NOTHING MATTERS MORE THAN OUR STORIES

This post is a rather old one, but it cried out to me again today for a repost so here it is.

I love surfing around the blogosphere because I like crave that feeling of finding that one special blog worthy of mention, of recognition, of deep introspection. After wading through a multitude of cute family-related blogs, yummy cooking blogs, breath-taking photography blogs, reactionary religious and political blogs, unfeigned poetry blogs and all rest of the infinite spectrum of blogs that reside out here in cyberspace, I occasionally stumble upon a blog that speaks to, screams at implores me personally to say something about it and its author. Unfortunately, most of the blogs I "discover" are ones that the authors have abandoned and their voice is lost. Abandonment is something I completely understand. Most people who have blogged for any length of time have either contemplated fading into the cold, darkness of cyberspace never to be heard from again or have taken a "vacation" from time to time.

The Rest Is Still Unwritten was last updated in 2012 with a post titled Nothing Matters More Than Our Stories. David Stehle was absolutely correct in stating nothing matters more than our stories whether we know it or not. We all have a story to tell and no one ever knows what type of impact our words will have on someone else or when that impact might happen. I have a blogging kindred spirit (you know who you are) that is hands down the most talented person I know. He claims he has nothing of value to say, but I disagree. I have read his "stories" and I have felt his words. He "hooked" me a very long time ago! I can only hope that he always returns home from his "vacations" and that he never permanently fades into the darkness of cyberspace. Over the years I have grown to love him and when he is absent, I feel the void.

Below are David Stehle's heartfelt words from his abandoned blog:

                           Nothing Matters More Than Our Stories

In times of national crisis we often think, "My stories don’t matter – this isn’t about me" or "I'll stay quiet because I'm somewhere in the middle of the obnoxious people raging on TV." The truth is that in the midst of tragedy nothing matters more than our stories. Our complex, nuanced stories are the path to healing and change. They are the truth and there's no better foundation for change than the truth. I'd love to hear your thoughts and stories. - Brene Brown

This isn't working.

This.

What we are doing as a society, a country, as human beings. It is NOT working!

And when things aren't working, shouldn't we change things?

When people talk about school shootings they talk about guns. But I don't want to debate gun control. I'm not pro-gun anymore than I'm anti-gun. I've never owned a gun and thank God my parents never have either. Because if they had I wouldn't be here today writing this post.

"He was fearless in his pursuit of happiness and life.

He earned his ripped jeans and missing two front teeth."

Daniel Barden (age 7)

I attempted suicide at age 12 - with a steak knife of all things. But I searched the house first for a gun. If I had found one, you better believe I would have sucked on that barrel and squeezed without giving it a second thought. After all, even at age 12 I knew it was the best tool for the job.

While I had no intention of hurting anyone else, I had every intention of hurting myself. And I did. Without a rational thought. That's what happens when you are in the midst of making a deadly, permanent decision. All fear, sadness, and anger disappears. You become oddly calm. And thoroughly numb. Or at least I did.

If we're going to talk about gun control, it's just as important we talk about mental illness.

While I don't see any logical reason why a person needs to own an assault rifle and feel they should be banned, I'm not about to rip a standard rifle out of a hunter's hands (punishing him) simply because other people can't act responsibly. But let's face the facts. There have been over 70 school shootings since 1994. 70! Obviously there's a lot of sick kids out there. I should know because I was one of them. And what we are doing now as a society, a country, as human beings…it is NOT working!

According to NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), mental illness typically strikes young people in their most productive years, 16-25. Families from all walks of life are affected regardless of age, race, income, religion, or education. Most shocking, 1 in 4 American families has a relative who has a mental illness. 1 in 4!

So what was my deal? Not much. I was just a deeply depressed kid who didn't know how to open up. I don't think that fits the crazy label. But depression is considered a mental illness. And medically speaking, one could have labeled me mentally ill. And that's the problem. Because mental illness has such an ugly stigma attached to it, I was terrified to get help. I was terrified to tell anyone how I felt. I was terrified of being seen as C-R-A-Z-Y!

It's easier to get an assault rifle than adequate mental health care. And for shooter Adam Lanza it was easier to slaughter 20 kindergartners and 1st graders than to say "hey, I need some help." Like most, I'm still processing the horror that took place at Sandy Hook. I'm heartbroken for 26 families of victims I've never met and for a community I've never visited. And of course, I'm furious at the killer!

