Usually, on a Sunday, I prepare meals and “healthy” snacks for the week. I work part-time a few towns away, and during the tourist season in SW Florida, the commute at peak hours is a nightmare. On days that I have to work, I like to make sure I don’t have to fuss over what I’m going to eat. On days that I don’t work, I still don’t like planning and preparing elaborate meals. I’ve taken to making one pot and one-dish meals, such as soups, casseroles, pizza, or pasta. Keep it Simple is my motto.
This is the second week where I’ve not planned out my week partly because I have not been to work for three weeks because of COVID 19. It has been challenging to plan, mainly because the supermarket has been hit or miss with what is available. I make it up as I go along. I managed to find ground turkey at the end of last week and promptly prepared my version of “sloppy joes” on mini French rolls with a side of oven-fries and a cucumber salad.
In preparing my meal, I noticed that I was running low on “recaito.” Recaito is a homemade seasoning, basic to just about all my recipes. Some people call it sofrito, which means “gently fried” or sautéed. Growing up, I used to watch my grandmother and mother chop up all the vegetables each time for every meal. The onions, pepper garlic, and sometimes tomatoes are sautéed in a heavy pan before adding to the dish. Every day, for every meal…chop, chop! On rare occasions, I’ll take the time to do to chop up everything fresh, but in general, I thank goodness for blenders, food processors, and Magic bullets!
Recaito. consists of onion, garlic, peppers (I prefer cubanelle or Italian pepper), aji dulce -small sweet peppers (don’t confuse with the Scotch bonnets), add cilantro and culantro/coriander leaves (culantro has a more robust flavor, use sparingly.)
As you know, supermarkets have limited supplies, and since I didn’t feel like traveling to a specialty supermarket, I decided to make the Lazy -Lindi version of recaito. These are, after all, unprecedented times of basic survival. The newscasts continue to say that things will get worse or peak in the coming weeks. I don’t want to be without recaito in the middle of a pandemic. We all have our limits.
Usually, I make a big batch to share. See my attempt at a still-life of my ingredients and tools. You may recognize a Ninja blender, extra-large measuring cup, ice cube trays, pre-cut green peppers and onions, peeled garlic, a small bunch of cilantro, and small packaged culantro. The ice cube trays are for easy storage. After the ingredients are blended, I pour the mixture in Ice cube trays and then in a freezer bag or container. When I’m cooking, it’s easy to pop an ice cube or two into my soups, sauces, Spanish rice, or beans. If you are not feeling exotic, leave out the cilantro and culantro. It’s still a tasty and convenient way to have condiments on hand.
So with my magic ingredient past down from generations, I am ready to survive our COVID 19 Pandemic. Be safe.
I read another sad post the other day about relationships and the conundrum/riddle of forgive and forget. I believe one can forgive someone for hurting us and continue life without resentment or hold a grudge toward that person. Without going to any textbook explanation, but rather based on pure personal observation, I believe that not forgetting what has hurt us, is merely an instinct for survival. We need to remember danger to learn to avoid it.
My dog hates medicine for her ears, it fizzles in her ear as it goes down. It has been years since she’s had an infection, but if she hears me shaking a bottle with liquid, she stands by the stairs waiting to see if I am going to come after her. If she sees me taking a step in her direction, she runs up the stairs and under my bed. If I give her a piece of cheese or meat, she will smell it first to make sure there isn’t medicine in it. She had a treat in her mouth once, tasted the medicine, promptly spit it out and ran up the stairs and under my bed. I also have a seven-year-old niece that has severe allergies that sometimes cause anything from severe swelling to seizures. From about age three and a half; she understood that some foods make her feel very sick. Before she orders at a restaurant or any new environment she will say: “I have allergies, does this have…” It is truly a matter of survival for her.
While the breakdown of the relationship can refer to romantic partners, parent-child, siblings or best friends, the premise is the same. One person hurt another, and a trust was broken. Does it really matter why? I believe that to expect a person to forget is selfish and would appear that your wishes, personal need to feel better or comfortable with the situation, are more important than the other person’s healing process.
