Yin and Yang

The Value Of Talking Aloud

2012-01-24T19:57:00.000-05:00

Still working with some depression. I say "working with" instead of "struggling with" on purpose. Struggling just worsens the depression. When I struggle I think negatively, but when I work on a problem, I get into a meditative state. And so the last few days I've been drawing and the drawing takes my mind off negativity and onto the problem at hand. I've been using the Pitt markers that I bought this past Fall. I draw a square or a rectangle to frame my work. Then I face the empty space inside the frame. I use one marker that is not a Pitt marker; it's two sided, one side chiseled to make thick and thinner lines and one side with more of a medium sized pointed tip. Today I did a small sketch before I started the more committed work, so that I could get a sense of the design and structure of the work to come. It also takes some of the pressure off facing the empty space inside the main frame. It allows you to visually ruminate and try different approaches out to see which one might be a successful skeleton, the basis on which to add new and colorful elements.

So I've been drawing because I don't want to give up on on art, just as I don't want to give up on writing or making up songs. Though I turn 50 this year, that doesn't mean that I have to give up on continuing to try to do artistic work each day. I have heard of many cases of people turning into artists as they get older. Maybe I'll be one of those people. I was talking to Sam about how I see myself as artistic and multi-talented, but not as an artist because I get serious for several months and then switch to some other creative endeavor. She said I was a "binge artist". I thought that was funny and true, too. I could also be called a "binge writer" and a "binge songwriter". And they're all different languages though related. But I don't like thinking of artistic creativity as an addiction because it really isn't. If anything, self expression is a treatment for mental illness.

Last night I was watching a DVD my brother made up for me in 2008 called "Out of the Shadows", a documentary on Depression aired on PBS about that time. At one point in the film certain experts were saying that medication combined with talk therapy was 70% to 80% effective in treating depression in many people. They also said that there have been studies proving that talking affects the brain and brain chemistry for the better by reducing stress. I know this for a fact because I've been talking into my audio journal since the end of 2006 around the time I began this blog and it does reduce anxiety, but you've got to be very honest with yourself and you've got to treat yourself lovingly. It's also good practice for talking/writing to others with honesty. Most human beings respond positively to upfront, honest individuals because they have a certain balance between presenting their strengths and their weaknesses. They are interested in peaceful communication and not in preserving a false image of themselves.

The first thing an addict has to do in order to survive is to get honest. That's also true for those of us who have fallen into severe mental illness. When I became delusional and paranoid in the Spring of 1998 I was not being honest with myself. I took reality for granted and didn't stop to reality check. I made huge assumptions. Worse, I was not appreciating the reality I was living in. I wanted to be somewhere else, in another life. I had delusions of grandeur. The reality is that most people work to find success, but I was still working with the "lucky break" attitude. I was being a gambler. I was relying on magical thinking. Very dangerous to an already isolated person with self-esteem issues and a past history of being abused. I sank into delusions and paranoia as if I were sinking into quicksand with seemingly no branch to reach for to help pull me out of the pit. But all the while I was seeing myself as a victim too and a kind of anti-heroine, an underdog figure. I knew "The Truth" and some group was trying to suppress the truth, but I firmly believed that "The Truth" would prevail and I would be vindicated and consequently elevated to some higher status. But the core of "The Truth" was the main delusion and I held onto it as if it could save my life, when it only pulled me down deeper.

I talked a lot out loud to myself and the voices during my three and a half unmedicated years of acute psychosis. I really had to. I was deluded and paranoid and I was in pain. Talking aloud gave me back some control and released anxiety. I also wrote in a journal, which again gave me a voice to vent my frustrations. I thought I was being very honest when I talked or wrote, but the only real reality check I had was when I went to therapy each week. I was too sick to give myself a reality check; I needed someone outside of myself to point out the flaws and inconsistencies of my basic delusory beliefs. But first I needed to be in a safe position where I could confidently assert my delusion. My therapist was not always challenging my beliefs. She let me have my say and I needed some of that. She gave me some room to move about. And I imagine that a mental health support group could also provide that safe place to reveal one's illness to others and to listen to useful feedback through personal stories. I didn't and don't have that yet and so I had to learn about being honest with another person mainly through my therapy sessions. I think a support group could have helped me to come to recovery more quickly than I did without it.

It's ironic, but what I didn't like about the voices was that they could be manipulative, indirect and deceitful. I thought that I was honest and upfront. I wanted someone to literally knock on my front door in order to tell me the plain truth about what was going on, someone who knew these strange voices and had already been through their own trials and tribulations. I searched and searched and waited and waited and no one came to enlighten me. I remained in isolation, in delusion and paranoia. In the interim, I had access to the internet and this helped to lessen some of the isolation though I also used the internet to try and confirm my delusions. I wasn't yet taking responsibility for the fact that I was ill and needed help. I wasn't awake enough to see that I was still lying to myself and still addicted to my delusions. But during my last breakdown a little over ten years ago, I turned to the medications out of desperation and I followed the 12 step Al-Anon support literature to guide me back to partial balance. I treated myself like the very sick woman that I was, with gentleness, compassion and tolerance for my slow progress out of acute psychosis.

So talking either from a delusional perspective or a "real" perspective is very important. Talk to yourself, talk to a therapist, talk to your support group, talk to family members, talk to friends. Don't be the strong, silent type. Express yourself. You can't move from a delusional world into the real world unless you do.

Marker Abstractions

2012-01-24T16:15:00.001-05:00

Fight or Flight Versus Mindfulness

2012-01-18T17:35:00.001-05:00

Most of the people I know are affected by depression on some level. This past week I've been struggling with it too. For some people it is a chronic low grade depression called Dysthymia, for others it is a cycling between mania and depression also called Bipolar Disorder. There are many types of depression to fit many types of people and situations. Unlike my schizophrenia, my depression is not chronic; instead, it comes and goes. This Sunday I was depressed, Monday I wasn't, but Tuesday I was again. When I get depressed I sleep during the day and into the evening and don't get anything accomplished. And when I am awake and depressed I feel guilt over not wanting to get anything accomplished. It's a negative cycle between sleep and aversion to activity.

I haven't been practicing Buddhism lately and I think that contributes to my dip into depressions. Buddhism is about being awake in the present moment in either a non doing state or in some activity, especially basic activities like cooking, cleaning, bathing. When I'm depressed, I'm not so much awake as caught in a negative dreaming state and in that state I label myself as bad and show to myself the ways that I am bad or at least lacking in the good stuff. It's a self centered state. I then review the past, noting my mistakes or worry about the future, but I avoid being in the present; I avoid cultivating a non judgmental state to be in. Buddhism is about the nonjudgmental cultivation of the present moment.

I've wondered many times, why do I run from the present moment? It's as if it is hardwired into me to run away and maybe it is. Our instincts are to fight or flee when danger arises. That's the way it was for us when we were more primitive animals and it is still true. All of us can be on extra alert when we smell smoke in our houses or hear an unusual sound outside at night or when we drive or take a walk. The potential for accident or violence can seem close at hand. In many places in the world torn by war, starvation, disease or natural catastrophe, living with threats is common place. I'm blessed to live in a peaceful, relatively safe place, but I act as if I need to worry and run. Apart from sleeping to rest the body and spirit, sleeping is another form of running away.

Meditation is about redirecting our instinctual response to imagined threat; it's about a retraining of ourselves to keep letting go the worrisome thoughts or desire filled thoughts in a non judgmental manner. Being non judgmental is the key point. It's what allows you to let go. And once you give yourself permission to be that way, it is such a relief. Remaining in that non judgmental state is spiritual practice. It doesn't usually come easily and that's why it's called practice. Letting go is not rejecting. Letting go in its earliest stage is sitting with and accepting first. You won't be able to let go unless you sit and accept first. So meditation is not about eliminating thoughts. Meditation is not about war, violence, territory, conflict or subduing. Meditation is about peace, but that doesn't mean that it is peaceful. A roomful of people meditating can look very peaceful, but what is going on in each individual's mind and spirit can be both active and complex.

To be in a peaceful state is wonderful, but that is not the real point of meditation. The point is to accept what is, whatever that happens to be, without reacting in the typical, habitual pattern. When I was very psychotic the voices instructed me to sit with the question, instead of jumping to find an answer. Just sit with your discomfort. The habitual response is to run from discomfort. Addiction is about running from discomfort. Using the drug or doing the activity masks the discomfort temporarily, but it always comes back and the negative cycle continues just the way the negative cycle of depression continues. Every time you engage in addiction or a negative thought pattern, you reinforce the behavior and thoughts, making it stronger, harder to resist. Meditation is a gentle way of saying NO to addiction and negativity, to this deep pattern we've been taught and have taught ourselves.

Artists and other very creative individuals know about meditation intimately, though many don't call it that. Artists sit with the present moment and make something while they sit. They are in love with the moment. They suspend self-hatred and worry because if they don't it will rob them of their ability to create. They get down to the business at hand--the words, the paper, the colors, the sounds, the shapes, the hidden and obvious meanings. Being and doing melt into each other. Meditation as non doing is very important. It's important to stop for artists and for all of us, to regroup, to absorb, to intuit. But when we go, meditation is also important. It is doing meditation or mindfulness. Mindfulness means putting your heart into your practice, be it sitting practice or doing practice. When you sit, you sit and when you act, you act. You need some discipline and dedication in order to be mindful.

When it comes to being honest with myself, I have some discipline and dedication. I am mindful of the words that come out of me. I don't write my blog entries casually and quickly. I go slowly and it can take hours. Generally, I'm not depressed when I write my blog entries. I'm too busy paying attention to what I want to write. It's that way when I draw or paint too. Or lately, when I cook. Or when I spend time with Sam, Rob or Richard. Songwriting and singing are more problematical because I have to face my limitations in my ability to sing and play. Sometimes I play and/or sing badly and I get discouraged and give up. I've found that when I push past my discouragement and commit to the song I'm singing and experiment that I not only enjoy myself more, but I sound better. It's common sense that insecurity leads to poor performance and confidence often to good or better performance. And practice leads to mastery over time.

When I get hung up on my insecurity and my lack of mastery, I get depressed. I've wanted to be an artist since I was young, but artists are artists because they practice their art. Writers write, painters paint, musicians play, dancers dance, etcetera. I am multi-talented, but not committed to one practice on a daily basis. I keep switching activities, so I master none of them. I am artistic, but not an artist. I deeply value my creativity, it might have saved my life. I strongly urge everyone to stay in touch with their creativity on a daily basis, especially when dealing with mental illness. Generally, I do something creative every day. I would say that I am in touch with the artist within me. That's a good place to begin. I believe if I were to cultivate the discipline and dedication to mindfulness, I would develop the confidence and mastery that I yearn for. I would re-train myself away from the negative attitudes of depression and towards the positive and accepting attitudes of mindfulness. Art is a good tool for practicing mindfulness, but the real gem is mindfulness itself. Mindfulness is a way of being in harmony with self and others. If everyone practiced mindfulness I truly believe there would be no war and not much depression. Actions would not be done reactively and mindlessly, but slowly and consciously with discipline and care and love.

A Quick Portrait

2012-01-17T00:13:00.000-05:00

Amy's Girls

The Value Of Reaching Out

2012-01-09T20:32:00.000-05:00

I have been telling myself to write a blog for a couple of weeks now, but I just haven't felt like writing much, though I'm still talking into my tape recorder daily. Anyone who reads this blog knows that I do this, make an enthusiastic start in one creative direction and then go in another direction. Often I return to what I left off, but that can take weeks, months, even years. When I do pick something creative up again, I'm in a stronger position most of the time, as if the inactive time was laying the foundation for another active time. The learning process is always going on because changes, subtle and not so subtle, continue from birth to death.

Changes. The change of the moment for me is a change of taking on more personal responsibility with the people in my life. Sam had to give up her truck because she couldn't afford to fix it, so I am continuing to share my car with her, which means I see her once or twice a week. Richard has been feeling ill and so I've asked him to come over to my house on Saturdays to have a home cooked meal and some Sangria with me. My mother has been feeling uncomfortably dizzy of late and she experienced a sharp pain in her side one day a couple of weeks ago, so I've set up a day and a time each week to give her a call, something I was not doing. My brother I see once a week, sometimes to go out to lunch, sometimes to shop for food and supplies. My old friend Rita and I keep in touch by phone and email and my other old friend Amy (who I haven't written about yet) I write to (most of the time) on Friday evenings.

I continue to find that I must have time alone, but as long as I do, then I think I am up for cultivating relationships with the people I care about in this world. I find that increasing some of my face to face contact with people, especially during the holidays, has meant that I have spent less time on the computer interacting with my online friends (especially Karen and Jen who I can count on to leave wonderful comments on my blog). I think this is okay for now because I need to get used to being with others in person. I've spent so much time online over the last 10 years, but not much time with offline friends because I didn't really have any other than my brother and sometimes Richard.

Ten years ago I had my last nervous breakdown; I mark my decision after that to commit to taking the anti-psychotic medications the beginning of my road to recovery. A decade of recovery, a decade of being on rather high doses of anti-depressant and anti-psychotic medications, a decade of being obese, a decade of creative pursuits in art, music and writing. Recovery is a mixed bag, then again, life for most of us is a mixed bag. Now I have a couple of friends who have either stopped taking their medication or are gradually weaning themselves from them. They are trying to redefine recovery or at least testing whether they can still be in recovery and not be on the medications. I am not brave enough to do that. I am in recovery, but I continue to feel the power of my illness on certain days. Honestly, it scares me and I don't know if I could remain relatively balanced in the face of it without the help of the medications. Also, I feel myself opening up to having connections with others. For me that is a rare and precious thing that I couldn't do if I were mentally unbalanced and self-protective (i.e. withdrawn).

I've written about my self-imposed isolation and I've written about how I see schizophrenia as a form of ego imbalance. Pema Chodron has said that we need people in our lives to point out where our blind spots are. For someone with schizophrenia, blind spots are the heart of delusions and paranoia. Other people can see more clearly than we can where our prejudices about ourselves and others lie. Whether they succeed at showing us this depends on our willingness to search for the truth and our willingness to listen closely. I think I've had the willingness to look for the truth but I haven't given others the opportunity, until recently, to share their versions of the truth, which is, in effect, not giving myself the opportunity to listen closely to others and to learn.

This tendency to strongly withdraw from others is typical for people with schizophrenia. I used to think it was an instinct at both self-preservation and preservation of the species by not passing on the genetic information for developing schizophrenia through procreation. The instinct for self-preservation is sparked by the traumatic injury of acute psychosis. What do wounded animals do? Withdraw until their wounds heal. I've been sick with active schizophrenia for close to 14 years. The first three years were the hardest: three breakdowns, little use of anti-psychotic medications. That was a traumatic time for me and though the voices directed me to be around people, I still couldn't confide in any of them what I was experiencing within my mind. I put on a helpful persona around people and did help them, but at the same time I was in need of help myself and felt I had nowhere to turn except to my therapist. She did help, but I needed more help than that. I couldn't find that help in my community (no mental health support groups around here still) and so I decided to go back to art school. I thought the art community around here would give me some pleasure and purpose, maybe even a sense of belonging. Then I had my breakdown at the end of the first semester back.

Having a breakdown while at school made me come close to leaving school. Then I started taking the anti-psychotic medications along with the Prozac I had been taking all along. The delusions and paranoia began to fade, but I fell into a suicidal depression, which lasted for months while my psychiatrist gradually increased my medication. Again I came close to leaving school. But I didn't. I stayed and did some uneven, sometimes mediocre, work and I withdrew from most personal contact. I did my work, but missed classes and eventually I graduated. I didn't find the sense of community I was looking for there. And I still felt wounded. It's important to note that any traumatic event in a person's life can take years to heal. Trauma is a deep wound. There is no way to heal quickly. This is a hard lesson to learn for the new initiate into severe mental illness. First of all, you will feel intense personal pain (that's the trauma) and then you will have to fight to survive it (over 10 percent don't survive this acute stage of the illness). If you do survive the psychotic breaks, you will have to endure a period of severe depression as you wake up to the fact that you've been living inside a delusion, possibly for years. Even with medication, the depression can linger for years, varying in intensity.

The next place I turned to for a sense of community was the internet. I spent hours reading and posting on message boards related to schizophrenia and started to make a few friends. Then I began this blog in November of 2006 and discovered other blogs by mostly women with schizoaffective disorder. These were a very smart and creative group of people and I felt as if I finally had found a place to belong. I was inspired to start this blog in the first place because I had found Pamela Wagner's blog (WAGblog) around the time I read her and her sister's book Divided Minds. I was impressed and charmed by Pam's fresh intelligence and her insight. Even better than that she allowed me to write to her directly and for a while we had an email exchange going on. Through Pam's blog I believe I discovered Christina Bruni, another powerfully creative person who has survived the worst of this illness and has gone on to be amazingly informative and useful to the schizophrenia community online. Her website is www.christinabruni.com Her memoir of her experience with schizophrenia will be published next fall and is called Left Of The Dial which is also the name of her personal blog.

Then there is Jen "Daisybee" and her blog Suicidal No More: Choosing To Live With Schizoaffective Disorder which has become very popular and for good reason. Again, another very intelligent, creative, dedicated person who despite severe mental and physical illnesses has gone on to work at a part time job and go to school part time to get her Bachelor's Degree in Social Work. She's also a dedicated feminist and member of The National Organization for Women (NOW) and an advocate for the mentally ill through The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). I found her blog when she was down in the dumps: no job, no boyfriend, severe depression, physical ailments and elements of psychosis. She was in a lot of pain then and negative, but her intelligence and sensitivity shone through her writing and I kept coming back to check on her and give her some encouragement. It was a pleasure to see her pull through the worst of it. And now she is having a measure of success. I believe she will attain some of her goals, to become a social worker for mental health and to write at least one book.

More recently I met another exceptionally bright, talented and dedicated woman who also struggles with schizoaffective disorder. People who follow this blog know her as Karen Sorensen. Her blog is Schizophrenia And Art and her artist website is schizoaffectiveartist.com What strikes me about Karen and all these women is that they are not only highly intelligent and talented, they are very, very honest and very giving of themselves. Pamela and Karen are both fascinating visual artists, admirably dedicated to their art work. I think I could go so far as to say that they live to be creative every day. They are both mastering their art following the old fashioned technique of hard work. At the same time they are writers. Their blogs provide a window into the ups and downs of an intelligent artistic life that has been affected by schizophrenia. I'm drawn to Karen's blog in particular because there's an honesty and intimacy to her writing, that and I love seeing and reading about her process as a visual artist because I, too, have some interest and skill in the visual arts.

There are other people who belong in this group, but I don't have the time or space to include them. I've chosen these four women because I highly respect all of them and because they all have active blogs and I want to draw attention to them.

I don't think I could have gotten to this point of making a face to face friend with another woman in my community without the help of these women online and the help of my brother, Richard, Rita and Amy over the last two years. So far I've stepped up to being responsible towards Sam and I'm hoping over time we become close friends who support each other and others in the small community that lives here in Western New York.

Preparing For A Northern Christmas

2011-12-18T21:00:00.000-05:00

I've stayed home for Christmas several times before, mainly when I've had psychotic symptoms that I couldn't cope with when I travelled to visit my parents in Florida. This is the first Christmas I will be staying home with my brother Rob. He's been depressed lately and I'm pretty sure it has to do with not going to Florida. He often stays for at least a month, whereas I only stay for a week because I have seven cats to look after.

