put it. I was working on the April 2018 A to Z Challenge and I worked on the story while waiting for the letter “Y” because Y is for The You Inside and I haven’t forgotten. Because these are the stories of real people, I wanted to take time and be true to them. I will post each story as a different part this week. I also decided to hold the post a few days because, since 1949, May has been Mental Health Awareness Month. This year Mental Health Awareness Week is May 14-20, 2018.

Case Manager Vs. Life Coach

In a previous life, I was hired by the Department of Mental Health to join an army of professionals and para-professionals. We were tasked with providing community services for persons with recurring and persistent mental illness as the push for deinstitutionalization continued from the previous decade. New medications were addressing the symptoms of their illness and we were going to help them return to their communities to find a “life worth living”. I was a Case Manager. Actually, I considered myself more of a Life Coach; I was ahead of my time. I can fill my days simply writing the stories of the men and women I’ve met. Instead, I will tell you of the snapshots that jump from my memory when I see the news or hear the debate about affordable healthcare.

For some reason, she wanted to die.

Time and again, I remember the day one of “the new girls” ran to our apartment crying and looking for my mother. They needed help because their mother had just eaten some rat poison. For some reason, she wanted to die. Days later, I accompanied my mother to visit the neighbor in the psychiatric ward. I didn’t remember seeing her before that day; she looked like death warmed over. We caught a glimpse of others on the ward; they looked the same, pale gray figures, walking in circles. It was scary. I was a just beginning my teens, it was the late 1960s.

Anne

I met Anne when she was in her late thirties. She had been a clerk for IRS when she had her first major “break down”. She had become angry and the police took her away. She was a tall, woman with a large build. Her short blonde hair was starting to turn gray and she glared at me with powder blue eyes. She explained that she had been angry because no one believed her story that the Mayor had raped her when she was a child playing with his daughter. We worked together for several years after that meeting and I learned her perpetual glare was more a sign of fear than defiance. She lived in fear, never knowing when “the cops would show up and haul her away for no reason.”

It was the mid-1980s. She had a long history of psychiatric hospitalizations precipitated by psychotic thinking and consequent irrational, uncontrollable anger; this was common jargon in hospital records back then. Her mother couldn’t confirm her rape story. No one bothered to corroborate it because it was considered a symptom of her illness. She carried the diagnosis of Paranoid Schizophrenia. She told me she had stopped her meds often because she didn’t like how they made her feel; she felt no need to elaborate. Anne had been discharged on an injectable medication to assure compliance. She agreed to move into a group home to increase her independent living skills. It was my job to get her an apartment in the community and provide support to get her out of the revolving door that kept her in and out of hospitals. Needless to say that it all sounded so much better on paper.

In our society, social drinking of alcohol is quite acceptable. Some people say it takes the edge off and they can relax. They feel more social. Unfortunately, we all know folks who are better off when they don’t drink at all. One particular year, things were going well for Anne. She had her own apartment in a nice part of town and had made friends with some neighbors who were not associated with her life as an ex-patient. Sometimes, they would all go out to listen to a band and have a good time.

Y is for the true You inside

Anne and I would talk about how to stay safe in the city and about the risks associated with mixing alcohol and meds especially an injectable medication. Part of my job, of course, was to point out all she had achieved while on the prescribed medication. I don’t remember the exact conversation or the words I used but I do remember something I said caused her to stand up and stared down at me with her powder blue eyes, holding back her tears “you don’t understand do you? You never will. Those medications take away my YOU. THAT’s who I really am. Who I’ve been from the day I was born. It’s my dreams, who I want to be. It’s MY reality. The one on the medications, that’s not me. The one everyone says is doing soo well”, she added with a touch of sarcasm, “She is a product of the meds.”

Irrational thinking starting to sound rational

She went on to ask questions like who determines what’s irrational. Who determines what right and wrong, what is true or not? And then she started telling me that no one knows that Bill Clinton comes to visit her and loves her. She explained that they had to let Hillary stand next to Bill in her place in the news because she looks better for the TV cameras. A part of me could rationally understand what she was saying about her dreams and her meds. I can’t begin to explain, however, what it feels like to watch someone lose their grasp on reality, know where it’s heading and feel powerless to stop it. It was her right to drink socially as it was her right to refuse medication and treatment. I’ll try to touch on the laws surrounding this in one of my other posts.
It was months before she ended up in the hospital again. Yes, the police were involved.

It was another few months before she was ready to go home again. Fortunately, we were able to save her apartment and she didn’t have to start at the beginning again, even so, it wasn’t easy to return to that place. Eventually, we found another apartment and she found another group of friends. I don’t know if she ever made peace with her You and her medications, but she certainly gave me an education that I could never repay.