Now I'm going to ask you to do something you'll hate me for. I want you to send light and love not just to the 26 victims and their families, but to the killer and his family too. To the entire Sandy Hook community. To every community that has suffered a mass shooting. To every victim. To every victim's family. And yes, even to every killer and their family.

Praying for a murderer is hard. Honestly, it's damn near impossible! But in doing so, I realize I'm also praying for the mentally ill. Praying for every kid like me who was/is terrified of being seen as crazy and didn't/doesn't have the strength to ask for help. Helping them (and myself) today when I failed to help them (and myself) back then. Making right MY wrongs. Making right OUR wrongs. Healing together.

If that is asking too much, and I know it is, then please consider doing one random act of kindness in memory of one of the 20 children lost. That way you can put back in the world the same light and love each of their short lives brought into it. I'm choosing Daniel.

Because as we all continue to process Sandy Hook, one question in particular weighs on my mind…

What if we tackled mental illness the same way little Daniel tackled things? Fearless in the pursuit of happiness and life.

As Brene Brown said above, I too would love to hear your thoughts and stories.

Posted 18th December 2012 by David Stehle

Labels: Taboo Topics

THE FUNNY SIDE OF REALITY

And to that all I can say is, may I please have my straight jacket in a deep purple or burgundy? When I'm done with it, I'll put it on Ebay! 

WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

When I was younger I had no worries.  I did as I pleased when it pleased me.  I always thought I'd be one of those cool old hippies as I aged. It makes me smile thinking about being laid back with a live and let live philosophy.  I guess for the most part I fit that description, but last year something happened to me.  I can't really explain it because I don't understand it.  It's like something short-circuited and made me a little crazy.

I started having panic attacks and they got so frequent and debilitating that I had to be hospitalized.   I do know one thing and that's that I never want to go back there again. It's just not a warm, fuzzy place to hang your hat in a time of emotional need. So regardless, of how bad things may get, I'll find some solution that doesn't include being someplace where I feel like I'm one of the herd. While I was there, I didn't see any people get the help they needed because the atmosphere promoted "let's get the hell out of here as soon as possible" instead of "I need to stay here and fix what needs to be fixed.  And when you get right down to the reality of the situation the doctors and patients have no real say on the length of any given admission thus making it extremely difficult for any doctor to do their job. 

It's the insurance companies that dictate what care you get and how long you get it.  While I was there I talked to several other patients who were visibly upset with their doctor for discharging them when they didn't feel like they were ready to go home. The attitude they had bred distrust and contempt towards anyone who was there to help them. The huddled masses sat bitching about the doctor and what an ogre she was. She didn't listen and didn't care...blah, blah, blah. I could see how detrimental that way of thinking was and like the stand up kind of person I am I started talking to the people who were upset and explained it wasn't their doctor who was making the decisions it was the insurance companies.  Once I explained how insurance works (I was a insurance billing specialist for several years) and that regardless of what you get admitted to the hospital for the insurance companies set how many days you can stay for that thing. Insurance companies don't see you as an individual, but as a bottom line and they want to pay the least amount for your health care they possibly can.

It's the reason so many people turn around and come right back to the hospital. Gall bladder removal? It's an outpatient procedure now...you go home the same day as the surgery regardless of how you feel. Now, you may have to turn around and go to the ER later that day because you have developed a complication.  With mental health issues, it's worse... Try to imagine someone who really isn't ready to go home because they're in the throes of a major depressive episode. They must feel helpless being forced to go back to the same surroundings that many times is unhealthy and lacks a support system for the person. Fragile people don't do well without structure and support.  For them, it's easy to turn their frustration and anger on the doctor...after all, it makes sense. The doctor doesn't care. Right? The doctor and the nurses are easy targets!

So that person with depression is started on an antidepressant and probably an antianxiety med as well just for good measure, but the kicker is that the meds don't start working for 4 to 6 weeks after starting them. What's that person supposed to do in the meantime? Twiddle their thumbs and sing Kumbaya? Nope...go home and tough it out. Just remember not to get too vocal or else you'll land up in a locked room on suicide watch. The key to success is to stay calm and learn the ropes so you don't rock the boat.

After my explanation of what insurance companies can and can't do, it diffused a lot of pent up anger.  I brought the matter up in the next group everyone attended and the response was great.  I could see the frustration start to melt away as people gained a realistic understanding about how the system worked and that they didn't have to be mad at their doctor.  I was as bold to suggest that the social worker incorporate this topic into other groups in the future because many people don't understand how the system works and it stresses them out.  They assume everyone is against them and it's rather difficult trying to reach someone who has built a wall for protection.  I'm sure my suggestion never went any further, but it felt good to help a few people. Hopefully, they'll be in the position someday to pay it forward and help someone else.