Last week I got Rob an early Christmas present, a basic cell phone. I upgraded to the family plan and got a new line for him. He's been without long distance for a very long time now and this means he's out of touch with our parents. Rob has always been much better at staying in touch with them than I have been, but not this past year. I also wanted him to have a cell phone because from time to time he walks home drunk from the local bars and has fallen several times. I want him to be able to call for help if he needs it. But Rob made it clear the other night that he does not like the phone I chose to give him. He is the kind of person who does serious research before buying equipment whereas I am (I admit it) an impulse buyer. He was pissed with me not doing the research. Actually I did try, but there are so many cell phones out there that I got overwhelmed. I'm hoping that he will get used to the phone and keep it. He's got only about 10 days to decide, after that we can't return it. There's also a $35 fee to return it.

Rob's response to my well-intentioned present has brought me down too. I was tentatively supposed to go out to lunch with him today, but decided against it because neither of us feel good and I don't want to deal with him bitching at me. He will come over to my house by the end of the week and stay for a few days till after Christmas. He might cook something for Christmas day. I've been making toll house cookies and plan to make cocoa banana nut bread, spinach lasagna and vegetable paella. I got all the ingredients the other day. I don't cook very often, but when I do cook, it usually comes out well. It's easier to cook for others instead of just for myself. That's one of the good things about the holiday so far. That and not having to travel during the height of holiday season and not having to worry about my cats. I'd like to try to make it a good time for Rob. He'll have presents from me and my mother to open and the use of my high speed internet connection and my company. I think it will be all right.

I talked with Sam tonight and invited her over to my house on Tuesday evening to have a meal and drink some wine and stay the night. Luckily I have a guest bedroom downstairs which also acts as my computer room, so whoever sleeps in this room gets to also have access to a computer. So anyway, she said yes. Tomorrow she's having her truck worked on at the auto shop, but Tuesday night should be free for her. I asked her to call me and let me know what happened with her truck and whether I should plan on picking her up or not.

I haven't had anyone but my brother stay the night in years, so this is a step forward for me. I also don't often get drunk. I don't really want to get drunk. I don't know if I want to go that far, so I'm going to make the spinach lasagna for us to eat first and try to drink slowly. I'm debating about whether to bring the electric guitar and the amp out into the living room. If I do get a buzz off the wine, I might be willing to sing a song or two and/or let Sam play for me. I haven't heard her play yet. All I know is she has practiced much more than I have on how to actually play the instrument. So it will be a pleasure to hear her play. I also might play a song on the piano. It's a classical song by Bartok called Sorrow. I loved it when I played it as a teenager. I actually studied the piano all through high school and even got up to Bach's Two Part Inventions. I was proud of that, but I never took it farther. What got me playing again was a film Sam lent me about a musical family.

I haven't asked Richard if he'd be willing to forgo his $500 yet to give to Sam. I've decided that I'm going to offer her $250 regardless of whether Richard donates the money or not. I got some extra money as a refund from my health insurance this fall and I still have some of it left, so I can afford to be a little generous. I still don't know if Sam will accept it, but I hope she will. I have to see Richard this week, before Christmas, in order to give him some cookies and gift cards for his children, maybe a little extra cash for them too. I did get to see him and his son Aaron today, but they couldn't stay long. Aaron, who is 20, seemed very grown up to me this time. And Richard struck me as being particularly respectful towards his son. It was good to see them together.

Not much else to say for now. I'm wishing you all a safe and happy holiday!

Song: "The Insane"

2011-12-10T12:39:00.001-05:00

The last few days I've been working on a song I've only just named "The Insane". This song started out as another song and has gradually morphed into this one. I wanted to write about psychosis. That's what many of my unrecorded recent songs are about. Reading the lyrics straight without the music can be problematical. Songs are poetic, but not necessarily poetry. The lyrics' success lies with the musical treatment of it, in the rhythm of the guitar and the voice and with the subtle tonal shifts, especially of the voice. I can emphasize one word or a group of words all at once. When I get into it, it can be a visceral experience. Unfortunately because this song has been changing over time, I'm not ready to record it. That might be an excuse. I think I'm afraid to record it in case it doesn't come out, which is dumb. How can I improve it unless I hear it? I have a beautiful portable studio machine that I don't use. I spend a lot of time just tinkering with the basic structure of the songs I write. I just sit down with my electric guitar and my amplifier and fool around. I've been noticing that I have been avoiding setting up the portastudio. Is it just that I'm afraid to sound like shit? It's a dream of mine to make another CD with the songs I've been working on for the last five years, but first I've got to get over myself. So here are the lyrics of "The Insane".

***********************************
The Insane

The pleasure and pain of the insane,
We walk on the line all of the time
Falling from side to side,
It's not like we haven't tried
To keep the balance in our heads,
To keep the sea from turning red
(Bloody red.)

Sometimes we look real normal,
Sometimes we don't.
Sometimes we're talking to thin air,
Sometimes we won't.

Meditation,
And take your medication.
Find a therapist
Who will make you care a bit
About you.

You've got to care about yourself now,
You've got to care about you.
If you don't care about yourself now
How are you gonna break on through
To the other side,
Where sanity is many miles wide
And you don't have to hide anymore.

**************************************

That's it. I play around with the rhyme scheme. As you can see it shifts a lot. There are internal rhymes or rhymes that occur within one line and then alternating rhymes that occur at the end of a line.

I have a book of Joni Mitchell's lyrics and I was looking at a few songs last night. She plays a lot with straight rhymes and unusual rhymes. She's extremely skillful and talented. Her rhymes are supremely intentional. My rhymes often are accidental. So it's long past due that I get more formal in my study of how to make a song. I almost entirely create my lyrics while playing simple guitar, but I've been thinking lately that I should have a song workbook that I keep with me in the living room apart from my guitar. I need to see what it's like to write first and then apply what I've written to music.

About the lyrics themselves, I'm hoping that they speak for themselves. I did take the phrase from The Doors - "break on through to the other side". If you don't understand them, feel free to say so. And thanks again Karen and my dear old friend for leaving comments. I'm trying to make it a habit to print up my blog entries with the comments included so that I have a handy copy and can refer to it several times over the course of a week.

Wanting To Help

2011-12-08T12:00:00.001-05:00

Richard is a good friend to me and my brother, but I have not been spending nearly any time with him for months now. I gave him my heated garage space this year so that he can have a space to do his wood work. Amongst many other things he is a carpenter. Recently he made several bookcases and remodeled a room at my brother's house so that my brother Rob can use it as his office space. Now the work on my brother's house is finished and Richard doesn't often stop by and when he does I don't like to disturb his work time. Making things is how he unwinds after working as a nurse at the VA hospital. He sees so much illness and dying each week, he needs to pull into himself and be creative without anyone hassling him. I understand that from dealing with my own illness.

The last time I saw Richard, after Thanksgiving, he told me he was taking these pills for some condition he has and that they made him feel ill. He said that he had to take them for the next 6 months. When I asked what was wrong with him physically, he wouldn't tell me. I then asked him to please tell me if he ever did wind up being seriously ill because I would want to be there for him. Later I thought that that was a silly statement; I should be there for him now before he falls into any serious condition. Something stops me from getting close to him. He had an affair for over four years until his lover called it quits. While I know he had an affair because he was very miserable in his marriage, I still feel as if he may have done the wrong thing. The affair is over now and he is back with his wife. He stays with his wife because they have a grown daughter with something similar to Down's Syndrome. She can't speak and she isn't toilet trained and so she needs a lot of attention. He loves his daughter so much and can't see not being around her in the mornings and evenings and on the week-ends.

A year or two ago Richard had an operation done on one of his shoulders. He asked me one evening if I would be willing to rub his back. He was in pain and the massage seemed to really help him to feel better. I asked his why his wife wasn't massaging his back. He had no easy answer to that. His wife is not a physically demonstrative person...she's not affectionate and this has deeply bothered Richard from very early in their marriage. This is why he went looking elsewhere for affection and fun. I don't think the sex was the main focus for him. The main focus was companionship. And this is what I felt with Richard too, a sense of companionship. And so I started to rub his back from time to time.

That lasted only several months; I haven't touched him, except for hugging, for over a year and in that time his mistress left him and he returned to his wife and now he may have some serious illness. So, once again, I have to get over my tendency to pull away from people. I have to reach out to Richard. But I have a dilemma: Each year at Christmas I give him $500 from my father to help out with his son's expenses. His son is 20 years old, healthy, bright and "normal". He's in college right now and it is very expensive. Our contribution is mere pittance, but it must ease some of the financial pressure of the holiday season. Well, I was thinking that Sam could use that $500 much more than Richard can use it. Sam doesn't have running water, might not have enough wood for the winter season, her truck is on its last legs and she can't afford internet access. Richard has all of that and much more. Of course, he's also in a lot of debt, but for now he's holding his own. My dilemma is should I ask Richard if he is willing to give this holiday money to Sam? My feeling as of now is that I should at least give him the opportunity to be generous to Sam. I would turn it over to Richard and if he decided to keep the money for himself and his family, I would abide by that.

I'm thinking of inviting him over for a small meal and a little wine. I rarely do this with Richard, which is a shame. My thought is that I may not be able to help him financially, but I can certainly give him some of my time once every week or two. Be a good friend that way. My recent experience and success with Sam has given me some confidence that I can extend myself out ever further. I can be responsible to others. I can keep my focus for part of every week on my brother, Sam and Richard and their needs. This makes me think of Tibetan Buddhism where the goal is increase compassionate thought and action towards others thereby reducing the effects of egotism. It might be a good thing that we're going into the hardest season of the year. Winter means struggle for most people around here, but where there's struggle there is also the opportunity to help others. Maybe this winter I will be a lot less isolated than my previous winters. Maybe this winter I'll take comfort in and give comfort to my friends and family.

New Territory

2011-12-06T14:11:00.001-05:00

I haven't been writing this past week or so, not even much in my journal. I've been trying to figure out how to be of best help to Sam. The brakes on her truck are almost out and she's overdue for an inspection; she also got a ticket for that and she just doesn't have the money. Main thing, she needs to get to work and back three nights a week. I realized pretty quickly that I don't use my car a whole lot and so I offered to lend my car to Sam on her work nights. At first she refused, but then she got the ticket and accepted the use of my car at least for a couple of nights. I want to help her out for the next three weeks because that's when she has the work, but when the schools here take a break for a month, she'll be out of work till they get back. So basically, I get the car for half the week and she gets it for the other half.

Yesterday I brought my car in to have its pre-winter check-up and to be winterized. The mechanic found damage to my brakes. It's going to cost a lot of money to repair them, but it has to be done. I'm not ready to get a new car, though it looks as if that time will come within the next year or two. I've had my car for ten years now, so I can't complain. The car is in the shop right now and they'll keep it overnight and finish the work by tomorrow evening. Thanks to my father I can still fix the car, but Sam doesn't have that safety net. So she relies on her friends. I don't know what she's going to do if her truck is not fixable. She'll have to get another vehicle, but how? And we're on the brink of going into the winter season. Sam takes it day by day. She has to.

I think part of why I'm not writing is because I'm still processing being around Sam more. I need time to reorient myself, time to readjust. I'm used to my connection with my brother, but it's going to take me more time with Sam because I don't know her well yet. I will get there little by little. So far, it is looking good. My heart is not so numb anymore. What a relief! But I do have to pace myself and slow it down, not jump into the future. Yes, I can be of some help to Sam and maybe others, but only after I take care of myself. That's something that gets stressed in Al-Anon support groups. It can be too easy to fall into a co-dependent pattern. I've done that already and I don't want to ever go back to supporting an unhealthy relationship.

Health in relationships is about setting good boundaries which may come to having to say no to someone else sometimes. Respect, courtesy, being open minded, having a sense of humor all factor into making a relationship balanced. Or so I think, for I only have partial experience with relationships and not a lot with having a female friend. I have to watch out for any subtle imbalance. With Sam, I could feel the pull of wanting to manage and control her life, which I absolutely do not want to do. I can make a suggestion or an offer, but I cannot direct another human life. Big lesson. Be generous, be supportive, but keep hands off. Give others the dignity to decide for themselves. And if they fall, be there and welcome them. I'm learning, but I don't fully trust myself to steer clear of subtle delusional inclinations. The inclination to see myself as more important than I really am.

I'm in new territory, the territory of extending myself out from home base. I will make mistakes, but I will catch them and correct them and not let them color my thoughts and actions. Vigilance. That's the name of the game for an individual who has survived acute mental illness. I've said this before, but my trusty tape recorder helps a great deal with vigilance. So does writing in a journal and in this blog. There's something about witnessing myself and having others witness me that is extremely beneficial. Sickness comes from holding all that confusion and negativity inside of you. It's better to get it out in the open, share it, get feedback. It's better to see that you are not a freak, to see that mistakes are all about being human and being human is quite okay. When you name your particular variety of negativity and say it aloud, it loses some of its power to disturb. And then solutions are given the opportunity to come forward into the space that you've created.

When I offer to be generous to Sam, I am releasing all of my internal stinginess. I relax. I tell you, it feels good. I love the idea of people coming together and helping each other out in a small community. I love trying to set a good example. My voices have not been calling me evil for many months now and when I do something helpful for anyone I can understand why. I'm not evil. Just human and so a mixture of strengths and weaknesses, just like everyone else. This is another great relief to me because for a time I was battered by the voices telling me over and over that I was evil. I came close to believing them, but ultimately rejected their assertion. I set a boundary with them and mostly didn't allow them to cross it, and yet, at the same time, I prayed for them. If they could heal, then I knew that I could, too.

Lending my car to Sam is such a small thing compared to all the forms of generosity out there, but that small step is helping me to connect more directly to her and her circle of friends. I feel able to commit now, whereas before I couldn't handle it. I don't have a life filled to the brim with responsibilities, no husband, children, work and so I can afford to step up to the plate.

Thankfully Stepping Out Of My Cocoon

2011-11-30T21:30:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving has been over for almost 6 days and I'm only just starting to readjust to being back on my own. The last two days have been unseasonably warm, but a depressing grey, so that 2pm feels like dusk. I've been eating left over turkey and sleeping too much.

Thanksgiving was a quiet affair this year. We had one person come over. I'll call him Bill. I was very glad that he came because my brother was making a large feast for us. Of all the people who could have come, I was hoping that Bill would be the one. He's good friends with Samantha, my new friend. And since she couldn't come, he was the next best thing.

Bill is in his mid 50s, he's short, shorter than I am (I'm average height for a woman) and he's quite slim. Like Sam, he owns property in our town, but doesn't have much money. He's very much into bartering with people and has a good memory for who needs what. He is mechanically minded. For fun he takes things apart and then puts them back together, maybe even improves things. He's into science, too and does his own experiments. On Thanksgiving he told the story of how he did an experiment to split an atom, just to see how powerful it was. I can't remember the experiment except that it used water, but I do remember that he said it knocked him on his ass when he did it. I thought the fact that he did that was extraordinary. How many people out there do experiments like that in their free time?

It was nice having just the three of us, more intimate and relaxed. I got to see a side of Bill that I haven't seen before, a gentler, even sweeter side to him. Bill knows my story through my brother and through Sam and he seemed to be treating me with patience and kindness. He also mentioned that he had gone through chemotherapy, though I don't know when. He mentioned it in passing and I didn't want to grill him on it, but obviously he's had a brush with death and has lived to tell the tale, thank God. Though he wouldn't thank God because he is an avowed atheist. Maybe I'll ask Sam about Bill's story. That's the interesting thing, that I've fortuitously tapped into a small social network of local people through my brother. Most of them are in their 50s and have no children, are Democrats (Bill is a Libertarian), decidedly non homophobic and mentally and verbally quite sharp, if not actually mensa types. Our town, because of the college and university here, is an oasis amidst Republican conservative Christians. This group found each other at the local town bars.

I'm finding that they are very loyal to each other. This past Saturday one of the group had an accident with a chainsaw--the chainsaw bucked while he was using it and it cut into the heel of one of his feet. He was alone, but was able to call 911. A helicopter took him to Rochester where he had an operation. Sam told me about it yesterday on the phone. The hurt man, Paul, lives just a few houses up the road from me; I remember the ambulance flying past the house with a police car right behind him. I remember sending out a prayer, not knowing who I was praying for. Today Paul came home, but Sam had gotten to his place earlier and brought dry wood and got a fire going and stoked it. She also washed his dishes and cleaned up; I thought that was very considerate of her. She stopped by my house afterwards.

I got her some coffee and we sat and talked for a couple of hours. She was telling me about Paul who is mensa bright but who has a temper from time to time. I met him in one of the local bars a long time ago and he was very bitter about his divorce. Sam says he's still bitter about it. That's a shame to be so bright and yet to get pulled into the blame game even so. On the flip side, he must have really loved his wife for it to hurt so badly. But it was news to me that Paul has a temper because I just don't know Paul. So Sam was giving me a window into a piece of his life. That's the thing about Sam's group of friends, they've all bonded in the local bars over at least a decade if not more. They've seen each other when they've been shit faced and stumbling home. They've heard each others sad stories and triumphs. They've also witnessed psychological breakdowns and relationship break ups. Simply put, they've been vulnerable in front of each other and know a lot about each other and this part of the country.

For me, I see Sam as the gatekeeper for this community. If Sam gives the thumbs up about me, then I will walk into a small viable community, a community I might wind up growing old or at least older with. All my years of isolation may actually be ending right now before my eyes. Now, how cool is my brother for sharing his friends with me and how cool is Sam for welcoming in a another lost soul into the group? And she has been very welcoming. She invited me over to her place this Friday and as long as the weather holds, I'm going to go. It's a treat to go to someone's house and soak up their home atmosphere and especially a treat with Sam. I believe she's a kindred spirit. I have so much to be thankful for.

Confession and Reflections

2011-11-20T13:35:00.001-05:00

Thank you Karen and Anonymous for your comments. Much appreciated. I wanted to say that after I did all that writing yesterday I began having some psychotic symptoms last night. It's embarrassing to admit it, but admit it I must in order to stay healthy and on track. It's the same old story for me, I try something creative, do it halfway well and then start falling into the egotism of delusion. Most people can safely fantasize, but due to the schizophrenia, I cannot. I get pulled into the vortex of something that threatens to consume me. So I talked into my taperecorder and then aloud to myself and tried to ground myself and then I got a good night's sleep and am feeling a lot better today. Reading your comments, especially yours Karen, gave me further ground under my feet. So if you can, keep the constructive criticism coming. I'm printing out your comments and keeping them in a folder to review from time to time. It's such a privilege to get your feedback and to read your insights into what I've written.

The truth is that I am a beginner and have to go through the slow, careful process of creating a story. I read in one of my writing books that often beginners are good at either the beginning, the middle or the end of a story, but not all three. Right now, I think I have a sense for a relatively strong beginning, but whether I can fabricate a middle and end, whether I can complete what I started, only time will tell. I also need to read a lot more short stories, of which I have many collections, and learn from those with talent and the skill of their craft. All in all, I'm still very pleased with my early attempts and it feels so good to publish pieces of the work here in this blog. That's a big step for me and opens the door to me letting other people in my life read my work and hopefully give me constructive criticism.

Anonymous, you asked what the difference is between showing and telling. I'm not so sure myself. I think showing includes more description and some dialogue. I lay it out there okay, but I will have to learn to use these other skills. I feel as if in my writing that I am making lists to describe the characters and sometimes that's overkill. The stories I've read from other authors leave more to the imagination and are structured more ingeniously. So I'll keep plugging away and see what I can learn from other writers, from you who read my pieces and from myself in trial and error.