I often hear “I apologized and promised not to do it again. I’m trying to make it up to him. What more does she want? Why does she/he keep bringing it up? ” News flash, It’s not about you; it’s their healing process. They want to be OK. They want to stop hurting, to heal, and be able to trust again. You can’t speed it up, and you can’t make it better. The process needs to come from within the person. If you are honestly doing all you can do, keep doing it and wait it out. There is no quick fix or magic potion. Sometimes on the other side healing, that person may decide they are OK, but they don’t want or can’t be OK with you, and you will need to accept that.
We are all selfish to a degree. I like the analogy that we are all protagonist in our very own movie. We all wish life was perfect; that the sun would shine brightly every day and that it rains only on our flower beds. No one wants to feel pain, and we all wish that our happiness is all that mattered to anyone we encounter. Even the most loving, giving person hopes that someday, out of the blue, someone would do something special for them in appreciation.
I believe time does heal but doesn’t mean things go back to the way they were. When a broken bone heals, there are signs that healing took place. When something is mended, the repair makes it stronger; but sometimes it continues to be weak in that area. Some people do manage to find that special place again but it takes work, and it takes time to rebuild that trust and with it to restore that loving feeling.
I used to hate it when my friend would say “It is what it is. There is no magic.” One year I gave her ruby-red slippers and a magic wand from the costume store with a note that said “BELIEVE” written in fairy dust sprinkle. I still believe in the supernatural power of love but sometimes, it is what it is, and there IS no magic wand.
This post is the last of the Mental Health stories that I will share in honor Mental Health Awareness Month. As I’ve written earlier, these are memories I carry with me from past experiences. I hope that in reading these snapshots, you can get a glimpse of the struggles for a person who lives with chronic and persistent symptoms of mental illness and from that glimpse, gain understanding and empathy. This mini-series resulted from the letter “Y” in April 2018 A to Z writing Challenge. If you’d like, you can go back to Part 1 and start at the beginning.
I met Margaret as I did many of my clients, in a state-run psychiatric hospital to be a part of discharge planning. As I had mentioned in my last post, Margaret was on the younger end of middle age. She had been married once and had a child, a boy named Shaun. The boy’s father had full custody. Margaret had not seen her son, now a teenager, for many years.
Margaret carried a dual diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder with manic episodes along with Alcohol Abuse and Dependency. Hospital records indicated that there was a family history of substance abuse by both parents and siblings. Margaret had lost contact with her family. She had lived “on the streets” or in psychiatric facilities for most of her adult life.
One of the first things that Margaret wanted me to know was that she “was not like the other homeless drunks.” She wanted me to know she had lived in a big white house overlooking the Bay in a small posh town known as a summer retreat for famous people. As she stuck out her arm in front of herself, she fanned her hand and wiggled spread fingers to make a point, “and, I had di-ah-mends…”
Whenever she was having a hard time, she would repeat the story to me with the same gestures and intonations. She wanted me to remember. It was her dream to get back to that point in her life. It was my goal to help her get as close as possible. She was discharged to a women’s transitional residential program with seven other women and plenty of support. The structure proved too much for Margaret. There were curfews, chores and according to Margaret “the staff was pushy and some of the other girls were too young or too sick.”
We started looking for safe alternative housing. It was the 1990s. Margaret’s only income was Supplemental Security Income and the minimum allowance of food stamps. Today she would probably get a gallon of milk and a dozen eggs for that amount. Without a housing subsidy, it was impossible for Margaret to afford even a room in one of the many rundown boarding room houses in the city. We applied for a rental assistance allowance through a special grant designed for downsizing the state hospitals. While we waited, Margaret’s boyfriend, Jean found a small attic apartment in an old triple decker.
Jean was supportive of Margaret’s treatment and personal goals. We were able to adjust the subsidy request to use at that apartment. With a place of her own, the primary thing on her mind was to see her son Shaun again. Margaret was able to open communication with Shaun and his father. Now she could tell his dad that she had a safe place for him to visit. Jean was able to borrow a car to meet her son for lunch near his home. It was the first time they had seen each other since he was a small boy. She was so excited. She bought a stylish blouse and slacks at the Salvation Army. For Shaun, she purchased a gift from a local department store, precursors to Target or Walmart. They tell me she looked fabulous. It was very stressful, but she managed to get through it without hospitalization or too much disruption in her life.