P.S. Writing helps even though I tend to ramble at times...

WHILE OTHERS SLEEP, I WEEP

Since my asthma attack that landed me in the ER a few weeks ago, I've had ongoing, daily panic attacks.  My mental state has deteriorated and sleeping has become an increasingly difficult task. In the past my bouts of insomnia always seem to cycle themselves out, but this time it seems stuck on high gear with no end in sight. I keep asking myself where did these panic attacks come from. I've never had them in the past and why I'm dwelling on death.  It never bothered me before and now I can't seem to escape its clutches. These panic attack seem to come out of the blue with no apparent trigger and when they hit, I lose all ability to calm myself down or to think rationally.  My thoughts are completely focused on the panic attack like an obsession...it's as if I'm wearing blinders and what I see is a very narrow, scary view of life.  I weep, shake and pace.  I'm overwhelmed with the fear of losing control and slipping away forever in some psychotic world. I am, however, one of the fortunate ones because I have people who love me and who will help me regardless of what that help entails.  I know it's no fun sitting with me in ER's at all hours of the day and night and at doctor's offices.  By the way, why don't any doctor's offices have comfortable chairs or better reading material?  I try very hard to keep telling myself that I'm not being a burden to anyone.  My family loves me and wants to see me get well, but it's hard not to listen to all the negative dialog going on inside my head.  I wish I had an on/off switch and since I don't I'm at the mercy of going through some rather agonizing episodes of negativity.


In the last few weeks I've learned many things...most of them are things I'd rather have been kept in the dark about than to have learned them through first hand experience. 

1. It seems anything regarding mental health facilities are a huge clusterfuck.  Shouldn't it be organized and welcoming to set the patients minds at ease? Yet the places seem oppressive and upon entering it sucks the life from you.  Everything seems so sterile right down to the color schemes and layout of the rooms. Everything about it screams, "RUN!"
2. People using mental health facilities are scared, anxious and filled with many negative things and need friendly, helpful people working at the facility they use.  While Nurse Ratched was an integral part to the One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest story, she has no place in real life and shouldn't be working at any place involving mental illness.   
3. People using mental health facilities too easily lose their "human" status as soon as they become a patient. Why is suffering from a mental illness any different than suffering from a physical illness? The difference I believe is in the eyes and attitude of the beholder and of the caretakers.
4. Because mental illness carries such a stigma, it's easy to become just a diagnosis, a case number and nothing more.  People too easily lose their identity and become a page from the DSM-V.  Too many mentally ill people have lost their ability to fight or stand up for themselves.  When I look at myself I don't see the person I was 20 years ago...a person who had wind in her sails and was going places. 
5. Regardless of what mental state a person is in, unless they have a specific, detailed plan for suicide, the person will be sent home and referred back to their primary care doctor who in turn is supposed to refer them to a psychiatrist. The process for help is way too long and complicated!
6. Help for someone in crisis is not immediate and because it isn't immediate it makes holding on all the harder.  It makes having faith in the system nonexistent. 
7. It's difficult to believe and trust others especially strangers who don't seem sincerely interested in your welfare.
8. Things that happened 40 years ago can seem like they just happened. Grief, fear and pain comes in waves and sometimes those waves are like a tsunami.
9. While primary care doctors are good at what they do, treating mental issues is not their forte and they seem to be clueless as to what the person really needs and how to help them.
10. Public mental health facilities run by state or county agencies usually are a scene right out of One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest.  At best, my first impression was dismal and scary and I really did keep looking for Mildred Ratched until I found her. 
11. It's very easy to feel like one of the cows being herded through a system that seems surreal at best. I kept finding myself wanting to "Moo"....really!
12. Keeping a medication diary has been a blessing for me.  It's the only way I've been able to keep track of what meds I take and when I take them. Simple tasks have become confusing and meaningless for the most part.  I'm afraid it would be too easy to take an accidental overdose because I can't think straight most of the time.
13. If you're able to find something that helps calm you down, regardless of what it is, go with it and use it...self-help sometimes is a person's strongest ally.  For me and I know this probably makes no sense, my son takes me for a drive when I'm having a panic attack.  Somehow the combination of that and an Ativan helps. 
14. I've denied, ignored and covered up being depressed for years until it's gotten to the point of me losing the ability to function normally and do daily tasks like brush my hair, get dressed, go outside (I have to force myself to go places), take a shower and interact with people face to face in a meaningful way.  I've become a hermit because it feels safe being a hermit, but I hate being a hermit because it's not who I am.