Karen, I think you make some very perceptive points about "Cold Comfort". I do need to add physical description and it is unclear the switch between the present and the past. I don't know yet the answers to your questions. I'll have to sit and brood about it. I do know that I'm setting Johnny up to be a hero figure, but is he handsome? My idea is that at twelve he is short and undeveloped. His physical appearance changes radically at puberty, so much so that Jamie doesn't recognize him in the street later on. I also think it is too easy to make him handsome. It might be more interesting if he had imperfect (but perhaps endearing) features. Maybe the reason he's drawn to beauty is because he's not striking looking. On the other hand, Jamie is particularly attractive. She stands out that way. Two beautiful characters might be too much.

Anyway, despite the minor setback of my psychosis rearing its ugly head, I feel good. As they often say in 12 step meetings: Live and Learn. Eventually, if I keep up with the writing, I would like to write about what it is like to be psychotic. That's the ultimate challenge because I have to have insight into my own illness and sometimes I struggle with that.

Short Story Excerpt: "Mary and Jake"

2011-11-19T18:59:00.001-05:00

Today has been a very productive day for me. I started drinking coffee early this morning and began to work on "Cold Comfort" then I took a break and started thinking of another segment of my autobiographical novel. This excerpt is about me as Mary Kelly and a boy I grew up with in Brooklyn. I am so happy that I may have found my calling because these stories are coming out of me quickly and easily. It's been a long time coming. I wrote several short stories in high school, but since then very little. Now, after almost half a century of living, I feel as if I have something to say and a way to say it. I know this creative streak won't last, but while it's here I will enjoy it. The hard part is sticking with it for me. I have a pattern, as you know if you've kept track of this blog, with starting creative endeavors very enthusiastically and then losing interest after a month or two. What I want above all is to be dedicated and to have a good purpose in life. This might be it. God I hope so. I've been drifting for so long now.

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"Mary & Jake"

Mary Kelly's parents had given her her own phone earlier that year. So when the phone rang and woke her out of her sleep, she thought it was probably one of her friends, but instead a male voice said slowly and precisely, "I have an aching stick I want to put inside you." There was a slight pause and then a click and then a dial tone. The caller had tried to disguise his voice, but Mary knew who it was. It was Jake Markowsky and it was his sweet sixteenth birthday. He was probably drunk. She couldn't imagine him making an obscene phone call to her while he was straight. But, to Mary, his call wasn't obscene at all, even the language was gentle. She felt an instant empathy for him. She knew what it was like to sexually yearn for someone who was unavailable. She had had a crush on him for years. They almost became a couple when they were only twelve, but she had pulled away and let him go. There had been too many available girls and not enough boys which made Mary feel badly about all the attention she had been getting in 7th grade. That and her best friend Amy, who had gone out with Jake in 5th grade, still had a crush on him and Mary felt torn between having a boyfriend and having a best friend. She chose the best friend mainly because Jake had not come forward enough, had not fully claimed her. They were very young and Jake was still obsessed by his childhood love of sports. If he had to choose between hanging out and playing basketball with his friends or getting his courage up to ask Mary out, he obviously chose the former. He wasn't yet ready for the real deal, so he settled for a puppy love that fizzled out as Mary gave him the cold shoulder the next year. The year after that they went their separate ways, she to a private school in Manhattan and he to Brooklyn Technical High School, which she later found out that he had hated; he wound up going to a private school called Friends in Brooklyn.

But here he was calling her up a couple of years later, not to ask her out, but to perversely ease his sexual frustration. A weird kind of birthday gift to himself. Mary had the urge to call him up right away at his parents' house, but what could she say to him, "Jake, did you just make an obscene phone call to me?" She hadn't talked to him or seen him in a long time and she wasn't close to his family. She didn't even think to call and wish him a happy birthday. It just didn't work. He had set them both up to fail by not coming clean to her, by not telling her that he still thought about her, still wanted to know her. Mary thought about the call for several days. It was bittersweet, sweet because she now knew that he was attracted to her, but bitter because she was pretty sure nothing would come of it. He lived really close by, the next block down, but she avoided walking past his house ever since she had started high school. That was her personality, to let people go and to avoid emotional conflict at all costs. That and she was an awkward, self-conscious teenager who liked to pretend she was at least partially "cool", a weird kind of cool perhaps, but worthy of a certain amount of courtesy, even courtship. She knew Jake wouldn't court her properly, instead he'd call her by her last name and nervously poke fun at her. That's the way it was with the guys, they'd get into ranking each other out and then ranking the girls out, anything for a laugh and to get out of saying plainly: hey, I like you, would you be my girl? So, yes, Mary was disappointed with Jake, but she was also disappointed in herself. It was the mid 1970s and feminism was still flowering. She thought she should have had the courage to ask him out, the courage to at least walk by his house and say hi to him, but she was stubborn and maybe even a bit lazy. Too much time had gone by and instead of hanging out in the neighborhood in Brooklyn, she was hanging out with a close friend in Greenwich Village after school and on the week-ends.

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Okay, that's it for today. I don't think this piece is as strong as "Cold Comfort" mainly because it is autobiographical and I seem to be doing the telling thing instead of the showing thing. But shit, it's a first draft and it gives me something to work with in the future. So I'm very happy. May it last....

Short Story Excerpt: Cold Comfort

2011-11-19T11:44:00.001-05:00

Hi Karen! Thank you so much for your wonderful supportive comment. I think I've had a breakthrough. I've been working on a new short story all morning and I want to share it with you and whoever else stops by this blog. But first I wanted to answer your question about what I meant by Alana dressing to her best advantage. Based on my mother, Alana's figure would be more of an apple shape than the more classic pear shape for women. So she is narrow at her hips, like a man, but modestly broad shouldered. Dressing to her best advantage meant wearing tailored, sporty clothing, clothing influenced by styles for men, but flattering to women. My mother was a teenager in the 1940s, so think of that style from black and white films of the time. Narrow skirts and jackets with padded shoulders, etc... A nice pair of pumps and maybe a stylish hat.

Anyway, here is the beginning of my short story. The opening scene I wrote over a month ago. It's stuck in my head, so I decided to work on it. Any comments would be most welcome.

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"Cold Comfort"

The moment he touched her his months of planning suddenly became a reality. All he knew was it was cold as death outside and she was warm.
"Money upfront" she said. He dug his hand into his pocket.
"Not here!" she hissed and pulled his arm to get him to cross the street with her. They slipped into an alley and then down a few steps to a door that was slightly ajar.
"In here--we've got to be quiet." There was a small vestibule with a padlocked second door and a sign that read "KEEP OUT!!" She put her back against the outer door to keep it shut.
"Okay, 15 minutes."

John had heard that she had run away from home the year before. She was 16 then. Home life had not been good to her. The word was that her step father had been molesting her since she was 12. Her name was Jamie Chamberlain and he had known her when he was just 12 and she was 8. They had been at the same camp one summer. It was the summer that Jamie learned how to swim. Harry, one of the camp counselors, had paired him up with her because he had become a skilled swimmer the summer before, had won several races. Harry had told him privately that she was afraid of the water because her father had drowned the year before.
"So, treat her gently Johnny. Don't push too hard. I'm telling you this because I've watched you the last couple of years and I know that you are good with the younger kids. Patient and kind. Older than your years. I'll be keeping an eye out for both of you."

The first thing Johnny noticed about Jamie was that she was beautiful. Even as a little boy he had been drawn to beautiful things and people. Sunsets, shells, animals and flowers, but mostly the face of his mother. He learned very young not to talk about beauty and beautiful things because his older brothers had skewered him when he tried, labeling him a "momma's boy". And, in a sense, that's what he was, being the youngest of four brothers. By the time he was twelve he had proved himself to his family by doing well in school and by excelling at soccer and swimming. He still loved his mother dearly, but followed his father's taciturn example. He only spoke when he had something to say, the rest of the time he remained a silent bystander. He learned by watching. He watched his brothers making rambunctious mistakes. He learned not to do as they had done.

If Jamie had been closer to his age, Johnny would have steered clear of her. He had made a habit of falling in love with the prettiest girls in his class and then got tongue-tied with extreme shyness when any of them was assigned the seat next to him. He hated the feeling so much, that feeling of being vulnerable and struck dumb, that he overcompensated by focusing on the work at hand and had gotten the reputation of being a know-it-all. He hid behind that persona and acted as if he were coolly indifferent to girls. Little did his classmates know that he was a closet romantic. So when he saw Jamie for the first time at the lake an hour before lunch, saw the golden brown ringlets of her hair and her wide green eyes, her serious, stubborn mouth, he knew he was safe because she was only a child, a child who had lost a father, a child who needed his help. That suited Johnny; he liked to be of help, especially to misfit kids, those kids who were awkward and tongue-tied, too. If she had been a beautiful, spoiled child, conscious of her beauty, he would have lost interest, but instead she came across as very, very serious, a watcher like himself.

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Okay, that's it. I hope you enjoyed it. I'll be working on it for the next few days and posting more scenes here. Till then, what do you think John does when he gets Jamie alone in that vestibule after he's given her money to have sex with him? To be continued....

Tinkering With Fiction

2011-11-15T22:14:00.001-05:00

This cold has loosened its grip and I felt better today. Quite a relief. I did fiction writing today, some of which I would like to share with you. Just a page. I tinkered with it, but mostly it's in its first draft stage. The main character, Alana, is based on my mother.

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"Alana"

It was nights such as these that she wondered why she had ever married Aidan. They would go to parties and he would drink like a fish. At the end of the night she would have to drag all six feet of him to the car and then drive them home. Quite a feat for a petite 5' 2" woman. She had only just learned how to drive. Aidan had been her teacher, a lousy one at that and again the thought of divorce had crept into her mind. But it was the 1950s and divorce was no easy matter. So she decided to stick it out. He didn't drink like a fish because he was an alcoholic, like his father, but because he had the habit of blindly drinking what was put in front of him. Maybe it was that he was nervous in social situations.

Alana knew how to drink slowly, hard liquor with soda or ice. She had seen her parents get "piss drunk" when she was a teenager and, quite frankly, it disgusted her. She blamed her mother's sister Mae, who had been a flapper as a teen-ager in the 1920s, as being a bad influence on her parents, tempting them to drink. Alana didn't always have the most sympathetic nature. She couldn't see and didn't care that they were trying to have fun to counterbalance their hard, working class lives. The upwardly mobile Alana and her precocious little brother, Billy, had agreed in childhood to stand together against their intelligent, but rather coarse parents. They particularly stood united against their father, an Irish American salesman. Of the two children, he favored Alana and mocked Billy, who was his wife's favorite. But just because he favored Alana didn't mean he was easy on her, far from it. She was a very good student, but if she got an A grade in one class, he said she should have gotten an A+. Nothing she did was ever good enough. She found too quickly, that she didn't like her father. Not only was he outspokenly racist and bigoted, he was clever at it and seemed to enjoy cutting her and her brother down to size, too.

She had chosen Aidan to be her husband because he was nothing like her father. Yes, Aidan drank too much at parties, but the rest of the time he was smart, smarter than her father, and cultured and upwardly mobile like herself. She had been introduced to him by a mutual friend around the time that Aidan was graduating from Columbia Law School. He was handsome and this meant a lot to Alana, who was hyper critical of her own looks. Physically, to her great dismay, she took after her father who had a large head, short neck, a beaked nose and a short waist. Then again, Alana had thick auburn hair, attractive grey/green eyes, shapely hands, arms and legs and she was slim. She learned to dress to her best advantage. Like her father, she had an eye for fine clothes and shoes and was willing to part with a chunk of what income she earned in order to get them. As a child during The Great Depression, her mother had made nearly all of Alana's and Billy's clothes. So naturally, Alana wanted fine store bought clothes, the kind she saw and envied on other little girls in school. By the time she was a teenager, she knew she wanted all those material things she had been denied growing up. Aidan was the first man who had showed the promise of being able to provide for her on a big scale. She didn't think she could go wrong marrying a lawyer fresh out of law school, especially Columbia Law School, which was one of the finest law schools in the country.

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That's as far as I got today. I'm finding that fictionalizing the members of my family is liberating, even though I'm still doing a lot of telling and not showing. It doesn't matter at this stage. The most important thing is to get the words down on the page. But I do want to learn how to write a small, self-contained story and this example is not of that. This example is the very early stages of an autobiographical novel. Lately I've been reading a few short stories by women, two by Grace Paley, one by Amy Hempel and one by Sallie Bingham. All of them were weird and disturbing and they worked. The writing I've done here is much plainer and linear going from A to B to C, and that is because I am a novice. And as a novice I have a lot of reading to do and luckily I have tons of short stories to read by both sexes. So I am hopeful that by reading a lot and practicing myself that I will begin to get the hang of writing a story, beginning, middle and end. As I go along I will write about what I've been reading, especially about what writers have to say about the writing process. Maybe you can comment on the conclusions I come to or share some of your own insights.

Cold Doldrums

2011-11-13T17:31:00.001-05:00

I said I was going to write more regularly, but almost 5 days have gone by without a word from me. Bottom line: I have a cold that has been hanging on for over 2 weeks and it's been sapping me of my energy; while I wait it out, I've been feeling sorry for myself, that and sleeping a lot. I have been thinking about posting either a poem or a fiction fragment of a story, but I haven't had the courage. Being sick has made me more vulnerable. I think negative thoughts and remain passive. I'm used to being mentally sick with voices, depression and anxiety, but not physically sick on top of that. I haven't had a cold in a very long time. It will run its course and I will start feeling better, but I miss writing/playing/singing songs. It's an emotional release to sing out, even if my singing and playing aren't particularly good. That doesn't matter so much as that I keep trying to put my heart and soul into the practice of it. It's more therapy for me. So I'm emotionally shut down without it.

There's something I do to myself that I don't understand -- I say "No" to myself, no to reading, no to writing, no to listening to music, no to watching a DVD. The core behind that "No" is fear, fear of making a wrong choice, fear of more suffering. I have so many good books, CDs and DVDs, but they remain in piles all around me, mostly unused. I do read and write but haltingly, not with the abandon I once had before I got involved in an abusive relationship. That appears to be where this monolithic "NO" stems from, a reaction to having been abused. Becoming ill with schizophrenia was like having an abuser stuck within my mind. During the acute stages of the abusive relationship and the acute stage of my schizophrenia, I stopped doing the things I used to love to do. Either I was obsessed with trying to figure out my abuser or I was so caught in my delusions that the focus was not on me but on them. Now, though I'm in recovery, there is still this residual negative reaction that I have to contend with on a daily basis. Perhaps before my reaction served as a temporary protective balm, but now it serves no good purpose; it just keeps me from being a happier individual.

In part, it is my illness that makes it difficult for me to choose what to do with myself, but it is also myself, something about my personality and this is what makes all this so frustrating. I've internalized my abuser even though the abuse has long since stopped. I have become my own puzzle and problem.
Living alone intensifies the problem because I am responsible for all the choices I make, I can't defer to another's choice. But why am I so afraid of making a wrong choice? Life is filled with wrong choices, but from the wrong choice you learn to find the right choice. Nothing is fixed in stone; life is fluid, ongoing. But I act as if making a wrong choice brands me for life as some kind of failure. I'm also still afraid of the dark side of life that gets expressed in books, CDs and films. It's as if I were a little child clinging to the fantasy of happily ever after stories. When I was acutely ill for a while all I could watch were Disney animated movies. I was hungry for the fantasy, just as most children are.

I've decided that I want to write stories, but for a story to be interesting there must be conflict. While I think it is bizarre that we as human animals gravitate towards telling and experiencing stories of conflict, I also realize that it is not just conflict that draws us in; it is resolution of that conflict that we're interested in. Life is a big problem, there's a lot of conflict and then you die and this is true for all your loved ones and for the whole human race. So what we want to know is how do we resolve this problem of life and death? A lot of people place their faith in heroes and heroines who go on a complex journey, but ultimately triumph over seemingly unsurmountable odds. We listen to/watch the stories because secretly we want to identify with the heroes and heroines. So is it back to the fantasy that everyone (except the bad guys) lives happily ever after? Not in the really good stories, the ones where the hero or heroine has human flaws and where the ending leaves open ended questions and isn't just a pat black and white response. Grown up stories that acknowledge that life is tough and we don't know what happens after death.

Writing this out makes me feel better, gives me hope that I can start to say "Yes" to things instead of "No", but it's not so easy when I'm lying down on the couch staring at the ceiling. During those moments I feel stuck inside a self-made prison and too often I give in to that belief and do nothing. Having this cold just accentuates that tendency. If all goes well, this cold will end and I will be liberated. May I make the best use of that liberation and start making more choices, even poor ones. It's not about getting it right. There is no such thing as perfection. It's about doing the best you can with what you've got, and I know I've got a lot.

An Old Friend's Birthday

2011-11-08T12:54:00.000-05:00

Thank you so much Jen and Karen, as always, for your intelligent, thoughtful and kind comments. You are part of the reason why I'm going to continue with this blog. You inspire me with your blogs. I think you are exceptional woman and I'm not just saying that to be nice. I'm honored that you continue to follow my blog and that you stay in touch with me as a few of my best online friends. Together I think we set a fine example of what individuals with our disability can accomplish.

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I'm writing this morning because today is an old friend's 49th birthday and I've been thinking about her a lot lately. She was my best friend from high school and I thought I'd like to pay tribute to her in this blog. In real life she has a French name, so I've decided to call her Colette after one of her favorite writers when we were in school. I haven't seen her for over 30 years. In the last few years I've looked for her on Facebook but couldn't find her, then I looked for her on Twitter and I did find her. I knew for sure that it was her because there was this great photograph of her looking away from the camera but smiling broadly. I snooped around a bit and followed some links and got some information about her. I discovered that she's bilingual (French, of course) and a college teacher now working on her Phd. She is the "Deputy Director" of a reputable New York City college and I have no doubt that one day she will become the Director itself. From her language I can see that she is highly intelligent and sophisticated, a real success story. On top of all that she's also the mother of at least one child who is probably around 10 years old now. I found her work email address and in the last two years I've written a couple of emails to her that I never sent. I felt too ashamed of my circumstances to contact her, especially since we didn't separate on the best of terms.

Colette and I had been so close during high school that we nearly became lovers. But then in our senior year a boy I'll name Daniel from the grade below entered the picture. At first he hung out with both of us. He was very bright and funny, Jewish on his father's side only, quite similar to Colette. He was a writer and a film buff, spent hours after school watching foreign films at revival houses sprinkled throughout Manhattan. Sometimes we would all go together. But gradually, he began to single me out; he made romantic advances. I realized that he didn't have a happy home life. His mother was morbidly obese, a smoker and an alcoholic. They lived in a one bedroom apartment. He got the bedroom while his mother camped out in the living room. His mother and father had divorced when he was just a child. It turned out that his father was mentally ill with schizophrenia and didn't see his son very often. I got pulled into Dan's world. He was a little too close to being mentally unbalanced himself and I became protective of him. I started sneaking him into my house at night trying to save him from having to go back to his cramped apartment and his increasingly drunk mother. Sometimes we would skip school together. He became my first boyfriend. Eventually Colette got fed up and rejected me. But before that, for a couple of years, she had been my faithful friend, really, my only friend in school.

During high school Colette had been an uneven student and a bit of a pot head. She was also a good actress (like her father, who was a professional) and a talented modern dancer. Quick and lively, with a flair for the dramatic, she had thick dirty blonde hair, candid blue eyes, a distinctive Jewish/French nose and a small cupid mouth which easily turned into a wide and pleasing grin when she was happy. Our high school was located on the edge of SoHo in Manhattan. Colette lived in a two bedroom apartment with her divorced mother and sometimes her older brother in the East Village. Her father, too, lived in the Village, though in a somewhat more fashionable part of it. Colette would take me on walking tours occasionally stopping by her father's apartment when he wasn't home. She doted on her father. He was a character actor and a good one, but he was not always available. She wanted badly to please him with her acting and dancing. He was the favored parent unlike her mother who invariably got on Colette's nerves.