It was a year later when Shaun got his driver’s license and a car, that he was able to visit Margaret. From the moment she got the apartment, everything she did was with Shaun in mind. Now, her little boy was coming for Christmas!
Margaret and I would shop for her groceries and personal items at the beginning of each month when her Representative Payee would give her spending allowance according to her budget. Margaret had planned and budgeted for Shaun’s Christmas visit for months. She wanted to make sure she had enough for a Christmas tree. She was extra careful shopping because she also wanted some ingredients for a special dinner. After we secured her monthly staples, we were done, but with very little left for a Christmas tree.
Margaret wanted a real tree for Shaun. She didn’t want a dusty beat-up artificial one from a thrift store. We searched high and low on that cold New England winter day. Finally, in the back of a tree lot, Margaret spotted the perfect one. It was short and lopsided, but not too scraggly and at least one hundred times better than Charlie Brown’s. To Margaret, it looked like the one at Rockefeller Center. She negotiated and got it for eight dollars. She cried silent tears as we drove home.
At my next visit, I saw the lopsided little evergreen sitting in the corner glowing brightly from the lights and ornaments that Margaret had collected from around town – donation boxes, thrift stores, and friends. The little Christmas tree did look like it belonged in a big white house by the Bay with strings of “di-ah-mends” to light it up. Margaret had poured years of bottled up love for her son into decorating the tiny apartment for that visit. It was Margaret’s first Christmas in a long time as well, and sometimes she would become flooded with so many emotions. It was good to hear they had a lovely time.
Margaret was a loving mother who also happened to struggle with distressing symptoms of a major mental illness. I tip my hat to her this Mother’s Day wherever she may be.
Each one of us has our own evolution of life, and each one of us goes through different tests which are unique and challenging. But certain things are common. And we do learn things from each other’s experience. On a spiritual journey, we all have the same destination. A. R. Rahman (from BrainQuotes.com)
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
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
A few days ago, while participating in the April 2018 A to Z challenge, I wrote a post about The fun side of living on the edge of reality. It was about the silliness of letting my imagination run away. I imagine it’s a trait common among those of us who like to write. My theme for the challenge was to tell the stories that marked my simple life; the memories of those moments are in my mind like snapshots. After I wrote the post, I felt the need write the stories of those who struggle with harsh realities, yet find a reason to get up every morning and do their best to make it a great day. For the next few days, in honor of Mental Health Awareness Month in May, I am telling their stories. Once again, at the end of the post, I will put links to resources for additional information.
Imagine
Imagine you are a high school senior or college freshman
Imagine for a moment that you are a high school senior or a freshman in college. You ’ve been a straight A student, involved in sports programs and volunteering. You’ve done everything right. Just last month you were told that it’s a great thing to have your whole life ahead of you. The world is your oyster, the sky is the limit, and yet here you are, sitting in with your parents in a psychiatric ward waiting to talk to your hospital team about discharge planning. You have been handed a diagnosis something like Paranoid Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder. You’re a smart kid, intellectually you understand the information, but it doesn’t make sense. You can’t return to school; you need extended treatment in an outpatient day program. You may need to pack your things and move out of your dorm, mid-semester to a therapeutic residential program in your community. You don’t remember how you got here. You’ve heard the stories, you’ve been given a diagnosis, but you can’t believe this is happening to you.
Mental health services and the Government
For the most part, I loved my job. I found it meaningful. I believe it addressed a need in our community especially for the families and individuals we served. Even though we were just another branch of government, I felt we were doing great work moving forward to try new ideas in the interest of improving the system for our clients. As it happens sometimes, I was promoted to long days of sitting behind a desk with a mountain of paperwork while trying to interact with the bureaucracy. I missed being out in the field, but I was fortunate enough to work with a team of intelligent, well trained and compassionate professionals who were driven to provide the best services for their clients on the road to recovery. Together, in weekly sessions, we did a lot of brainstorming and problem solving to address the individual needs of the clients.