Resources

You can find many more stories, resources to find services or general information for consumers and their families at the following sites:
SAMSHA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration) at https://www.samhsa.gov/
NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness (a grassroots organization run by families and consumers) https://www.nami.org/About-NAMI

Please look out for my other posts related to this topic.

eXes and Woes

A to Z Challenge Letter X

eXes and Woes

Clotilde Delsapo looked at the caller I.D. on her cell phone. She didn’t usually pick-up when she didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was from her old hometown, so she did. “Hey, hellooo,” said the playful voice on the other end. “Hi, what’s up?” she responded tentatively. She knew who it was. The call was unexpected, but somehow she was not surprised. It had been about three years since their last conversation. At that time Laurence Olivier Madioti was getting ready to settle down again. It was always the same story, and she’d come to understand this was going to be the last phone call – for a while. “I’ve learned so much from the past. She and I have so much in common. She has wonderful qualities. I’ve good a good feeling about this.” To which Clotilde would politely reply, “Great news; All the best. Really hope it works out this time.”

Now, he was rambling about how difficult it had been to find Clotilde’s phone number again. He wanted her new address to send his recent book. He was looking to get her feedback. “It’s different from what I’ve written before. I think you’ll like it.” Clotilde hesitated but shrugged, sure why not she thought, and she answered without emotion. “1300 Mockingbird Road, Paradise, Florida.” To which he responded. “Great, I’m here for a graduation, but I’ll send it as soon as I get back.” After a bit more mindless chatter, he added that he was single again. “Let’s just say we had irreconcilable differences.” Clotilde didn’t bother to feign shock but replied. “Wow, too bad. Sorry to hear it.”

Today Laurence O. Madioti was calling after a third long-term relationship fell apart. It had been 13 years since they had gone their separate ways but each time a relationship had ended, he called with a similar story. “I think I made a mistake.” Each time it started to sound as if he had regretted that their liaison ended the way it did. She listened carefully, but the words she waited to hear didn’t come. After a while, they were just friends again, former colleagues shooting the breeze.

A couple of weeks later he had called her again to let her know he was heading home at the end of the week. “Why don’t you pack a bag and come with me for a bit. We always have a great time together.” She shook her head and laughed at him. “Some things never change” she gently chided. “I didn’t mean it like that. You sound like you need a vacation. You can stay at the guest house. There is a pool, and it’s walking distance to the beach.” She didn’t know why she didn’t just say no, that’s a bad idea. Why was she always careful not to hurt his feelings? Instead, she explained that she couldn’t leave now. “Sounds like a great place though.” She would let him know when she could visit; after all, they were still “friends.”

She didn’t know why they remained “friends” for all these years. Maybe it was something about forgiving those that wronged you, not because they deserve it, but because you deserve peace. It seemed to have worked. She was at peace, and hindsight gave her a better understanding of their past history.

They had met over thirty years ago when they worked at Allen, Bradford, and Jones. Together they led an up-and-coming team breaking barriers and maximizing productivity, making it one of the most successful teams in the company’s history. In the midst of success, as they say at Disney, there occurred a Tale as old as time, True as it can be, Barely even friends, Then somebody bends, Unexpectedly… Neither one remembered precisely when or why things changed between them, but they did. It became their secret for many years after.

Some time ago, Clotilde realized that she had finally reached a place where it didn’t hurt anymore. She accepted what she had known all along but had refused to let it surface to her conscious thoughts. She had misinterpreted that friendly relationship. It was as simple as that. She was able to close that chapter and look back at the story as if it were a bad rom-com. She felt relief, her spirit was light, and she was at peace with herself and the world.

Laurence O. was a great guy as far as “friends” go. He was giving, supportive and loyal. A person knew he could be counted on to always have your back in a troubling situation. He was smart, funny, articulate and cultured. He spoke four languages fluently, had traveled extensively and could recite poems and sonnets by heart. He wasn’t handsome in the usual way, but there was an attractive, confident air about him. Women and men both admired him. They considered themselves lucky to be counted among his friends.

One could also say that Laurence Olivier Madioti was an incurable romantic in a temperamental way. He was the personification of the ads found in the personals. He loved walking on a moonlit beach, and dinners by candlelight accompanied with good music at a fine restaurant. He was also an excellent cook and enjoyed entertaining at his place. He loved picnics, red roses, and fruity red wine. He was an expert at helping to release the tensions of the day whether with a shoulder massage or cuddling on the couch watching a silly romantic comedy.

Unfortunately, although he said he longed for a stable relationship, Laurence Madioti had been unable to transition to happily-ever-after. After the second post-break-up call, Clotilde had told him that it appeared that he was in love with the idea of LOVE, the conquest, and romance. He had studied the novels, memorized the poems and watched romantic movies. Others would say that once the thrill of the chase was gone and things started to feel mundane, Laurence would find the nearest exit. For all his intelligence and insight, a part of him expected that once he found “the one,” the stars would align and life would be perfect for all eternity.