I entered ninth grade in this strange, private school complete with a Brooklyn accent, nice clothes and a work ethic garnered from having gone to "advanced enrichment" or AE classes in my public junior high school. No matter how hard I tried to recede into the background, whenever I opened my mouth and spoke, I stood out as different from the more slovenly, generally white, often wealthy, not particularly hard working Manhattanite private school kids. The first time I became aware of Colette was in French class. She might have even been one of the kids to try and cheat off my paper while we took a test. That first year I kept mostly to myself. I was neurotic enough to avoid the cafeteria because I was afraid of interacting with the other kids. I wound up eating my bag lunch on the no longer used back staircase, furtively listening to the sounds of the students below me. During free periods I would either go to the small library on the third floor or outside to wander in the streets of SoHo and Greenwich Village. I didn't fit in this school and, with typical stubbornness, I didn't try to fit. I was even proud of being different. But I was depressed and lonely, too.

I'm not sure why Colette took an interest in me. She was not particularly popular, but she did fit into the school much more than I did. By the time tenth grade rolled around, she had taken me under her wing. She began inviting me over to her apartment after school. She told me many stories about her old school (another private grade school) and her old friends and stories about her family. She took me to her favorite places in the Village. She shared her active imagination and dreamed up fantasies of how we would grow up to be successful, artistic types. She was warm, engaging and vibrant. Neither of us were particularly thrilled with our school or with the students in the school. We went because we had to; we stuck it out together. Pretty quickly, I lost my Brooklyn accent and my nice clothes. I cut my hair short one day while listening to Elvis Costello's song "Pump It Up". I started dressing more androgynously in sneakers, pants, t-shirts and a black oversized man's jacket. Colette dressed more stylishly and more femininely. She fell in love with a pair of cream colored cowboy boots and would wear them with long dresses. Our school was very small, only around 200 students, so there wasn't a lot of choice when it came to boys and so Colette and I stuck close together. I was a little in love with her and sometimes I felt as if she felt likewise. She really saved me from being quite miserable.

But then I went astray and got involved with Daniel. I neglected Colette. I hate to say it but maybe I even betrayed Colette. She began to become friends with other kids from school and became progressively colder towards me. I really hurt her and so she, in turn, really hurt me. That last semester of senior year was horrible. Daniel was pressuring me to be sexual with him, but I was such a virgin and I was scared. I was seventeen years old and I had never been tongue kissed. When he finally got me to try, I was utterly revolted. I wasn't all that sure that I wanted to be with him, but I was so insecure I thought I may not ever have the chance to be with a boy again. And so, I stayed with Daniel...and lost Colette.

I stayed with Daniel all through college, but never made any new friends. After college we broke up amicably. A couple of years later I began hearing voices. Colette and one other friend were the last real friends that I ever had. And that's why I still think of her.

Being Myself, Alone & With Others

2011-11-07T22:07:00.001-05:00

Last night, because I was feeling rather miserable with a cold I picked up last week, I watched a comforting film, "Pride & Prejudice" the latest version with Keira Knightley. It had a good cast and was lushly filmed and I've watched it maybe three times so far. Each time I was crying by the end. I thought this time maybe I wouldn't cry, but I did. I'm a sucker for old fashioned romance. Despite all I've been through with romantic delusions, I still want to believe that two people can come together and be "right" for each other. I did think that perhaps I was getting a bit too old for all of this. I'll be 50 next spring and I'm way past believing that I will find a romantic partner. I don't rule it out completely, but, for now, I am content to be single.

There's an interesting freedom in being a middle aged and obese woman. There was a time in my early 40s when I wouldn't have said that, a time when looking in the mirror meant instant depression and shame. My feminine vanity had been wounded, not only because of weight gain due to taking the anti-psychotic medications, but because I had reached middle age and was starting to show it. Only a few years earlier, I had been attractive, but now I was ordinary. I had to readjust. Early in my acute psychosis I was the heroine in my delusion. I thought real people were paying attention to me, following me, interested in what I had to say. At first, that was exciting, but ultimately, it was a burden. The trade off in entering recovery when I began to take the medications was that I was no longer the star of my story. I was deeply humbled. I got into the habit of calling myself "fat and ugly". That sounds worse than it was because gradually I came to accept and like myself in my new state. I was alive, relatively sane, and compared to the years of acute psychosis, comparatively content. Gratitude played an important part in my continuing recovery from an illness that, not so long ago, was deemed so severe as to be hopeless. I didn't feel hopeless anymore. What I valued more than my looks was my creative intelligence and my ability to survive something so horrible. It wasn't absolutely necessary for me to be with someone in order to have a meaningful life. I didn't have to be a wife or a mother; I could just be myself.

Living a solitary life is okay by me as long as I continue to have outside connections to my family and a few friends. A few months back an old friend that I found on Facebook asked if we could start to talk on the phone. Since I got sick, I've been nervous about using the phone, but I really wanted to get closer to this friend while overcoming my aversion. And so we've been calling each other once a week for a while now. It's been great. My friend, who I'll call Rita, is presently single and never had children and this is a bond between us. I also remember her when she was a little girl and young teenager. I feel so comfortable with her that she's like family and I tell her this. I tell her I love her. It's easy to love her because she's been nothing but supportive of me right from the start of our renewed friendship. I find myself looking forward to years more of friendship with her. Committing to our connection is a responsibility I want to step up to. She gives me a much needed link to my past and this makes me feel more whole within myself. For years, while living with my abusive boyfriend, I denied that I had a past in New York City because my boyfriend was so insecure about it. Now, years after the abuse and years after the acute psychosis, I can reclaim my childhood, adolescence and young adulthood all through knowing Rita again. Thank you Rita. I would tell the story of Rita, but she's a very private person. Maybe sometime in the future she'll give me permission to write about the successes and challenges in her life.

I've recently made a new friend who actually lives nearby. This is another serious breakthrough for me, one that's got me excited. This new friend, who I'll call Sam, I've been wanting to get close to for several years. In the beginning of the summer I bit the bullet and asked for her address so that I could start to write to her and she agreed. She's a good friend of my brothers and he told me that she is a writer, so I thought we could both get to know each other and bond through our mutual love of writing. That's just what we've done. On top of that she came to visit me a month ago. Virtually no one visits me which is why my house gets messy and I feel disconnected from others a lot. So I cleaned up the house and welcomed her inside. Sam is close to 60 and quite poor, but she's also a rugged individualist. She lives in an old trailer with a wood stove and no running water (her water pump broke a while back and she hasn't had the money to fix it). On her land, which she bought about a decade ago, she has a large pond and has cultivated a substantial garden. She relies on her garden for a lot of her food most of the year and spends a good chunk of her time taking care of it. When she's not working in her garden, she's working in town at a local restaurant and bar three nights a week. When she's not doing that she's either visiting her close circle of friends or writing. Last winter she wrote a novel. During our visit she asked me if I'd like to read it. Right away I said yes. She said she'd get me a copy the next time we met.

In the interim I wrote to her and asked if I could visit her and a week and a half ago I did. It was the first snow of the season, but luckily it wasn't sticking to the roads and I found her place with relative ease. Her driveway is 1/4 mile long, which is good because one, it gives her privacy and two, it keeps her three cats away from the main road. It's also bad because each winter season she gets snowed in several times. She has a friend who sometimes plows her out, but I'm hoping she'll let me pay to help her with that this winter, mainly so she can get to work and to the store when she needs it. She greeted me at the door of her trailer and welcomed me inside. She had already stoked her 100 year old wood stove, so the trailer was nice a cosy. She got me a cup of coffee and one for herself and we sat down in front of the wood stove and talked for over an hour. I felt very comfortable sitting there with her. She told me about the photographs of family and friends that she had tacked on a nearby wall and she showed me the contents of a small medicine bag where she kept precious items like a nearly perfect arrowhead that she had found in the clay dirt of her garden and a black, petrified shark's tooth that she had picked up on a beach in Florida. She then showed me her pond and garden and I helped her bring into her trailer some garlic and potatoes that she had grown. With the fresh fallen snow on the trees and on the grass her property looked lovely and I found myself already looking forward to next spring when the garden would start growing again. I even imagined myself helping her in the garden. At the end of the visit Sam placed her novel in a bag along with some garlic, potatoes, onions, a squash and two glass containers, one filled with homemade applesauce and one with chopped up peaches.

I read her novel within 24 hours, waited a day and then read it again. It was very good! I felt proud of her for writing it and doing such a good job and soon wrote another letter telling her so. Her example has inspired me to start an autobiographical novel. For the last two years I've wanted to write a memoir, but I kept getting stuck. Memoirs that are "creative" nonfiction are very popular these days. What makes them creative is that the authors write using the techniques of fiction: narration, scenes, dialogue, character studies, etc.... I found myself resisting some of those techniques, especially scenes with dialogues, because it didn't ring true for me. I couldn't honestly remember conversations from 30 years ago or more. Also, I didn't know how to narrow down my subject and began tackling incidents from my whole life, making a mess and not having a focus. But I'm finding that fictionalizing my family and my past has given me more freedom to explore my personal history while taking some pressure off me about writing "the truth". In this novel, I can learn the techniques that I was resisting when I was working on a memoir. Until now, I've made some half hearted attempts to write several short stories, which I would like to continue doing, but I never ever approached the idea of writing a novel. I needed Sam's example to give me a little push in that direction.

Part of being myself has been writing in a journal. This blog, though I've been neglecting it of late, has also been important to me by giving me room to practice before a small audience. I think it's time for a change here. I need to write more, not less. I've tried backing away from this blog, but it doesn't feel right and quite frankly, I need the practice not only of writing, but of sharing my writing, putting it outside of myself. I'd like to include fiction and poetry mainly because I rarely share them and could use some constructive feedback. I don't know if I'll have the discipline to write here several times a week, but I want to try again. I need to take the pressure off myself sometimes by writing short entries as well as longer ones. Let's see if I have the courage to change my approach the way I'm beginning to have the courage to reach out and foster friendships.

Something Rich And True

2011-09-14T19:15:00.000-04:00

"Find out if there is something rich and true in even the most painful moments." Nirmala from his book Nothing Personal

And isn't it so that there is a rich truth in our moments of pain and sorrow? Poetry, stories and memoirs are filled with it. What would life be like without the darker side to things? I have trouble imagining continual peace and contentment because that is not the nature of my experience. I live moment to moment; there is no other way. The landscape is one of continual change, even when nothing appears to be happening, something always is. A fly lands on the wall beside you, a breeze comes into your house through the open window and each breath is entirely new. The Buddhist practitioners that I have been reading keep pointing to stepping into the present moment just as it is. Some of them go so far as to say that the present moment, regardless of what is happening, is exactly the way it should be. I've heard this sentiment before in self-help books I've read. One book in particular stands out, it's called The Language of Letting Go by Melody Beattie. I bought this book while I was in my relationship with my abusive and alcoholic boyfriend. It's a daily reader for people who have been in codependent relationships and are trying to heal using some of the 12 step philosophy. The foundation of the philosophy seems to me to rest on admitting powerlessness over addictions and other people and a belief in some form of higher power that will somehow guide and direct individuals towards help and healing. Along with this comes the magical thinking that we are all on a journey learning lessons we need to learn, that God, in whatever form we connect with, is giving us just what we need and no more than we can bear.

At the time I bought the book, I took a lot of comfort in thinking that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, but that was usually during the moments of quiet. When things got intense and painful, I would lose sight of this idea and suffer. Lately I've been reading this Buddhist teacher Nirmala and I find myself getting pulled back into this magical idea that my life is as it should be, that every moment is somehow perfect and "right", if only I would open to it. Of course I think, but what about the people who are being tortured right now or what about me when I'm frozen by anxiety over the future? Are those perfect moments? I'm pretty sure Nirmala would say Yes. How can that be? Nirmala writes, "...our happiness depends more on our attitude about what is happening than on what is happening." What is happening could be very bad indeed, but often we make it worse than it needs to be. But why does it need to be at all, as in the case of torture? Nirmala writes about the Mystery that is life and about going to that place where we don't know. He writes about Awareness as if it were something in and around us, separate yet joined to us, a living entity. That Awareness exists is at the heart of the Mystery we call life. In some ways it's as if he's saying that Awareness is the higher power. It is always available and always good; there is no blemish on it, no mistake in it. It is completely trustworthy. This awareness doesn't discriminate. It is not meant only for "good" people. It is available to those who are being tortured as well as to the torturers. It is Love. It is Buddha Nature. It is the Holy Spirit.

Nirmala writes that Awareness is in love with everything and devoted to everything. So right this moment this mysterious Awareness is in love with me, with you. It knows you through and through and no matter what you've done or haven't done, it will continue to love you. It is the origin of unconditional love. But we're always so busy trying to get somewhere else or so caught up in our thoughts that we don't tap into what is right in front of us. We get restless, we get bored, we get scared. All that is a by product of our every shifting thoughts and feelings. But thoughts and feelings often misguide us, coloring our world with pain and negativity. Awareness embraces all thoughts and feelings as the sky embraces the clouds and rain. When the weather clears, the vast sky remains. It doesn't come and go; it's always there. And that's what we can return to every moment. Lately I've been noticing that when I don't have a thought in my head, I'm still acutely aware of myself and my surroundings. There is magic in that alone. The silence is pregnant with meaning. Why do we run from the present moment?

We run because we're ignorant and deluded. "God forgive them, for they know not what they do." We are collectively fooled by our thoughts and feelings. How often do we accept the lie over the truth? When I am experiencing deep anxiety I really believe that something outside of myself is threatening me, and yet when I look and listen, all is quiet and peaceful. When I stop and question the validity of my anxiety, I lessen it because I see through the lie of it. Buddhists say that most of us are asleep and that we accept the dream as if it were the reality and because of this we suffer. They also say get curious and question everything. Don't take things for granted; really look. This can be done despite the conditioning we've had since we were infants. Our conditioning tells us that we are separate individuals, alone amongst the many. It tells us that we have a Self that is solid and fixed. We cling to the idea of our individual selves as if life itself depends upon it. We say to ourselves and others, I, Me, Mine. We think our will to advance this I will lead us to happiness, but it never does. If we do such and such, then we will get such and such reward. But even if we get the prize at the end of our exertion, we still feel the hollowness of it, we're still left wanting more.

Buddhists assert that there is no Self, that it is a construct we've developed to try and make sense out of our worlds. The reality is that everything is in flux. I have memories of when I was 12, but I am 12 no longer and that imagined self was changing back then too, as it is today. Yes, I can put labels on my "self" that stick such as college graduate, Democrat, blogger, woman, cat lover, schizophrenic etc... but that is far from who "I" am. Everything that is alive is evolving from birth to death. Nothing is static, even in death the process of change continues. And some of us ask, How can there be no I, no self? Doesn't that mean that existence is pointless? No, existence remains very meaningful because Awareness is meaningful. The truth is you can have no self and still be very aware. Self is way over-rated, just as Awareness is under-rated. And all of us, whether we like it or not, are interconnected in the web of life. When I feel isolated, it is an illusion I take to heart. I am my own worst enemy because I automatically feed my illusions. That is why so many self-help groups stress keeping the focus on oneself, staying very honest and uncovering all the various misunderstandings that have come up over the years. They say, don't try and change others; change yourself. All we really have to work with is ourselves. Like the Awareness in and around us, we are always available to ourselves. This is great news.

Even in the most painful moments, there is something good at hand: space, awareness, love, breath. We do not need a separate Self to give our lives meaning, the meaning is already there, every millisecond. But we do need to understand that we are sometimes more in love with the illusions we create than with the ordinary Awareness that is all around us and in us. Waking up is about gradually stripping the lies from the greater Truth. Part of stripping the lies is retraining ourselves to see with clarity, openness and love. But first you must question and experiment. Don't assume that you know. Assume that you don't know. We're living inside a house of mirrors that we have made with our own two hands. The mirrors certainly reflect some of the truth, but the core of it is within you.

Some Recent Artwork

2011-08-20T16:24:00.000-04:00

Just got some new markers and am trying to tempt myself back towards the visual arts. These images are pretty sloppy because I couldn't get the right white balance in my photo editing program (which is very simplistic and all I know how to use...sort of). And so white has turned into purple! Nonetheless, you can get a feel for what I've been working on the last couple of days. It's all about experimental play and yet, in some ways, it's more serious because I am stopping, assessing, making a new mark all very gradually. Invariably, I'm scared to make the very first mark. Scared because I don't have a working plan of action, so then I jump into it. All I know is that I want to vary the marks on the page and work intuitively.

Home Alone Again

2011-08-13T14:34:00.000-04:00

This is the first day in about three weeks that I've had free to slow the pace down. For the most part, I have not kept up with my online friends. I apologize for that, but I can only seem to focus on one thing at a time. Also, before I have to do something with my family I need half a week to a week to prepare and then afterwards I need a half a week to a week to recover. That's the nature of mental illness for many people I'm afraid. I can appear relatively normal with my family for a week or two, but then I need to withdraw back into my solitary space.

This was probably the last trip my parents will make to visit Rob and me in New York. From now on we will visit them only. My father turned 85 this trip and my mother is 83 and they are visibly slowing down. The day before I picked them up at the airport my brother had a small fire in his house; he fell trying to put it out and hurt himself and so he didn't come with me to pick up our parents. It was very good to see them and a day and a half later to see my uncle. My uncle recently turned 80 and yet he drove from Chicago to Western New York in a couple of days. I thought he looked great, more energetic than my parents. He is my mother's younger brother and she hadn't seen him in six years or so. Despite living a long distance away from each other, they love each other and keep in touch by phone, but, as my mother has often said to me, it's not the same as seeing a loved one in person.

I arranged for my parents and uncle to stay in a B&B nearby. It was only after a day or two of them staying there that I heard from my family that the owners were conservative Christian Republicans. My parents and uncle are staunch liberal Democrats and confirmed atheists to boot and so it was a bit awkward for them living in such close proximity to their hosts. Each side was certainly polite, even friendly, but my family had to restrain themselves and this made them uncomfortable. Nonetheless, the house they stayed in was nice and safe and they didn't complain too much to me.

I discovered quickly that I had over planned the trip. I was anxious and eager to please my mother in particular. Both she and my father are great planners, but this time they realized that they didn't have the energy to do as much as I had anticipated. And my uncle had the awkward responsibility of following my car with his while transporting my parents while I drove my brother because we couldn't all fit in the same small car. And then on the birthday day (my brother was born on my father's birthday) as we were beginning the 45 minutes drive to a state park to have a nice lunch at a restaurant in an inn there, my "service engine soon" light came on. Because we were an hour early, my uncle and I drove to the nearest service station. It was lunch time, but the owner said that as long as the light wasn't flashing I could still drive the car to the restaurant and back. And so I did. The next morning I drove my car with my uncle following to my usual repair shop and dropped off my car. It only needed a new sensor, but the part was expensive. So I thought the car was good to go, but several days later, when we had driven to Ithaca, New York, an hour and forty minutes away to have lunch at a Thai restaurant and go to the theater there I encountered another car problem.

It was after we had eaten and after we had finished watching the play that when I tried to pull out in the parking lot, I found I could only move a couple of inches and when I did it made a terrible sound. I immediately got out of the car and saw that the front driver's side tire was totally flat, but it didn't feel like a normal flat because normally you can still move the car a bit and I couldn't. I sent my uncle and parents home and stayed with my brother after calling triple A to get a tow nearly 100 miles back to home territory. Luckily I had gotten triple A plus which covers the cost of a tow up to 100 miles. The tow truck came in an hour. The man diagnosed the problem right away, said part of a coil in the front of the car had cracked, broken and sprung into the tire. My brother and I quickly realized that we had averted serious injury, even death: if we had been driving at 65 miles an hour on the highway hours earlier with my uncle following close behind me who knows what might have happened to all of us? And so, despite the inconvenience we were very grateful.