During this particular time, our emphasis was to work towards helping clients break the revolving-door cycle. In particular, we had begun paying close attention to the unique issues of the transitional age and young adult population. These individuals ranged in age from 16 to 24 years old. In some cases, we were able to expand age limitations to 30 years old. We sponsored supportive education and employment initiatives, peer mentoring and independent living in the least restrictive settings. We wanted to offer user-friendly alternatives to interrupted lives. That is how I had come to know about Mike.
Mike –carrying the stigma of an ex-patient
Mike had come to us after his second or third psychiatric hospitalization at a local hospital. He was in his late 20’s, almost out of age range for our new menu of services. He was bright, hardworking but was having a hard time adjusting to his life as an ex-patient of a mental hospital mainly because of anxiety about the stigma it carries. Who was he now? He had been living with his uncle and family for many years. Upon discharge had returned to work at the family business but symptoms of his anxiety, OCD, and depressed mood caused persistent and unrealistic worry. At times increase in symptoms became full panic attacks and physical immobility. His case manager thought he would flourish with a young adult support system and advocated strongly for a spot.
I met Mike for the first time at the office when he came looking for his case manager who was out on appointments. He asked to speak to me because he felt that being with anyone who understood his struggles would help to lessen his anxiety during this episode. He had just had a falling out with his cousin who was supervising his work on a project. His cousin felt he was too slow and taking too long to get the job done. He was feeling overwhelmed and worried what his family would think. He worried that the incident would be a setback in his recovery plan. We reviewed his Recovery Plan and the Safety Plan that he had worked on with his therapist and case manager for these very same situations.
“You know what I wish?”
He told me he felt he was on shaky ground with his family since his hospitalization. He said he knew they saw him differently. “They think I’m lazy; they don’t realize what a struggle it is for me to get up and face the day each morning.” He didn’t feel he could address it because he believed they would mock him. Whether it was true or not, I can’t say, but that was his perception. We talked about how unrealistic expectations and perceptions could present a barrier to recovery.
He was sad and angry. On the one hand, he explained people see a good looking young man who appeared smart, secure, physically fit and “put together” as if there was nothing wrong. But the reality he said is that he can’t manage his fears and anxiety without support and medications. He sat quietly for a moment; shoulders slumped as he stared at his hands resting on the desk. He took a deep breath and with a surge of energy, leaned in on the desk to look me straight in the face. “You know what I wish sometimes? I wish that I would have lost a leg or an arm or have some form of disfigurement in my face or body. I wish that I looked disabled. Then people would be more empathetic and realize that I am living with something catastrophic.”
It wasn’t self-pity, he was stating the obvious. I had heard it before verbalized in different ways. Anxiety disorder and depression are sometimes referred to as a silent epidemic. However, in our society, it is often misunderstood, and its effects minimized, precisely because patients do not appear as if there is something wrong with them. They don’t fit the stereotype of “mental patient.”
Mike did eventually move out of the family home and into his own apartment with minimal supports. He enrolled at the local community college and began to think about becoming a peer mentor. The road to recovery with mental health issues varies for each person, as life does for all of us in general. Sometimes for every step forward, there are two steps backward, but the key is to keep going.
If you would like more information about mental health services in your area, please check out these links below.
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
ingredients and tools. You may recognize a Ninja blender, extra-large measuring cup, ice cube trays, pre-cut green peppers and onions, peeled garlic, a small bunch of cilantro, and small packaged culantro. The ice cube trays are for easy storage. After the ingredients are blended, I pour the mixture in Ice cube trays and then in a freezer bag or container. When I’m cooking, it’s easy to pop an ice cube or two into my soups, sauces, Spanish rice, or beans. If you are not feeling exotic, leave out the cilantro and culantro. It’s still a tasty and convenient way to have condiments on hand. 
from the lights and ornaments that Margaret had collected from around town – donation boxes, thrift stores, and friends. The little Christmas tree did look like it belonged in a big white house by the Bay with strings of “di-ah-mends” to light it up. Margaret had poured years of bottled up love for her son into decorating the tiny apartment for that visit. It was Margaret’s first Christmas in a long time as well, and sometimes she would become flooded with so many emotions. It was good to hear they had a lovely time. 
A Roze By Any Other Name 