It's daylight now...it's time to go take more meds and let the dogs out.  At least they like going outside.  Maybe I need to become a dog so I can feel normal once again. 

WAS IT JUST A DREAM?

This week's Words For Wednesday beckoned me to write a story about a place where the line is a very fine one between what's real and what lags into the realm of mental illness. It's a shame in this day and age that mental illness still carries with it such a social stigma and that so many people feel the need to hide being "different" from everyone especially those closest to them for fear of being chemically restrained. 

This week's prompts are: fragmented, gravel, blistering, mundane, clairvoyant, grasshopper or the phrase, "incidentally yours". From those prompts I wrote the beginning of a fantasy filled story: Each night I awoke at precisely the same time. It had been happening for months and tonight was no exception. As I quickly opened my eyes wanting to catch what seemed just out of reach, I looked at the ornately carved antique clock on my nightstand. It told me what I already knew. Like each night before, it was precisely 3:15 am. 3:15? Did that mean something? Could it mean 3/15, the Ides of March? Could it be that simple? Would something happen on March 15th?

My attention drifted from the clock back to the fragmented dream from which I awoke each night. Once again I saw a small girl digging in the gravel that had been used as a pathway throughout a beautifully landscaped English flower garden. Above her the birds were happily chattering away in the giant oak trees that outlined the space used for the garden. The girl kept busily digging and sifting through the gravel as if she was looking for one special stone. She stopped digging when a colorful dragonfly landed on the wicker basket she was filling with carefully selected pebbles.

She curiously gazed at the motionless dragonfly and reached out to touch it to see if it was real. When it spoke, it startled her and she dropped her hand tool. It told her to listen to the grasshopper because he was the wisest of all the garden creatures. She smiled and thanked the dragonfly as he flew away. What she had to do finally became crystal clear.

What her grandmother told her was true. She was different! She not only heard voices, but she saw things as well. Her grandmother had called her a clairvoyant and although she didn’t know what that word meant, she knew it distinguished her from everyone else. Her grandmother was certain she was marked for greatness and would help many people throughout her life. Her grandmother claimed the gift the little girl possessed would lift her above the mundane and the ordinary. It would allow her to not only hear the grasshopper, but to understand his message as well.

Before she could hunt for the elusive grasshopper, her mother came rushing out into the garden hollering at her for not wearing her hat. It was hot and she always removed her hat because she like how the sun felt on her face. But her mother was sure the sun would have a blistering effect on her fair skin without it. She scooped her up and scolded her all the way back into the house. The girl had reached out for her basket, but her mother kicked it aside scattering all the carefully selected pebbles back to where they had originally laid. Her important project would have to wait until tomorrow and hopefully the grasshopper would come find her to give her the message she was supposed to hear.

As they quickly walked past the large mirror in the front hallway on the way to get cleaned up from playing outside, the little girl was startled by what she saw. The reflection in the mirror was of a face she knew very well. It was that refection that had jarred me awake at precisely 3:15 each night. The face of the little girl was my face. I was the clairvoyant and yes, I was awaiting a message from the grasshopper. His was a voice I needed to hear even though my mother didn’t believe in such malarkey and poppycock. She said hearing voices was a sign of mental illness and had threatened to have the family doctor put me on some medication that would make the voices stop.

FEATURED YOYO

Please allow me to introduce myself!

Any insomniac, addict, mentally or emotionally disturbed person or anyone who has ever been in dire straits and is at the end of their rope with nowhere to go is well-acquainted with temptation, self-indulgence and pleasure seeking behaviors. Satan, imaginary or not, comes in many forms and touches the lives of the most desperate. We are his army, the hedonists of the world. Even when we are not capable of feeling pleasure, there is the memory of pleasure and what a driving force that can be. To love one more time...to feel the pleasure of carnal knowledge and fleshy delights one more time, to experience whatever revs your engines and gets the juices flowing...the ultimate mind candy! Perhaps, he, the undoer of all good is the "secondary gain" (see previous post) keeping all questionable, unhealthy behaviors afloat.


Gratitude statement: I am thankful to be a survivor!