My uncle stayed an extra day and drove my parents to the airport and then headed back to Chicago while I had the work done on my car. I prayed that they all get home safely and as it turns out, they did. So the visit was a mixed bag, some good days and times and some not so good. Last year, when my parents stayed at my house, we had a better time, were somewhat closer to each other than this visit. Still generally speaking it went okay and I was very happy to see them all and spend a little over a week with them.

So here I am back to being home alone and I'm relieved, but it will still take me a couple more days to get adjusted. A great thing that happened while my family visited was that I got a long letter from a woman I've been wanting to be friends with for several years. She was responding to a three page type written letter that I sent to her. She said she really enjoyed my letter and went on to write candidly to me about a few things in her life. What's particularly cool about this woman is that she is not only a very interesting, individualistic person, but she lives close by. In her letter she offered to do some work for me fixing my cat pen fencing so that my cats can finally go outside. My friend Richard created a wonderful cat pen, but cut through the fence months ago to do some work on the back of the house and never got around to fixing it. Right now he is very busy. So I'm gearing up to ask this woman to come and visit me. And I hesitate, not because I have any reservations about this interesting person, but because I have reservations about myself. I'm so self protective that I don't often take chances. Still, now is a good time to invite her over because my house is in moderately good order due to my family's visit. Normally, I used my messy house as an excuse not to have anyone over, but right now I don't want to do that. This woman is a private person with only a few close friends and I'm finding that I would like to become one of those friends. So my next order of business is to write a good, long letter back to her. I'm looking forward to doing that.

Grassroots Festival Digital Photographs

2011-07-26T04:20:00.000-04:00

A Few Summer Activities

2011-07-25T20:54:00.000-04:00

My brother and I returned early from a four day music festival called Grassroots. It had been very hot from Thursday to Sunday--hot, humid and practically no rain. I got some sunburn, which I rarely get and both of us only got minimal sleep, so by Sunday we were burnt out and decided to skip the last day and head home. The music at the festival was good, but there were virtually no headliners which disappointed us. Usually when we go there are several A+ bands or singer songwriters like Los Lobos, Lucinda Williams, The Avett Brothers, Burning Spear, etc... so there are high points to the experience. This time it was hot and mellow, though Fela Kuti’s youngest son Seun was there heading his father’s band (Fela died an AIDS related death in 1997 when Seun was still a young adolescent). His father was a master at a style of African (Nigerian) music he dubbed “Afrobeat” partly influenced at points by James Brown, very funky and intense and political. That got Fela put in prison for 20 months. Seun is definitely following in his father’s footsteps. One of the things he championed at the festival was the decriminalization of marijuana. He was also touching on other political topics, but I couldn’t understand him. Perhaps I’ll get one of his CDs and listen closely. I think it takes courage to get up on stage and fight through music and communication some of the injustices in the world.

My brother and I have a whole routine we go through preparing for the festival, going and then coming back. We stay at the same Indian run motel just outside of Ithaca, New York, which is about a 10-15 minutes drive to the festival in Trumansburg. We park in the same spot near an off site camping ground. Most people park in a large sectioned field and then wait for a shuttle bus to take them to the festival several minutes away. We too get the shuttle, but we park by the side of the road. We do this because in past years when we’ve parked in the field we’ve gotten stuck in the mud after it rained. We go to the same Chinese Buffet restaurant on Friday and Sunday before heading to the festival. Saturday is special because we get to go to a very good Thai restaurant. We get gai tom ka soup, which is a coconut milk soup with chicken and mushrooms, then he gets a green beef curry and I get a noodle dish with chicken called pad thai. Why do we get the same thing each year? Because we don’t get to go to Thai restaurants very often. But it’s more than that, we obviously get comfort from having a predictable routine. The routine, which allows for knowing generally what to expect, reduces potentially stressful situations. I get stressed driving and a bit stressed being around so many people when I’m used to being mostly alone. Then again, some of the people watching is fun. This time I took my camera on two of the days and took pictures of people and the fairgrounds. I got a few nice shots. It’s been a long time since I was into photography. I was a film photographer and I’m still not used to digital photography. With a digital camera, you have to learn the small computer that is your camera thoroughly and I never do it. I’m intimidated by computers, though I rely on them for information and communication.

My brother was more subdued this year. Usually he is making conversation with fellow festival goers, often shedding a critical but humorous view on what’s strong and what’s weak at the festival. This year he said he was surprised that he didn’t see many people that he knew. It was also in the 90s and humid and as I said, we both didn’t get as much sleep as we would have liked. Despite the heat and only some breeze, it was good to be outside, good to be around people, good to listen to live music and good to have each other for company. It was a mostly Caucasian crowd with just a sprinkling of African Americans and Asians. Having grown up in New York City, I think the best type of crowds is a multi racial, multi cultural crowd. So this wasn’t the most interesting crowd to me, but there was still a lot of variety. Within the crowds amongst the young people and the parents with their children I saw the salt and peppered hair of middle-aged people like myself and even a few rather old people. Not too many very unusual people except for a man walking on a prosthetic leg, which I thought was wonderful just that he still had his freedom and could partake of the festival. A few people were even dressed up in costumes with large afro-like wigs. Some women and children wore butterfly wings. There were a lot of tattoos on both men and women and a fair number of men with shaved heads. The women wore all sorts of skimpy dresses in their desire to look good and stay cool. I wore shorts, a t-shirt and Teva waterproof sandals that fit snugly around my feet. I didn’t particularly look good, but I stayed comfortable. So far, my obesity is in the extra large normal range. I still fit into a bus or car seat and am not aware how heavy I am until I go to the bathroom somewhere and see myself in a mirror. At the festival, there are many attractive women. I used to be one of them. Now I am out of that loop and partially I feel relief at that. The other part of me wants to look better, not in order to compete with other women, but just so I can feel more normal and healthy.

This Saturday my parents will arrive by plane from Florida for a 9 day visit. My uncle will arrive from Chicago by car on Monday for a 6 day visit. I haven’t seen my uncle for four years. He just turned 80 at the end of June and my parents are in their mid 80s. For now, they are all in good health, but I still worry. It will be very good to see them all, but I’ve got a lot of house work to get done this week and a lot of driving and finding entertainment the following week. Last year, before my parents visited, I did an internet search for things to do in the area. My planning and preparing was mostly successful and I’m hoping I can pull it off again for the first week of August. The main problem is that there is not much to do around where I live and so we will have to travel by car one to two hours in each direction. I’ll have to lead with my car and my uncle will have to follow in his car. This makes me nervous because we’ll be going to places that I’ve never been to before and I’m afraid of getting lost or worrying about whether my uncle is still following me. At least now we both have cell phones and can keep in touch even if we do get split up. My family will be staying at a local bed & breakfast. Last year my parents stayed with me, but that put some pressure on me to clean up and I didn’t quite get it done and let my mother come upstairs only a couple of times to see the cats. This year it is just too hot, especially since I don’t have air-conditioning. Now the cats need to come downstairs from time to time because it is 10-20 degrees cooler...but my father is allergic to cats. So I suggested the B & B and my family agreed. Their rooms will be air-conditioned. Still, I have to get cracking cleaning up my house as best I can because they will visit. I have four days. I can get a lot done in four days, if I pace myself. I might have to change my sleep cycle to the daytime and work at night and early morning, just because it is so very hot.

Climate change is affecting the whole planet. This is the first year that I got snowed in by a blizzard at JFK airport last December and the first year that I can remember the heat changing the atmosphere at the music festival. Normally we have at least one thunder storm there, but this year not one. The days when so many people can own one or more cars each and are free to give birth to any number of children must be coming to a close. We are guzzling our resources and leaving people to starve to death due partially to overpopulation. If we don’t change rather drastically, I’m not sure we’ll survive. What can we do? People in the US say they really value their freedom, but won’t we all be required to make sacrifices and pull together due to this common environmental threat? Shouldn’t we be doing it sooner rather than later? At the festival they were promoting an anti-Fracking position, trying to enlist people into their cause by signing a petition. Our governor, Andrew Cuomo, is backing the Fracking movement before tests have been done that prove that the procedure is safe for humans. Business people are frantic and greedy to find an alternate energy source so that we can continue living in excess, even if it means some people will get ill or die because of it. I’m not against an energy source that’s safe to use for people and the planet, but Fracking doesn’t sound safe. There needs to be more research done and more regulations put into effect. Whether we can cobble together various energy sources to survive is unknown, but what we can do is to change our lifestyles all over the planet. Increase and extend public transportation, even build newer small city/towns that utilize solar and wind energy to the max, possibly return to a more commune like communities where people work together to preserve or extend resources, to recycle, to farm, etc... There are small communities like that sprouting up all over the US. Let’s see if they have the right idea over time.

Persistence, Faith & Hard Work

2011-07-09T19:32:00.000-04:00

I've had the urge to write repeatedly over the last month, but my output is minimal. In the last few days the urge has been laced with an irritating depression. Whichever direction I begin to go in, be it flipping through books on writing or books on Buddhism or taking a stab at writing in my journal, turns into a dead-end. I either fidget or I go to sleep. Strangely enough, when I sit down to write a blog, usually spontaneously and without notes, I wind up writing something halfway worthwhile. It's just getting myself to sit down and do it that is the problem. Anne Lamott, who wrote a popular book on the practice of writing called Bird by Bird, says of writing: "It is a matter of persistence and faith and hard work. So you might as well just go ahead and get started."

Persistence, faith and hard work...I guess that's the recipe for life itself. I am also a strong believer in the immense value of being creative, especially for people who suffer from chronic mental illnesses. Lately I've been committing to my Buddhist practice, but neglecting writing, songwriting and painting. My Buddhist practice of meditation, listening to audiobooks and reading, taking notes and studying is my foundation and so I won't stop with that. When I meditate each evening, despite my restless thoughts and the discomfort in my back, I begin to focus and steady myself. By the end of the meditation, I'm usually refreshed and ready to listen to a dharma talk and then to do some reading and note taking. All this takes place in the evening and night. It's the day time where I get lost.

Why do I resist the fact that just being alive is good enough? Whatever I do with my days, as long as it is not harming myself or others, is okay. I get writer's block because I am judging myself and pushing myself and not going with the flow of life. It's back to having ambition instead of patience and humility. The truth is that my life is a simple life. Another truth is that I think I want it to stay that way. In order to keep things simple I need to let go of ambitious ideas. Maybe I will write a book, but not unless I learn to write a good essay. I have a friend who told me that one of the things that got her out of her depression was the expression, "little by little". Baby steps...persistence, faith and hard work.

My life is mysterious to me. I don't know why I'm here; I'm just here. And I know now that while I'm here, every moment I'm here, I'm changing and my circumstances are changing. I know this is true for all of us. I witness the change when I listen back to my audio journal from a few days in the past. It helps me to acknowledge that I can hold onto nothing. And it keeps me honest. Writing here does the same thing. I've been writing in this blog since about November of 2006. Very slowly I am printing up my blog so that I have a hard copy to review, maybe edit and re-work. I think it is important that I do this so that I can follow the flow of my life and see what lessons I am learning or re-learning. Every now and then I need to review my journals and take stock of where I've been and where I seem to be heading.

My audio journal is a good therapeutic tool, but sometimes I neglect my writing because I'm busy pouring out my thoughts and ideas on tape. It's easier for me to talk to myself than to write, but writing also holds the key to self-understanding and to sharing my experiences with others. The more I study Buddhism, the more I want to be helpful to others. The challenge is to not lose confidence. That's a big challenge.

Stop Living In A Dream

2011-06-29T20:05:00.000-04:00

I've been meditating regularly for over a month. I went from 30 minutes to 40 minutes of sitting meditation. I don't sit on the floor anymore but in a chair because when I sit cross-legged on the floor my front leg falls asleep after 20 minutes, possibly because I'm obese, I don't know. Anyway, the chair is fine. I set up a small, round table in front of me and place on it in a semi-circle two Buddha statues, one a small, slim Indian style Buddha and the other, somewhat larger, of a very fat, smiling Chinese style Buddha. I also have a meditation bell and a meditation counter which plays music when the time is up. Technically, I'm supposed to sit up straight in an armless chair with my feet flat on the floor. My chair is a fold-up lawn chair with arms and sometimes I sit up straight with my hands on my knees and other times when my back begins to hurt, I lean back into the seat and use the arm rests. I rest my eyes on the objects on the table. Sometimes I'm restless and shift my gaze from one object to another. I have a mug of sweet tea beside me and I mindfully drink from the mug several times during the course of the meditation. I start my meditation in early dusk and as the sun begins to set, I move more deeply into my meditation, listening to the birds singing outside my windows or sending out a prayer when a car passes by and if there's a breeze, I enjoy the breeze or the rain or the setting sun.

I'm not "good" at meditation the way I was years ago before I became ill. Before I was slim and flexible. I practiced yoga daily and at the end of my yoga session I meditated. I easily entered into the zone which was set up by the yoga, breathing steadily and deeply. I remained still and focused. When the formal sitting meditation was over, I would be in a mindful state. I brought mindfulness to my daily activities, especially eating and washing the dishes. I also walked mindfully throughout my house, conscious of my breathing, in a peaceful, happy state. The key to this happy state was in the breath, relaxing into the breath, into the body, slowly. But now, my breathing is neither so deep, nor so measured and my energy is restless with moments of calmness and focus interspersed within it. All this means is that I am a beginner and that I must persevere until the periods of calm become longer and longer, setting the stage for insight to arise. The interesting thing I'm finding is that even with my rocky, daily practice, I can feel a subtle shift in my general awareness. For instance, I am more aware of the weather; I enjoy it more deeply. When it rains, I listen to the rain and when it is sunny with a soft breeze, I feel the warmth and the breeze. I notice more. I notice the beauty of my cats. In the midst of my sitting, I watch them and reflect on how sensitive their five senses are, how alert and in tune to all the sights and sounds and smells. I have the insight into the fact that I, too, am an animal very connected to my senses, but somehow I am not as aware or as in tune as my cats, though, with practice, I know I could be.

I'm learning that it is not about being good or bad at meditation, it's about accepting the moment you happen to be in, be it restless, calm, happy or painful. I'm learning to accept myself and my environment just as it is. This can be uncomfortable but not unbearable. As far as I can see everything is in flux. It's like being carried along by a river, sometimes there are rapids and the water is churned up and other times the flow goes by slowly, but either way, floating in the water you are continually pulled along by the current. You can't stop it. You can't get out of it. You have to go with the flow whether you want to or not. I'm finding that I really do want to go with the flow, but I have years and years of conditioning to resist pain and embrace pleasure. When I resist pain, I resist the flow. So now, I am turning that pattern around and just sitting with the pain, keeping it company so to speak. I breath into my discomfort and do not reject it or run away from it or act out against it. This is also called mindfulness. People who live with chronic pain need to learn to apply the balm of mindfulness to their suffering. And really, we all live with an on again, off again pain and so mindfulness can benefit everyone. I think before people can get to the stage where they can embrace their enemies as brothers and sisters on this earth, they need to embrace their own suffering and stop pushing it away or off onto someone else.

I have been encouraged by the Buddha's example and by his many, many followers to see my life as one long experiment into the nature of awareness and existence. So that's what I've been doing, both meditation practice and dharma study with Pema Chodron, Alan Watts and Thich Nhat Hanh. I have quite a few audio programs and books on Buddhist practice on my Kindle. I listen for an hour a day and then I read during the night. When I finish an audiobook, I return to it and re-listen to it. I'm trying to encourage myself to do the same with my Buddhist books. Repetition and study, contemplation with an open mind and I plant the dharma seeds, water them with attention and wait for them to broaden my awareness, to wake me up. I am already a little less groggy, a little less forgetful. My experimentation gives me insight into the true nature of reality. Buddhists believe, and I am on the road following, that most of us are living life in a bubble, in a dream. We take appearances as reality and don't question the fact that appearances are often deceptive. Right now, I'm more in the dream than out of it, but I've accomplished the first step which is a very minimal awareness that human make things up to make themselves feel more comfortable. We invented language and the concept of time but language is an approximation and time is based on a clock, an artificial construct. Intelligence is natural, language is not; it is taught. We learn through imitation, but we are not always so careful in our behaviors and attitudes. We can just as easily teach lies and be followed as teach truth and be followed. Hence the need for each of us to question and experiment and not blindly follow.

I suffer from depression and anxiety. My experimentation with meditation and mindfulness is showing me that I have a choice, to follow or not to follow. The negative has a pull to it, is seductive, worries breed more worries and yet it is easy to fall into it and stay lost with it. To not follow means to not judge the bad as bad, but to let it be. That's hard because conditioning runs deep. To not follow means to stop what you are doing and just sit. How many of us just stop? I look at myself when I'm resisting stopping and I see that I have an aversion to it. I've labelled it "bad" for so long, bad to just exist. I think I have to have a purpose, that I need to keep busy. Slowly, oh, so slowly, I'm seeing that to be mindful of my present moment has plenty of meaning in it. I don't experience true mindfulness a lot, but when I do I can recognize it as some kind of magical gift. Instead of life being a chore, it becomes a miracle and this little miracle is available 24/7. It defies description, except to say that it is like a heightened awareness, a subtle adrenaline rush and yet cleaner, purer infused with a sense of completeness and well-being, health, balance, intelligence and peace. Mindfulness is all about wholesome happiness. It's always around somewhere, but you have to cultivate the awareness of it, which means you have to stop, stop living on automatic, stop moving along on a conveyor belt, stop living in a dream.

High Expectations Versus Low Expectations For The Mentally Ill

2011-06-17T17:58:00.000-04:00

Thank you for your comments on my last blog entry. I really appreciate them.

Last week I saw my therapist and I read aloud my most recent blog entry. Her main response was that I was a "high functioning" schizophrenia sufferer and that my route to recovery is not the way for everyone, especially those who have very negative voices. I know my way is not the way for everyone. Everyone of my friends who suffer from mental illness have their own unique perspectives, but I question the routine practice of separating those of us with acute psychosis from those of us who are in some form of recovery from psychosis. I remember when I was in acute psychosis and couldn't read, write, watch television, follow a conversation or contribute to a conversation because I was so consumed with my voices, delusions and paranoia, certainly not "high functioning" at that point. Then again, I have heard that there are schizophrenia sufferers who are both acutely symptomatic and functioning adequately in the world. My basic idea is that schizophrenia and related illnesses go through stages, a pre-psychotic stage into often an acutely psychotic stage into the beginning of several recovery stages, if you are fortunate enough to survive the acute stage. Within the recovery stage there is still room for relapse, which is why, for most of us, we need to reality check regularly, especially with a therapist and/or a support group. By simply stating that schizophrenia progresses through stages shows that it is a dynamic, flowing pattern that is not static. If this model of schizophrenia were scientifically accepted, it would offer hope to people who are severely ill, as well as those who struggle through the recovery stages.

I know that there are people who are severely ill and greatly incapacitated, but I don't believe that they are unreachable and I don't believe that they should be treated as if their condition is permanent and irreversible. I actually believe that there should be a support group system in place in hospitals and in local communities that generally follow the sponsor system of 12 step groups. What this would mean is that people who have crossed over into the recovery stages of severe mental illness would sponsor or be a special friend to someone who was still in acute psychosis or in the very early stages of recovery. The sponsor, based on his or her life experience with psychosis, becomes a guide gently leading the way towards recovery attitudes and behaviors. It's a simple, beautiful system of community spirit in action, one I wish I had in my community. As it stands, I get most of my support from my online friends who blog about their illnesses; the problem with that is that I don't get to meet people in my offline community, nor do I get the opportunity to be a sponsor to someone. And so I write in this blog hoping that someone who is acutely ill will stumble onto it and maybe get something from it. Maybe they'll stop looking at themselves as if they have an incurable "brain disease" with no cure and dismal prospects.