In the weeks that followed the book’s arrival, Laurence O. continued to call or email regularly. They would talk about the book, politics, and weather. They didn’t take that walk down memory lane. Clotilde could hear the uncertainty in his conversations, sometimes overstepping the boundaries of friendship. She found it sad that sometimes it was as if they were strangers with very little in common after all these years. She wondered if he felt the same. She had thought to bring it up because she didn’t want to continue this shallow friendship.

Clotilde wished they were face to face. At some point, she began to feel awkward about the phone conversations or video calls. It was not the same something was lacking. She didn’t know what but could not speak her mind. She had decided to go to visit him to end this semblance of friendship but then thought better of it. What if she felt different when she saw him in person, after having him in her arms from the obligatory hug between friends? What if she got lost in his the dark pools in his eyes or felt faint from the smell of his skin next to hers? What if she was flooded with a rush of all the emotions she had managed to put away for so long. She didn’t want to muddy the waters. She would wait. If history repeats itself, he would soon be on the mend from the broken heart and would get too busy to call.

And so it was. The calls stopped abruptly, and after several weeks, Clotilde sent an email to confirm her hunch. “Yes, he said sheepishly. We are in the beginning stages, but I have a good feeling about this.” Clotilde politely responded “Great news; All the best. Really hope it works out this time.”

Voting- A to Z challenge letter V

I was struggling with whether or not to use today’s letter “V” to broach the subject of Voting. Elections or anything remotely in the political arena puts me over the edge. It’s definitely an area that I tend to “self-censor” for the benefit of those around me. I noticed a couple of folks did use the word for the AtoZ challenge and so having participated in a rather animated meeting the other night; I decided to jump in and talk about Voting.

Full disclosure – sometimes I want to shake people who show such apathy towards the election process. I can’t wrap my head around it. It’s sad to me that people don’t realize what a privilege it is to live in a country where each citizen is entitled to one vote – to have a say in how the country is run and how funds are dispersed for services. Voting does matter!

Originally it was only white, male landowners who were able to vote on the laws of the land. Through centuries of strife and struggles women, Native Americans, former slaves and other foreign-born were granted the all rights of citizenship, including the right to vote. This privilege was not handed to us but earned with blood, sweat, and tears -literally. If we the people don’t use our power to have a voice, the elected officials can take it upon themselves to make decisions based on what they think is the best interest of their constituents. We have seen referendums and laws shot down or put away because there hasn’t been enough interest from the general public. We have seen others put in place before anyone could appreciate the detrimental impact on the nation.

Don’t get me wrong; I get it. I happen to like this stuff, and yet I too get tired of the rhetoric. I like the research, the arguments, and hearing the candidates’ plans to make things better. I like studying the ins and outs of new proposals. I don’t listen to just one side. To know my choices, I research both viewpoints as much as can. I have voted for a candidate based on past performance regardless of party affiliation. I have become quite active and passionate about some issues, but there are times when even I’ve had enough and want it over. I think in our era of social media and cable networks, all the input can be overwhelming.

What I hear most from people is that it doesn’t matter because “they” are all the same. “They” are just out for their self-interests, out for the money. Despite what we have seen recently, I can tell you “they” are not all the same. Some have sought office with genuine intention to serve rightfully but then lose their vision fighting the uphill battle caught up in the bureaucracy. I have also seen men and women in office fight for their constituents as if they were fighting for their own family members. I do believe we play a role in not letting our representatives get complacent or stagnant. They need our feedback, our letters, our phone calls and our attendance at town meetings to help them have the pulse on what is going on back home.

I can sit here and tell you that one party is better than another but I ask you instead to love your country enough to take a stand for democracy and vote. Be responsible. I can’t stress enough to look beyond the headlines and the talking points in political ads. Knowledge takes away the fear factor. Don’t just “share” trash on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. Research what you are reposting – especially if it sounds absurd or preposterous –even if it is sympathetic to your beliefs. Let’s not have a repeat of false information spread throughout the web as we’ve had in recent years. There are plenty of sites where you can do a quick fact check. Here are a few to get you started: Fact Checker, Politifact, Snopes, The Sunlight Foundation. There are others but these have been widely recognized to use neutral language to prevent even an appearance of bias.

In closing, I ask you to check your local voting lists. Make sure you are still on the list, and all your vital information is current. Maybe you were dropped for not voting. If you need to register, you can do it online at https://www.usa.gov/register-to-vote.
Know your candidates and ballot issues. If you can’t make a meeting with candidates, go to their website to get the details of their platform. If they have been in public service before, you can research their voting record at such sites as https://votesmart.org/; https://www.headcount.org/issues-and-candidates/; https://www.usa.gov/voter-research.
There will be plenty of information online and in handouts all over your city as we get closer to November.

Don’t take for granted what our service men and women have fought for around the world. Don’t just wave your flag on Memorial Day or the Fourth of July – make it count in November. We are part of an already great nation but WE THE PEOPLE need to step-it-up. We can do this!

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