I see those of us who are creative enough to start writing blogs about our illnesses as in the "high functioning" spectrum. Perhaps my perspective is skewed by this. I have not been around people when they've been going through acute psychosis; I've only been around myself. The people that I've met online through blogging and support forums strike me as intelligent and creative. I've puzzled over this. Why do all these people suffering from serious mental illness seem, in a lot of ways, exceptional rather than mentally and creatively low functioning? I think it is because they crossed a line in their illness which gradually led them into the recovery stages. Part of recovery is reaching out to others. The computer is an ideal vehicle for mentally wounded people to express themselves and support each other, though I still think face to face meetings are very important as well. But who doesn't really get heard? The people in acute psychosis who don't gravitate towards blogging and online and offline support groups. The people who remain isolated in their delusions and paranoia. The people isolated in hospitals, restrained with no computer access. Because I live in a rural community with no mental health support groups, I don't get to see and interact with acutely ill people and those that I interact with online give me a lot of hope that people can recover. And yet, my therapist almost dismisses me as "high functioning" and different from other more seriously ill people in hospitals. I contend that most people who are "high functioning" were at some point "low functioning" and because of that there is an unbreakable bond between those who are acutely ill and those who are in recovery, a bond that should be encouraged to grow through interaction and not separation. I have had the thought several times that I would like to go to a local psych unit and tell my story to the inmates, but that's as far as I go. What I really need is for there to be community action that sets up support groups as well as brings people who are in recovery into the hospital system to give hope to those still caught inside their illnesses.

I can respect health professionals who have not suffered from mental illness up to a point, but I still say that those of us who have been through severe mental illness are a way underused resource to the mental health community. My therapist was a bit upset trying to press her point that I was different from those who had to be hospitalized. She said she knew because she had worked on psychiatric units and had seen people in the midst of acute psychosis. I think her view of illness is flawed precisely because she has not lived through acute illness. I know more about what a catatonic person is going through than she does, even though I have not been catatonic. I know more about being a raving lunatic because I have been one. My therapist is a good woman and a decent therapist but I trust my own experience and intuition more. I told her that I thought it was time that health care professionals raise the bar on mental illness. Low expectations produce poor results whereas higher expectations give a mentally ill person hope and goals to aim for gradually, over time. Fewer and fewer mentally ill people are staying long term in hospitals. Now they are back in their communities (if they are not homeless) which is why community services are so important. Reintegration into society, however minimal, is a goal in itself and it is possible. Asserting that a chunk of mentally ill people are too sick to get well is not a good enough solution anymore.

Scientific Research On The Causes Of Schizophrenia Is Inconclusive

2011-05-31T20:22:00.000-04:00

Today I was studying some of the more recent research at Schizophrenia.com about the causes of schizophrenia, but none of it, it turns out, is conclusive. Researchers tend now to see the illness from a biological and "environmental" perspective. Environmental means there are both psychological and social factors. The writer of the research article went on to offer many possible reasons for the development of schizophrenia from inherited defective genes to emotional neglect in childhood to illicit drug use to lack of vitamin D during pregnancy to growing up in the city to a common parasite gotten from handling cat feces to being born in the winter months, etcetera. In short, no one knows for sure. One thing that does seem somewhat clear, aside from having a history of mental illness in one's family, is that stress factors into it. Stress can trigger changes in the brain. Also, you may have the gene for schizophrenia, but if there are no environmental factors triggering it, it remains dormant. A gene has to be turned on in order for illness to manifest itself.

Those of us who developed schizophrenia most likely had not only a genetic predisposition, but multiple psychological and social factors as well. Children and youths are said to be five to ten times more sensitive generally than adults, which is why the formative years are so crucial to anyone's development. I wonder how many of us with the illness suffered from some sort of abuse when we were young. In my case, I believe I suffered from some emotional neglect from my parents, ironically because they were so focused on my older brother who from a young age had "emotional problems". My brother in turn argued that it was my parents who had the emotional problems and needed to go see a shrink more than he did. (My mother and I did in fact visit with my brother's therapist on several occasions which was something my mother deeply resented.) Personally, I think it is true that my parents, though very responsible financially and for covering our basic needs (particularly my mother), were not exactly parent material. My father was emotionally distant and my mother critical, cool and resentful (again) of having to take care of two children without much help. Her mother had told her early on that she would not be available to baby sit that often. I'm sure that hurt my mother and left her without a guiding resource to rely on. Growing up, I resented my mother more than my emotionally absent father, because I was around her more. It was only later after college, around the time I began hearing voices, that I began to sympathize with her as she graduated from taking care of her children to taking care of her mother and my father's mother as they began to age. Now, of course, years after my brother and I left home and my grandmother's had died, she is a much happier person.

Don't get me wrong, I love my parents. I think they did the best they could, but I won't rule out the possibility that their behavior towards me when I was young contributed to me growing up dysfunctional. Once the dysfunction had set in, I myself continued the trend by behaving badly too, but by then I was an adult or rather an adult child because they continued to take care of me. The truth is there is no parenting manual and a lot of parents learn through trial and error...unless they fail to learn at all. I know some people cringe at the idea that a mother (or any major caretaker) should be held responsible for their child's development of schizophrenia or any major psychological illness, but it seems as if there may be at least a touch of truth to that assertion. It's not the whole truth because I believe genetics play a factor and are no one's fault. Still, behavior affects biology, just as stress affects brain chemistry. A human child is a wonderful, but delicate being and there needs to be a balance between physical care and mental/spiritual/emotional care. Also, mothers (and fathers who step up to their parenting responsibilities) need a support system, friends and family, even a therapist and more and more these days, qualified daycare professionals. Mothers in isolation are asking for trouble.

The area of schizophrenia that most practical scientists veer away from and ignore is the spiritual aspect of the illness, which of course necessarily intertwines with the psychological/social aspects. It is not surprising to me that much about the illness is unknown because the very nature of spirit is that it goes beyond common knowledge and into the unknown. I continue to assert that though biology probably sets the stage for schizophrenia, the voices themselves originate from someplace external to the individual. Some call them spirits or angels or devils or, in my case, aliens. Be they higher or lower powers because they are not tangible and visible, people assume that they don't exist. And tangibly they don't exist, at least not in this dimension, but that doesn't mean that there isn't a link between us and them nonetheless. It's more convenient to dismiss the idea and stick with scientific bias than to explore the other possibilities, however distant. I've interacted with my voices for a long time and it has been my assumption that they don't want to be revealed to the public for whatever reasons. And yet they do choose to reveal themselves at least in part to the mentally ill. That's a safeguard for them because the mentally ill have in the past and now not been taken seriously, though I believe that is changing the more the mentally ill, such as myself, speak up.

The question remains in my mind why these spirits/beings either create mental illness in individuals or take advantage of genetic/psychological/social tendencies towards the illness. It seems to come back to the miracle of biology, of life. I don't believe in human telepathy, but I do believe in alien telepathy. It's the stuff of science fiction I know, but once so was the idea of flying machines and computers. Recall once it was common knowledge that the world was flat and the sun revolved around the earth. It's the brave individual who can come forward to speak an unpopular truth. And really, who would want to consider what I say if it means that another non human life form can get inside our minds? That's a threatening thought for the most stable of persons. It no longer threatens me because I have established a compassionate relationship with these beings and I believe they are trying in some very challenging ways to help this world. God works in mysterious ways and so do these beings who I believe are guided by a higher power. I believe the whole universe and all the life in it is ultimately being guided. But for all my beliefs, I do not know what happens after death. Somehow I think these beings do know, but are either forbidden or unable to reveal it. I sit with the fact that I don't know and may never know, at least not in this lifetime.

Acceptance

2011-05-24T21:14:00.000-04:00

I told a friend the other day that I was okay with where I was at these days. Maybe it's just that Spring has sprung around here and I'm feeling the release from a long winter into a kind of hopefulness. I'm not sure. I still go in and out of depression and some anxiety. Just the other day I slept the day and night away because of depression. I have a low tolerance for any kind of stress. I can just manage to deal with my minimal responsibilities, more than that and I feel pain. And yet, for all that, I am able to value my life. I have a lot to be grateful for: a safe home with cats for company, a caring family, enough money to live month to month, basic physical health, several creative outlets. I also count myself as my own best friend. Apart from perfection, which none of us can attain, I like and love myself. Talking into a tape recorder these last four or five years has only gone to reinforce my friendship with myself. My code of ethics is the discipline of self-honesty and honesty towards others. I don't always succeed in that, but I do try. And though I like and love myself, I still fall into thinking negative thoughts about myself. I worry.

I work a program to help myself continue to heal from my own mental illness. It's not a typical recovery program. I have no support group. I do not do volunteer work or part-time work. Except for in this blog, I am not a mental health advocate. I don't go to church each week and get involved with my local community. And yet, I am in recovery and am doing fairly well. Why am I okay? Having financial support is a big reason why I think I am okay. I know that may not last forever, but for now I am grateful for the space and time it allows me to work through watching over my illness. Because I have had success combatting my illness due to financial support, I strongly believe that the mentally ill in this country should have the financial support they need. Guilt free. The general population has little idea how incredibly horrible the acute stages of psychotic illnesses are, lasting for not months, but years. I used to say that it was like being mentally crucified. That sounds so exaggerated, but it really isn't. If you manage to survive the acute stage and get into the recovery stage, what kind of recompense can you be given for psychological torture lasting so long? But aside from the idea of recompense for extreme suffering, there is the idea that spending some money is way more cost-efficient than having the mentally ill in hospitals, jails and rehabs or just plain homeless. We can't afford to keep putting "undesirable" people away somewhere. So a home, medications, therapy and some means of transportation are all basic needs that must be met for those unfortunate enough to have a severe mental illness.

Other than having my basic needs covered, I pay attention to myself and my voices and, as far as I am able, I reach out and care about a few people. The computer has been a godsend for me because it has allowed me to meet other people in similar situations, all of whom really impress me with their intelligence, determination to recover and creativity. Almost all of them are bloggers and many of them are artistic. Before I was diagnosed as having schizophrenia, I thought people just got crazy and stayed crazy, but this is not true at all. I continue to submit that psychosis goes through stages from a prodromal stage that leads up to the acute stage, which varies in length from person to person, and several recovery stages. Many people who aspire to recover or who are actively in recovery start blogs. I think blogging is therapeutic and informative. It can boost self-esteem while forming a support network. It's a positive creative outlet. For some it is a means of doing advocacy work. Some people blog daily or every other day, when so motivated, others, like myself just several times a month. You can go at your own pace. Life before the advent of the personal computer was very circumscribed for the majority of schizophrenia sufferers. Especially those living far from active city centers. The people I've met through blogging or mental health forums have helped me to recover. I am indebted to them, which is why I continue to blog. I have the hope that I am helping a few people along their way through mental illness.

My attitude about mental illness is that it is a journey rather than a life sentence. I work with my voices. They are no longer the enemy that they once were. Through Buddhism I have come to see how to use my illness as part of my spiritual path. I'm grateful to the voices. They continue here and there to challenge me, sometimes calling me evil, but I feel so far away from being evil. When I was acutely ill it was as if I were inside an evil world, but now, no longer. I am free. More often these mysterious voices tell me that they like and love me and I am comforted. Perhaps my attitude of working with the voices through active compassion is not the usual perspective, but it is another strong reason why I am in recovery. From the beginning the voices have been a mixture of good and "evil" with the good trying to help me survive the onslaught of the bad voices. I have had friends with the illness tell me that some of the people they know have just horrible, tormenting voices that they have to detach from and that's the general view that voices are just plain bad. I have real trouble believing this. Even in hateful voices there is something to appreciate such as intelligence, creativity, determination. Yes, those, too, are woven into the voices. Even in the midst of hell there can be respite, some kind of humor, detached perspective. Another point is that during the acute stage things are just that, acute. The whole situation is perilous and yet you still have to find your way out of it even on your hands and knees, that, or die. My acute stage lasted for 3 and a half years, possibly because I didn't commit to taking the anti-psychotic medications. I was fortunate in that early on I was applying compassion to my voices even through my three psychotic breakdowns. And if some voice did me a good turn, I remembered it. For a long time into early recovery I was resentful of the voices. My attitude was "why me?" Gradually as I turned towards Buddhism, the resentment faded. Now I am no longer resentful which has brought me a lot of peace.

I keep hoping that some sufferer will take me seriously about applying compassion to the voices. And compassion is part of every religion out there and part of humanitarianism itself. It's hard to do when you're under attack, but it can be done. Also, it takes time and repeated effort. Recovery goes in stages too. For me, it has taken years to get to this point, over a decade. I think the more resistant an individual is the longer it takes, but as water over time smooths the roughest stone, so does compassion reduce the general suffering. When I talk about compassion, I always mean it to include compassion for oneself as well. Self-acceptance and friendship is really a must. Most voices during their abusive phase, try to tear the individual down and that is why you have to build yourself up, not by being an egotist, but by loving and caring for yourself. It is the individuals who internalize the voices negativity that get caught in self-destructive cycles. Resist that negativity and eventually you liberate yourself and possibly the voices as well.

The Mind-Body Connection

2011-05-11T20:05:00.000-04:00

Thank you Karen, for your thoughtful response to my last blog post. I can definitely understand how you could feel angry at your schizophrenic friend for committing suicide. Just about all of the people I've encountered online who have mental illness strike me as extraordinary and not freaks of nature. If anyone one of them were to kill themselves, I would be very upset because it would seem to be such a waste of rich, human potential. But, as you pointed out, it does take guts, strength and courage to survive and during our weaker moments sometimes we just give in and give up. My ex-boyfriend committed suicide in 1999 when I was still quite psychotic. My reaction then was shock and numbness. I knew he was overwhelmed by his circumstances (paraplegia and dual addictions) and so, for him, I wasn't angry, just very sad. I tried to put myself in his place and I realized that I, too, might have considered suicide.

You also wrote about how devastating family influence can be on those who suffer from serious mental illness. I hear that and know that there's truth to it, though it can also work both ways depending on the family and the extent of a person's illness. Some family members may be ignorant yet not abusive and generally well-meaning. I've been very fortunate in that my family has been that way. They provided me with a home and transportation and access to a therapist on a weekly basis. I went insane mostly on my own private turf alone. That was a blessing because I didn't pull them into my illness, but also difficult because I lived in such isolation. I've since almost come to terms with my isolation because I know I impose it upon myself in order to reduce stress in my life. People can be wonderful, can be stress reducers, but they can also create situations of daily stress. So you're right, I don't have to live up to other people's standards of what should be my normal behavior; instead, I decide for myself on a day to day basis. I also in turn give up most face to face friendships, have no support from a mental health support group and no place in my local community. Because I have the financial support of my family, I have made the choice to be a recluse. I know full well that many people don't have this ability, they live with their families and therefore the family dynamics come into play each day, each night.

When I compare the negative thought processes of mental illness to an addiction, I know I'm perhaps jumping to a conclusion, but, to me, it makes a fair amount of sense. I look at my journals from when I was very psychotic and my delusional thoughts are as pervasive as an addictive substance. I keep repeating the same pattern of thought over and over again and remained stuck inside something I almost wasn't willing to let go of. I had an obsessive need to re-confirm my delusion each day and didn't leave room for other, healthier perspectives. It wasn't my brain that was failing me so much as my own unshakeable attitude. You wrote that the anti-psychotic medications make you less suicidal and I believe that; they make me less delusional and paranoid, but the drugs alone are not enough to get through this life. You have to work a program inside your head, which includes monitoring what your thoughts are telling you and how it makes you feel. I do that when I talk into a tape recorder each day and then listen back to it. Or when I write in a journal and then re-read it. I do the same thing when I write a blog entry or send an email to a friend. Most often, when things go wrong for me, it's not outer circumstance and people, but my own mistaken assumptions and attitudes. This is very good news because it places the power to change negative circumstances in my grasp.

There's a Tibetan Lojong slogan that goes, "Drive all blame into the one." The one means into yourself. This is not an instruction to be a masochist, it's an instruction to realize just how much self-centeredness figures into negative circumstances. When you take on the responsibility of truly taking care of yourself, you realize that no-one has the ability to make you unhappy but yourself. To send the blame outwards is to give up control over your life. In my last blog I was being critical of the media, but really, if I am aware, it is up to me how I respond to the media, just as it was up to your friend who committed suicide how he responded to his family's shame. One problem is that we don't respond, we react and there's a big difference. A response is measured and thought out and civil, a reaction is unmeasured, thoughtless and often angry. My brother has called my mother a "reactionary liberal" meaning she doesn't stop for a moment to consider the other right leaning perspective, instead she gets indignant and the problem remains a problem. We all have a tendency to do this, but it is a tendency that can be arrested. In meditation that tendency is called practice and practice involves returning to the breath when you get caught up in self-centered thinking. You learn to let go of the reaction and allow room for the response. In addictive thinking my reaction to seeing someone smoking a cigarette is to want to smoke one myself, but if I interrupt that reaction and respond to myself with compassion, I can let the craving go. If I apply the balm, the wound begins to heal. The hard part is becoming aware of what it is you do, where the traps and triggers are and how to avoid them or override them. The next hard part is just not engaging in the addictive activity. Both are very hard to do, but it can be done, that's the main thing. It is not impossible or someone else's fault or responsibility. That's the thing about addiction, it's self-contained. It really has very little to do with other people.

I place psychosis and addiction in the same general category because they are both about physical illness and mental illness combined. Maybe the physical illness came first, but maybe not. Addicts talk about having an addictive personality, but lots of people who would not be called addicts have addictive personalities. We learn through repetition both positive behaviors and negative behaviors. It is fair to say that someone with an addictive personality will become an addict of one sort or another if he or she engages in risky actions. The mental illness precedes the physical illness (though not the genetic predisposition). And honestly, I wonder about that in terms of psychosis. Is it possible that our thought patterns could actually create physical imbalances/illnesses making a cycle, so that even if you took the anti-psychotic medications your thoughts could be working against your recovery? We too often overlook the mind/body connection.

My purpose in bringing all this up is because I care; I don't want to lose anymore people to suicide when I feel and believe that they can overcome some of their negative circumstances through working with the very mind that seems to be betraying them. There's a saying that goes, "Happiness is an inside job." Well mental health is an inside job, but no one outside of you is watching over what you do except yourself, which means you've got to be very honest with yourself and keep monitoring your thoughts and feelings. I will never say that it is easy. It is not easy. But it's worth it.

On Suicidal Thoughts

2011-05-09T17:03:00.000-04:00

Several of my friends suffer from bouts of suicidal ideation despite taking medications for depression and/or psychosis. After my last psychotic break close to 10 years ago, I, too, fell into suicidal depression while taking greater and greater doses of my anti-psychotic medication. I spent a lot of time considering and imagining how I could end my life. Ultimately, I settled on death by carbon monoxide poisoning in my garage. Obviously, I didn't do it, but for a while I really wanted to. From what I can remember, thinking about the ways I could kill myself became like an addictive narcotic. It was oddly soothing to get serious about once and for all ending my suffering. Instead of doing that I just held on through the following months of this. My depression after my last break was so strong that I couldn't do much of anything. I wound up forcing myself to go to a good local library so that I could check out a bunch of audiobooks to listen to and that's how I spent hours of my time, passively listening to story after story. It made me realize that there was a larger world outside my sad corner of it. It made me realize that other people were also struggling, yet living to tell their stories in a therapeutic way.

Suicide is the leading cause of death amongst schizophrenia sufferers covering about 10 percent or more of all deaths. It's a massive problem, one that I think could be partially remedied through the reduction of the stigma attached to the illness. The people I know attack themselves for not being "normal"; their self-esteem is always shaky. There is a before/after scenario going on in their heads. Before the illness struck them they were still a part of the human race, but afterwards they see themselves as defective, lacking in basic human resources such as the resilience to take on the responsibility of having a family, a job and a place in their community. Even if they do have a family and/or a job and/or a place in their community, they are acutely aware that they have these things but at a greater cost than the general population. They tire more easily and suffer from stresses that "normal" people would shrug off. Their ability to get things done and to stay organized is challenged. They fall into regularly comparing themselves to others, especially extremely successful people. These comparisons in particular I think are the culprit that spurs on suicidal ideation and underlying these comparisons is this pervasive sense of isolation even when in the midst of people.

Is life easy? No, it is not and that goes for all of us. Yes some people are on the top of the Wheel of Fortune, but they can't stay there. The illusion that there are people out there who are deliriously happy all the time is something that is taken for granted. The media gorge on showing the success of popular figures who never seem to age and who stay forever bright, talented and wealthy. Of course they also gorge on the crashing failures ad nauseam, and yet people continue to believe that some people are statically successful. They are not. They eat, shit, puke, age, worry and die just like the rest of us. This is a very important point. We ALL suffer. No one is exempt. To stay stuck in the comparison game, which is also more addiction, is to live in a delusion. Easily said, but how do you stop comparing? When you live among people, it is very difficult for even "normal" people to abstain from comparing their lot to someone else's. Television brought the rich world into poor living rooms years ago and that continues with films and computers. That is the lay of this land, there are those who have and those who have not. But again, it's an illusion. People who have also get struck by calamity, just as people who have not escape from calamity. It's the luck of the draw.

So how do the handicapped who feel their disability every day fight off thoughts/feelings of suicide? How do you get someone who wants to die to be willing to fight to live? There's no easy answer, but I think it is very healthy to talk/write about these thoughts and feelings to other people. That's a healthier response than shutting down and closing people out of your life. It's also less shame based and it gives other people the opportunity to share their own stories of struggles. For myself, believing in a higher power helped me to stay alive, though I know there are those who do not believe, but for them as well, there must be a belief in something greater than yourself, a cause or organization of people. Belief in something greater puts your place in a better perspective. You are not a god or demi-god with the weight of the world on your shoulders, you are instead a small but essential part of the whole. Believing in a higher power is especially motivating because it involves the unknown potential in all things. To suspend disbelief is to open to the world around you. For me suspending disbelief means believing in the Buddha Nature of all living things, a belief in our essential goodness. Belief in that one thing takes a great burden off of me. I don't have to shame myself or others. What I do have to do is understand myself and others to the best of my ability, understand and then communicate honestly.

Besides communicating with others and having a belief in something greater than yourself, you have to work on years of conditioning, the conditioning of seeing the glass as half empty instead of half full, years of negative thinking or what 12 steppers would call "Stinking Thinking". And again, the addiction model I keep bringing up hooks in with the phenomenon of suicidal ideation. In fact, suicidal ideation IS stinking thinking. If you can become aware of your thought pattern while honestly acknowledging that it is unhealthy, you then have a choice in front of you. Glass half empty or half full? Do you stay with the negative thoughts which invariably wind you up back in thoughts of self-destruction or do you take a look around you and break out of your tunnel vision? It's the tunnel vision of addiction--you take the substance, or do the action, or obsess on the thought which will bring pain to you, but before the pain comes the pay-off, the pleasure and yes there is pleasure in negative action/thoughts. Some would call it comfort. The comfort of doing things the way you've always done them. And then the pain comes and seems to justify all the negativity making it all by then a vicious cycle. Still, think back...there was a moment when you were aware of your negative thoughts stirring, when you had a choice. Well, that choice always returns as long as you let yourself become aware of what the hell it is you are doing.

I still have suicidal thoughts when I get depressed, but I don't take it into the fertile ground of my imagination. I leave it be. So it never gets into the planning stage. The challenge for me now is to not only stay alive but to find my place here and that means sitting with my own discomfort. It's a conundrum, a riddle--how to live in this sea of constant change, this dimension of pleasure and pain. It's also a challenge for every one of us. I do believe that Nirvana exists and it is right here, right now. Change your attitude, change your life, that's essentially what Buddha did when he woke up.

The Mentally Ill and Addicted

2011-04-21T17:25:00.000-04:00

I've become friends with a couple of people online who are both alcoholic and suffer from schizophrenia, both of them happen to be men, but could just as easily be women. The fact that they are men is of personal significance to me because until this past year all my online friends have been mostly straight women. Because I've lived with an alcoholic and also have used marijuana during my relationship and afterwards, my perspective on addiction and drug use is less ignorant and less critical than perhaps some of my friends online. I think most people who haven't been caught by the darker path of addiction don't have a clear view of the hell of being tied to an addictive substance (and I'm not referring to marijuana which I have found to be helpful and non addicting). Some of my friends do, however, have a clear idea of what it's like to be tied to mental illness. In some ways, I see psychotic mental illness as similarly addictive, whether one suffers from schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder or bi-polar disorder. For schizophrenia sufferers, it is a thought addiction. For schizoaffective sufferers, it is both a thought and mood addiction and for bi-polar sufferers it is mainly a mood addiction. We, the afflicted, keep returning to particular and often ego oriented thoughts and moods; we get stuck there for a time until we right ourselves through medication, therapy, support groups and the individual application of some mental health program in our lives. The way these things right us is through self-reflection, self-honesty and sharing our stories with others who have been through similar experiences. This applies not just to mental illness but to addiction.

I have a strong respect for addicts, especially those who try to face and conquer their addictions. I myself am a lesser addict because I still fall from time to time into cigarette addiction. Of course, when addicts are actively using they are caught like a fly in a spider's web, stuck, struggling. What frees them is sometimes hard circumstance (jail or hospital time) or some subtle yet powerful shift in perspective. I have found with smoking cigarettes that I got so sick and tired of being chained to a smoke that eventually I took steps to free myself, but that happened after years and years of blindly using. I did manage to make a break from my addiction, though I have had several temporary relapses. Relapse is part of the addiction cycle. If you're any kind of addict, I think you have to expect it. The main thing is to love yourself enough to stop the cycle as soon as you're able. Yes, I know there are those who quit and stay quit for decades and that's great for them, but for the rest of us there is a need for tolerance and compassion as we struggle up the stream. The all or nothing attitude of many 12 step type people is not as helpful as they think it is. What's key is having a stretch of sobriety and that's the hard part for many addicts because when you try to quit, you have to wish for it to be forever and that's a scary thought for anyone who is chemically dependent. So initially you aim very high and work very hard. That span of sobriety is such a relief when it comes; it shows that yes you can do it and your mind begins to clear and you begin to reflect on your life and get a better perspective.

I once met a man online 4 or 5 years ago who suffered from drug resistant schizophrenia and who was a recovering addict. He called himself "good soldier" because that's what it's like when you're fighting the good fight, hanging out in the trenches, occasionally finding yourself in an open space with sunlight on your shoulders. Mental illness is bad, but lay addiction on top of it and you really do have to be a kind of warrior: skilled, focused, tolerant and with a sense of humor. And there are a lot of these warriors out there on the streets each day. It's easy to call someone a drunk or a junky and sort of dismiss them as hopeless, but that's a viciously bad attitude, because the truth is the drunks and junkies who achieve sobriety (without stinking thinking) are like little heroes and heroines. They've got both heart, intelligence and courage and I think they need to hear that more from folks who are blessed enough not to be chemically addicted. I certainly count my blessings. I know if I were ensnared by alcohol, heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine, etc... that I would be right down there in the pit with the best of them. And I can also empathize because I have been in the pit of acute mental illness. I've been to the other side; I've been to hell, but hell is not all there is, though when you're in it, it feels like it. I just think it's very important for those of us with mental illness to be respectful and protective of those of us with an even harder burden to bear, that of mental illness and physical addiction.

Going With The Flow: My Journals

2011-04-09T15:18:00.000-04:00

Today I finished reading a book called Leaving A Trace: On Keeping A Journal by Alexandra Johnson. I bought the book for my Kindle because the reviews were good and because from what I read the author writes about taking journals and turning them into a memoir or fiction. That's what sold me on it because lately I've been brainstorming about creating a book from my journals. I have journals spanning the last 20 years all in a muddle in a large storage container near my diningroom table. And so I am not at all organized, but I hope to begin to be, starting this month. My original idea was to take excerpts from my journals and maybe write present day responses to them, first dividing the excerpts into themes such as Family, Schizophrenia related, Creativity, Life with an abusive alcoholic and so on. What I didn't and perhaps still don't want to do is to write the standard novelistic memoir. I see memoirs made out of reconstructed memories and actual fabrications as not genuine. They are fiction/fact, which doesn't mean there aren't great memoirs written in that style; I just can't see myself right now creating dialogue out of a vague general memory. I might be resisting it because I don't have the skill or talent to construct a story out of my life. I don't know for sure because I haven't even attempted it.

I started writing in a journal in 8th grade when I was 13 years old. It was what was to be my final year in a public junior high school. The school housed perhaps two thousand students in grades 6th to 9th. Much of the student population, if I recall rightly, was Hispanic and there were several gangs that subtly and not so subtly ruled the school, much to the chagrin of many teachers and students, including me and my friends. We were in the rather vulnerable position of being in the top Advanced Enrichment (AE) classes which allowed us certain privileges such as being able to take our books home each night, go on overnight school trips to places like Washington, D.C. and Philadelphia, work on yearbooks, participate in plays and generally be the favorites of the best teachers in the school. We weren't particularly aware of these privileges at the time, we just accepted where we were, but here and there primarily tough girls from the local gangs would threaten several of the girls in our group. The boys from our class escaped becoming targets mainly because they were avid basketball players. Their love of sports created a bridge between them and the tougher boys, but the girls in our group had little in common with the violent, self protective, critical girls we would have contact with in gym classes and during lunch. We also commuted about 17 blocks from another neighborhood. The year before I had been popular with the boys and the girls in my class, but in 8th grade I stayed primarily close to my group of friends and we were all a bit distanced from the boys particularly because we were dealing with more stress than they were.

Anyway, it was in this atmosphere that I began writing in an ordinary notebook. Rather foolishly I also began bringing the journal to school and writing in it there, letting only some of my friends read it, which led to some of my group imitating me and to conflict amongst us. I would love to say that my journal was filled with insights and good descriptions, but from what I can recall I wrote pretty petty, complaining stuff. I put down "the boys" and was critical of some of the "the girls" and was generally unhappy in school, though I was never chosen to be picked on by the tough girls. I think this was because I looked particularly Hispanic even though I was 3/4 Irish American. My first impulse to write was a way to take a stand, to voice those puerile opinions because they gave me the illusion of having some control over my life at a point where I felt rather helpless. That helpless feeling only intensified as the year progressed. We wound up as a group deciding to leave the school a year early. There was a sort of random lottery for the better Brooklyn public high schools and I didn't get chosen. Instead of going to my local neighborhood's lousy high school, my parents enrolled me in a private high school in Manhattan, much to my horror. My sense of isolation grew as the school year came to a close and because of that I continued with my journal, bringing it to my new school the next fall.

As the years went by, journal writing became very important to me and I began reading other women writer's journals: Virginia Woolf, Anne Frank, Ettie Hillesum, May Sarton, Alice Koller. I bought book compilations with excerpts from famous people's journals and diaries. I bought books on journaling and creative writing. The number of my journals began to grow. I kept them in one box, then two. I wrote during the rest of high school, during college and after college. From time to time I would re-read my journals and feel a sense of continuity in my life. Then at age 27 I moved seven hours northwest of New York City to a small college town and promptly got involved with a young man who turned out to be mentally ill, alcoholic and abusive; that's when the continuity in my journals stopped. My boyfriend read some of my journals without my permission when I was away on a trip. Several months into our relationship his abusive behavior began. I had never been treated with such callousness and condescension. Feeling helpless once again, instead of taking it out on him, I took it out on myself: one day after reading through some of my journals, I became so disgusted with myself that I carried the several boxes of my journals from age 13 to 27 and I went to the local dump and threw them all away in a fit of temporary self hatred, which I shall always regret.

I didn't stop writing. I wrote in secret and hid my journals in the house, but that precious sense of trust and continuity was gone and I wrote awkwardly. I was living in an intolerable situation partly of my own making and I had to have some place to release my frustration, fear and anger. I had to have someplace where I could keep in touch with a personal self honesty that was beginning to erode under the pressure of the cycle of abuse. I left my abusive partner repeatedly and stayed with my parents and each time I did my journal began to blossom with self-reflection, only to have me return to him yet again and begin the destructive living pattern over again. Finally, I left him for good and returned again to journal writing as a way to strengthen my resolve to never go back into an abusive relationship with him. In my journals of those several years after I left him, but before I became psychotic, there is a certain toughness to me, a certain numbness and emotional detachment that I'm not sure I like, but that I understand. There were a few indications of the illness that was to come, primarily certain romantic fixations that I didn't pursue because I was still too raw. And then one day, I became crazy.

And I continued writing, sporadically at times, but I kept in touch with myself and ironically with my illness. For three and a half years I remained inside my primary delusions and my journals of the time are obsessively fixated on them. Insight shines out from time to time, but for most of it I am still quite lost. I wrote in junior high school because I was in conflict with my environment, somewhat isolated even amongst my friends. In high school, though I made a couple of friends, I would often keep to myself and my journal kept me company. Isolation has been a theme for why I continued to keep a journal, isolation while with others and isolation while on my own. I was always aware of being a separate self, on the periphery of society and normalcy. Journal writing has been a life line. When I was young, before I threw out my boxes of journals, I imagined them eventually becoming published and now I've come full circle, though in my heart of hearts I believe that the journals I threw away were somehow better than the ones I've since written and kept. That may not be true, may just be the wear and tear of having lived a difficult life and internalized negativity.

So here I am again, with the equivalent of several boxes worth of journals in no particular order asking to be reviewed and taken seriously, covering my life in abuse, out of abuse, into psychosis and then in an extended recovery from psychosis. I think it's a story worth being told, but as is true with all of our life stories, it's not easy to go back to difficult times in life and renew them once again. And it is not just a matter of review, but of organizing and editing and responding, all of which takes careful consideration and time. Right now, I have the time and I pray that I will continue to have the time to complete this ambitious project. I've had several other ideas of how to approach this. One is to read my journals from the beginning and keep a new journal to follow my progress through them, taking excerpts here and there and commenting on my present day reaction to my past life. Another idea is to just start a new journal and continue with it for a year, writing with the intention of showing it to an audience, touching on different aspects, most specifically of my life living with abuse and with mental illness. In any case, I am starting now and will continue to brainstorm throughout the process. If anyone of you has suggestions, I would love to hear them because, once again, I am working from a standpoint of isolation and am in need of help.

Taoism and The I Ching

2011-04-04T16:49:00.002-04:00

Paradox -- n. 1) a statement that sounds absurd or seems to contradict itself, but may in fact be true. 2) a person or thing that combines contradictory qualities. (The Pocket Oxford English Dictionary)

Definition of "I" in "I Ching": "The name I has three meanings. These are the easy, the changing, and the constant." (Understanding The I Ching: The Wilhelm Lectures On The Book Of Changes by Hellmut Wilhelm and Richard Wilhelm)

Verse One of the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu:

Transcending

The Tao that can be told
is not the universal Tao.
The name that can be named
is not the universal name.

In the infancy of the universe,
there were no names.
Naming fragments the mysteries of life
into ten thousand things
and their manifestations.

Yet mysteries and manifestations
spring from the same source:
the Great Integrity
which is the mystery within manifestation,
the manifestation within mystery,
the naming of the unnamed,
and the un-naming of the named.

When these interpretations
are in full attendance,
we will pass the gates of naming notions
in our journey toward transcendence.

(translated by Ralph Alan Dale)

In the past couple of weeks I've returned to consulting the I Ching after many months away from it and I've made a new online friend who is a student of Taoism (pronounced Daoism). Recently he asked me for my perspective on Taoism and it is logical that he should ask considering my blog is named Yin And Yang and I have written about the I Ching and its philosophy before here, but frankly I was at a loss as to how to respond to him. I see myself more as a Tibetan Buddhist than as a Taoist and yet I feel a deep connection to the Taoist and Confucianist aspects of the I Ching, most especially the Yin and Yang symbol itself. To me the symbol is a perfect representation of the potential and the actual balance in all life. It uses the essential dualism of light and darkness and surpasses it in an ingenious visual combination. It is organic in design yet a symbol and thus somewhat artificial. In a sense it is a paradox.

When my friend sent me a link to a Taoist scholar's interpretation of Taoism, the first thing that struck me, after years away from studying any Taoism, was the paradox of the language and explanation. This led me back to the most major text of Taoism, the Tao Te Ching, which is why I cited the first verse of the book. The word Tao means literally path or way, but in the words of the scholar and practitioner Ken Cohen, it means "the divine life that moves through all things...Tao is everywhere." So regardless of whether you practice Taoism or not, all beings are intimately connected to the Tao. In typical and wonderful Chinese fashion the word has multiple levels of meaning that are all interconnected. To follow the Tao, is to stay on the path, a path of harmony and natural sense, to stray from the path is to lose that natural harmony with all things. The word Te means power or virtue and I believe the symbol associated with it is of a farmer in his field. In that sense it has to do with both strength of character, simplicity, usefulness and harmony with nature. Finally the word Ching means book. So the Tao Te Ching means essentially the path of virtue book.

The Tao that can be told

is not the universal Tao.

The name that can be named

is not the universal name.

So here is the paradox: if you can name it, conceptualize it, somehow pigeon hole it, then you've not truly understood what Tao is. Universal means present everywhere, so if you see the Tao as one thing or at most several things, you are excluding so much of it. It is "the divine life that moves through all things." It is similar in some ways to Moses asking the Judeo-Christian God's name and God replies, "I AM THAT I AM" and leaves it at that.

In the infancy of the universe,

there were no names.

Naming fragments the mysteries of life

into ten thousand things

and their manifestations.

In the beginning there were no names, no language at all. Language is something that developed over time to make communication between human animals more efficient and direct. It was also ironically a way to define and hold on to "the mysteries of life," but what it often does is to take some essential meaning out of what it chose to describe in this fashion, thus fragmenting it. To say "I walked by a person" is to leave out the essence of that person. To say "I sat beneath a tree" is to rob that tree of all its beautiful individualistic attributes. It is to flatten and minimize life. Yes, you get your point across in a bare bones way, but you do not get to "the mysteries of life". Writers all over this world work damn hard to try to overcome that essential failing of language and a lot of times they don't get it, don't get the Tao of their subject matter. The result is that instead of taking in the wonder of the full moon, people get hung up on the finger that is pointing to the moon and miss the point entirely. And so language gives us "ten thousand things and their manifestations," but without the higher spirit that is contained within those things and manifestations.

Yet mysteries and manifestations

spring from the same source:

the Great Integrity

which is the mystery within manifestation,

the manifestation within mystery,

the naming of the unnamed,

and the un-naming of the named.

And yet language, too, is part of the mystery of life, part of the divine order, which is why despite its drawbacks it can be like magic. This particular translator (and there are many) of Lao Tzu's verses, Ralph Alan Dale, writes of this verse: "What is implied here is nothing less than the healing of the split between the two hemispheres of our brain which have become separated, alienated and at war with each other during the past few thousand years." (p. 9) Left brain, logical and right brain, intuitive. With the left brain we devised the system that is language, a manifestation of our human will and intelligence, but with the right brain we appreciate the subtleties of the sacred. What came first in our human development? Right brain, our animal brain, our lizard brain, our instinctual brain. That's where the sacred lies, in the essence, in survival, in the immediacy of the present moment. Very powerful stuff which is why in so-called primitive cultures animals become totems, spirit gods and goddesses.

Anyone who has been near wild animals knows the kind of respect that the experience engenders. Especially potential predators: the bear, the panther, the elk, the alligator, particularly when they are with their young. I've seen a bear outside my house twice and it nearly took my breath away. It was a nervous kind of privilege to be so close to an animal that guards its privacy from humans most of the time. The bear and I were both part of "the Great Integrity which is the mystery within the manifestation, the manifestation within the mystery, the naming of the unnamed, and the un-naming of the named." My first impulse is to say "There's a bear!" but the next impulse is to really look at that particular bear and, from a safe distance preferably, really get to know that bear's essence. The bear I saw defied the stereotype of some circus bear lumbering along. This bear was quick, agile and acutely aware of my presence. This bear was ALIVE, vital and mysterious all in one. The name "bear" says nearly nothing of what the experience of being near the bear was like and yet the bear and the act of naming the bear are all part of the great whole.

When these interpretations

are in full attendance,

we will pass the gates of naming notions

in our journey toward transcendence.

To be in "full attendance" is the goal of the Tao as far as I can see; it is to be fully awake, fully experiencing the present moment, which is why meditation is so important in so many spiritual practices. My Taoist friend, who is a very good meditator, has said that he can rest in the place and space of no-thought, watching, listening, feeling the "hustle and bustle" of the world go by him. It is then that the dualism falls away and yet the paradox remains. That very paradox, which can be so frustrating to understand on first glance, is the spice of life and well worth exploring, especially in this instant gratification world of ours.

The I Ching generally is translated as The Book of Changes, but the I also means the easy and the constant. Again, the paradox. How can change also be constant, and yet we all know intuitively that it is, even as we resist the changes and go astray of the Tao, the path. The practice is to go with the flow of nature, what in Chinese is referred to as Wu Wei. This is what the I Ching tries to teach: to stop when it is time to retreat or rest and to go when it is time to engage in life. There is such harmony in that. It is when we go when we should stop and stop when we should go that problems of the heart, mind and body occur. This is what is meant by the easy, knowing with both sides of our brain when to act and when to not act. This is the choice we're given and what a great privilege it is to learn it.

The I Ching combines both Taoism and Confucianism and both are concerned with ethical behavior. The Taoist aspect, which is much older of the two, uses the symbolism found in nature. The hexagrams, which are the six yin or yang (usually both) lines of the oracle are made up of trigrams, or three lines that are broken (yin) or solid (yang) and each of these trigrams represents eight combinations: Heaven, Earth, Thunder, Wind, Fire, Water, Lake, Mountain. These trigrams also simultaneously represent the members of a family, mother, father, sons and daughters. So there is both the organization of nature used to elaborate subtle truths as well as social organization within the family. And there is more than that, but I'll leave those who are interested to figure the rest out themselves. Just think, thousands of years (maybe five thousand or so) before the 0 and the 1 of computer language, there was the yin and the yang of this amazing Chinese oracle. So rich in history and so flexible in meaning and so much a part of the Tao. So this is "the journey of our transcendence" if we choose to follow it in one way or another.

Small Business Ideas & Budding Friendships

2011-03-23T15:24:00.000-04:00

I downloaded a book to my Kindle a couple of weeks ago. It's called The Handmade Marketplace by Kari Chapin and it is a business oriented book on how to sell handmade work online and offline. She takes the reader step by step through some of the basics of business practice such as advertising, blogging, podcasting, using social networks, setting up an online shop, selling to local businesses, doing the craft fair scene. It's an overview to turn the serious amateur into a professional. I bought the book because I was curious and because I really do want to earn some income this year, however small. Ms. Chapin made it clear that there are lots of options for selling one's work (as long as the work is good quality). It also became clear to me that in order to start a small business it takes a lot of effort and a certain amount of enthusiasm. In addition to creating quality work you absolutely have to promote yourself to others and on a regular basis and that's something I have resisted.

So I've decided to start small, do a garage/yard sale in about a month. I haven't had a sale like that on my property since I arrived over 20 years ago. I've always been a very private person, to the point where I barely know my neighbors. But if all goes well, I will try to lure people to check out my stuff. This means I have to clear out the garage and organize it and make good signs to display outside my house and maybe along the road. I will also be crocheting, making hemp jewelry and trying my hand at tie dyeing. I don't know how far I'll get with that in a month, but I'm willing to try. Ideally, I would like to sell my crafts from out of my garage during the warmer seasons, become an actual small business, have a professional sign made, but I don't know if it's legal yet. I talked to my therapist about it and she said that she knew that she could have a business from her home, but she didn't know the particulars. I have to do some research.

I'm going to need some help too from my brother and Richard. I'm going to ask my brother to act as a bridge between me and potential customers because he's good with people, loves to talk whereas I am rather shy. He might eventually get into making some of the tie dyes too. I need Richard to help me clear out the garage and reorganize it. I'm thinking about at least putting a coat of primer on the walls to lighten the space up more. I'll need to buy a couple of tables and maybe a double clothes rack to hang up used clothing and the tie dyes. And so I'll be spending a couple of hundred dollars on that, but I see it as an investment. I also need to use one of the tables to do my tie dye work on in the garage, so that will be part of my shop. The other half of it is in the adjacent laundry/kitchenette room. I was going to try working out of my former darkroom, but the ventilation is so poor and the darkroom sink is not hooked up and there are all kinds of chemicals that have been sitting around for years in there. Not appropriate right now, though I would like to clear a lot of the junk out of there so that I can use the space for some supply storage.

There are some local craft fairs that go on in the spring, summer and fall. I won't be able to apply for them this year, but I can go and check them out and apply for next year. Hopefully by then I'll be able to afford a good tent with four sides to it and maybe an outdoor storage house to keep my work clean and away from the cats. The acid test is whether I can be successful at garage/yard sales, whether I can promote myself, interact with people, handle money, produce cool crafts and display them properly and get help from family and friends. I honestly don't know if I can. Somedays I'm all gung ho and others days I'm anxious and withdrawn. I'll have to wait and see how much I get done this month.

On another note, on Friday I got a 30 minute audio tape from one of my best friends from my adolescence. This past year we got in touch through facebook, but she works full time as a teacher, has two small daughters and a rather unhelpful partner and so she's been very busy and hasn't had time to keep in touch with me. A couple of months ago I sent her a 60 minute tape telling her some of my story in a very honest and forthright manner. I told her I didn't expect her to send me back a tape, but if she could swing it, I would love to hear from her. And so now I have and it was wonderful to hear her voice after over 25 years with no contact. I felt a bond with her right away because a lot of her voice and mannerisms were as I remembered them. Of course, now she's older, wiser and tougher and yet still her own bright and sweet self. She graduated from art school in the 1980s and has returned to her artistic pursuits off and on during the last 20 years. Though her passion now is teaching and tutoring children, she says she wants to continue drawing again. She mentioned a particular type of sketch/journal book that she particularly liked and was planning to get and so yesterday I bought her one and some drawing supplies and I will be sending out a care package to her early next week.

I have been blessed twice this past year and both through facebook. First, when I reached out to an old friend from grade school and junior high school. We have been exchanging tapes for months now and I love it. And now with one of my best friends of my youth. Living with schizophrenia these past almost 13 years, and even before that, has left me quite isolated. What I had only dreamed about sometimes, that I would re-connect with old friends, has become a budding reality. Living in the computer age has salvaged some of my relationships and also has allowed me to write this blog and connect with other great people online. Though mental illness is still a serious affliction, access to the computer and the internet and medication takes quite a few of us out of the dark ages of permanent institutionalization. It give us a voice and the means to be creative with what talents we have.

An Online Meeting And Thoughts On Music and Work

2011-03-07T17:28:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I got a facebook friend request from a former neighbor. We grew up together in Park Slope, Brooklyn in the 60s, 70s and 80s. He lived across the street from me. I didn't know him very well, but for one month, when I was 24, I had a month long affair with him. He wound up breaking it off because he wasn't feeling good about himself. At the time he said that I should be someone's sweetheart, but it was obvious he wasn't ready for something serious. We continued to live on the same street for a couple of more years, which was awkward, but I didn't have any contact with him. And so, I was surprised when he recently wanted to have contact with me again...but pleased, too. Tom was and still is a musician and an actor, only now he teaches acting in the New York school system, has been happily married for over 20 years and has two talented daughters, both in college. When I knew him, he was conflicted and, as he put it, "self loathing", but he bit the bullet and grew up into a well adjusted man. He said that for 7 years he had a 9 to 5 job while his kids were young, but that after his mother died, he decided to return to music and acting and has been lucky enough to have a kind of freelance career going from school to school, doing what he loves. So, in short, he is a real success story, especially for someone with artistic abilities.

I learned all this about him through facebook emails, but, of course, I had to tell my story, which is not a success story, but a story of dysfunction, abuse and mental illness. He did get to see and respond to some of my artwork and last week I gave him a link to the sample of my songs on the Soundclick site. I listened to my CD from the 1990s again and that inspired me to continue working on some new songs. I have an 8 track tascam portastudio which I bought a couple of years ago, but never learned how to use fully. The reason for that was because after I had made up my CD for the first time in a decade and sent it out to several friends, I began having psychotic symptoms. I thought the music was way better than it actually was and that I would hook up with other musicians and start a band or something, get noticed, etcetera. Needless to say, that didn't happen. My friends listened to my CD, enjoyed some of it and then put it aside, while I backed away from it. In the last two years I have worked on a lot of new songs, but I never refined them, recorded them properly or shared them online. When I thought of Tom listening to my music, I was excited at first because he is a songwriter and musician, but then I didn't hear from him and I started to come down to earth again and get practical. I began to realize that my music is more for myself than for others, though I still have the desire to share some songs eventually online, but mainly with just a few friends.

Tom did get back to me today and he said some very nice things about the music, but more to the point was that he had been busy with his own life, working, playing, teaching and performing. I was pleased by his response and relieved because I didn't this time fall into psychotic symptoms even though I worked on and recorded two songs using my portastudio. The songs I recorded didn't come out well, but I have to wake up and realize that making good music is not about instant gratification, it's about practice. So I will slowly keep working on the music, switch off between that and my reading and writing.

While looking for the owner's manual to the portastudio a couple of weeks ago, I came across some writing that I did in 2002 and 2005 that I hadn't remembered and began reading through it. A lot of it was journal/ memoir related writing, but there was poetry and a couple of story fragments. I was pleased with parts of it and want to type up sections and try to expand them into perhaps a chapter or a section of a chapter. It is good to write and then put the writing aside for months, even years. I may write about the same subjects over the months and years, but there's a fresh slant on each recollection and a deeper resonance. A lot of creative work is just showing up and doing the work, but it is also reviewing, reflecting, re working the raw material. Eventually your personality or voice shines through.

I've also been thinking about getting back into craft work so that I can earn some money this year. I'm going to learn how to make tie dyes. I bought all the equipment for it a couple of years ago, but never went through with it, but now, with the downstairs done and providing a good work space, I want to try it. And I want to make hemp jewelry and do some crocheting. All this means that I have to shut the cats out of my work space, but it has to be done. I've missed the craft work. I used to do a lot of it while I was acutely psychotic and it was very therapeutic.

Many thanks to everyone who has been posting comments lately. I appreciate all of them. Thanks for reading.

Crossroads

2011-02-26T15:09:00.000-05:00

I went out Wednesday to the dentist because one of my back teeth cracked in half and because I have infections on either side of my mouth. I've had these infections off and on for several years. For three years I wouldn't go to the dentist and deal with them. That's very typical of people with mental illnesses, they don't get the help they need right away and put things off. Sometimes such neglect leads to serious illness, even an early death. So don't do as I have done. This time, after my tooth cracked last Monday, I called the dentist without delay. He gave me a prescription for antibiotics for 10 days and then I will return and he will remove my cracked tooth. On the other side of my mouth, I need yet another root canal (I had one done last year along with other stuff), but he wants me to go to a specialist who is a 45 minute drive away. I have to get my courage up to give the specialist a call and set up an appointment, though not until the weather gets a bit better. The dentist said it was okay to wait a month and so I will. For now, I have to chew on the left side of my mouth to avoid making the cracked tooth on my right side of my mouth any worse. It's a bit awkward, but okay so far. And I'm not in any pain, thank goodness.

Otherwise, I've been struggling with the usual: moderate depression, bouts of anxiety, an increase of voices and isolation. I'm not miserable, yet not quite content either. I saw my psychiatrist last week and asked him if the voices will ever go away and he said no they wouldn't, unless some new drug gets created that eliminates them. He said that he knows of several people as old as 90 who still hear voices, but who take their medication, get enough sleep, take care of themselves and are basically content. He referred to them as "happy" psychotics. I generally fall into this category, though as I said, sometimes I am not so content, but rather restless, down, anxious, etc... Even so, there is enough good in my life that I don't get swallowed up by the negativity. I also realize that we all struggle being alive, regardless of our level of mental health.

I can only afford to see my therapist every other week and this past week I saw her. I told her that I was returning to working on my memoir, but that when I read through some older journals, my voices began to react against it and so I backed off and took a break from reading. She warned me that I could return to acute psychosis despite the fact that I take the medications and go to therapy. That woke me up a bit because I have somewhat taken for granted that I won't get really sick as long as I take care of myself, but taking care of myself also means not antagonizing the voices by doing things to create conflict within myself. Still, I am stubborn; I feel the need to continue with the memoir, I just will go more slowly through the process. Ironically the journals that upset me were not the ones from when I was deeply psychotic, but rather the ones from earlier on in my recovery when I was in school and caught inside a depression that almost made me drop out of school. I kept returning to the theme of who the voices were and why they were here. Some of that was interesting, but much of it was redundant. I also blamed the voices for my unhappiness, which is something I no longer do.

It's a relief to not blame anyone or anything for my illness. Part of why I don't is that I've come to see my illness as a part of a spiritual journey, thanks to Pema Chodron's view of Buddhism. I know that most people who suffer from schizophrenia either see it as purely a biological illness, thus trying to distance themselves from their symptoms, or they are caught inside a resilient delusion of some sort that serves to explain the existence of the voices. I believe that the illness has a biological basis, but I also believe that it is much more than that. I believe that there are higher forces at work for all of us, but that those with schizophrenia are more conscious of the connection, for some reason unknown to me. That is why in different cultures at different times in history those who we would now deem mentally ill were seen as shamans or healers with magical powers. It's not an either/or equation. It is not enough to say that we have a physical illness like diabetes that needs treatment, though this is true enough. There is a rich psychological/spiritual element to the phenomenon of schizophrenia that I am not willing to ignore. It's what gives meaning to my life.

But can I translate this perspective into a memoir? I am at a crossroads. I'm unable to narrow down my intent. I have so much material to work with, years and years of journals and this past fall I began to seriously collect memories of my childhood and explore the facts of my parents, grandparents and great grandparents lives. I know the process just takes time and that I must be patient. And I know that when I get disturbed by some of what I find that I must back off for a few days or weeks and digest the new perspective. But when I sat before my therapist and she said I might return to acute psychosis if I delved into my past, I almost believed her. I'm convinced that part of the process of writing includes not only self questioning, but naturally, self doubt. In order to be absolutely honest, I have to question my own assumptions, but I also have to rise above the doubts and press on, even if it takes me a decade to write one book.

Is it ambition or is it a desire to give succinct meaning to my experiences in life? I think my desire to write a book is a desire to put a partial end to my isolation by opening my story up to other readers (if I'm fortunate enough to get published and read). There are times when I have to count my blessings and not push it, but there are also times when it is healthy to give a little push here and there. It is my psychiatrist and therapist's business to be cautious and many times I agree with them, but it is not a hard and fast rule. There are no hard and fast rules in life because different situations and different people require different treatment. The pain and beauty of life is trying to find that magical balance day to day.

Meditation: Letting Go Of Ambition

2011-02-21T17:21:00.000-05:00

Krishnamurti, the Indian social critic and sage, says in the book Think On These Things that ambition breeds anxiety and "therefore ambition does not help to bring about a mind that is clear, simple, direct, and hence intelligent." It is relatively recently that I've identified in myself the cyclical spurts of ambition. I want to write a book and paint pictures and become a Buddhist. I want to do something in order to be someone. I don't see that in existing I already am someone. In modern western culture we are asked at a young age, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I knew I wanted to be some sort of artist. Here and there I have embraced that intention, but I never committed to it for the long haul. And so I have judged myself as not living up to my potential. This is a subtle form of aggression towards myself, one that I share with many other people who aspire to creative success. Krishnamurti also has said, "Is not ambition an urge to avoid what is?....Why are we so frightened of our loneliness, of our emptiness?" These questions bring me back to the Buddhist practice of sitting with my discomfort, of not running away into one of the many ambitious activities I lay out for myself each day.

I have been meditating, but I am a restless meditator. The nature of meditation is to face and accept the eternal restlessness of our spirits, to keep coming back to the breath, to keep touching and letting go of thoughts. I used to see meditation as relaxation, and when I practiced it in conjunction with yoga, it often was deeply relaxing. Now I experience it as more than a relaxation technique. When I sit on my meditation cushion I try to imagine myself as an eternal witness, a breathing Buddha statue. At the same time I resist that stillness. I scratch my nose; I look over at the clock; I shift my legs. My natural tendency is to react when I feel any discomfort. This tendency has a long history, as long as I've been alive, and so it is no wonder that I am a restless meditator.

The fundamental nature of mediation is discipline; it requires the ability to both concentrate and let go simultaneously. That sounds like a contradiction, but anyone who has meditated knows that it is not. You let go into concentration; the concentration in turn lets go of all those restless urges to interrupt concentration. You have to make the decision to do that. Without a commitment, you will be caught up again in thoughts and desires.

Ambition is all about thoughts and desires and thoughts and desires are all about how we see ourselves, about our egos. Buddhists describe the ego as a fixed sense of self, an unchanging "I", but the very nature of life and self is change. Ego is nothing but an illusion; there is really no fixed and solid self. Who I am now is not who I was last year or who I was as a young adult, or youth, or child. In some ways that saddens me, as in the loss of the resiliency and optimism of youth, and in other ways I am relieved, as in I am no longer caught in debilitating delusions and paranoia. Moving on in life frees me and confines me. I am free to choose my direction in life, but confined by all the choices I've made to get to this point, confined by my karma. I can transform negative karma into positive karma through consistent effort, but I can't change past choices or how those choices affected those around me. I can only work with the fluid process and personal awareness I call, for convenience sake, my "self".

I struggle with the illusion that I have a fixed self and that that fixed self has to get somewhere else and improve itself in the process. This struggle, this restlessness is counter to the aim of meditation, which is to be here now, to accept self and circumstances exactly as they are. When I settle into a good zone within the meditation process, I feel peace. It is then that I experience my own personal dignity and worth. It is then that I have nothing to prove to myself or anyone else. No wonder Buddhist teachers continually stress the necessity of including meditation practice in one's life; the goal is to incorporate the practice into daily life activities that go beyond the traditional seated meditation. Meditation then becomes not some temporary isolated activity, but a way of being.

It is my wish that my meditation practice will grow and deepen into just that. If I can be mindful of my moments, I believe I can let go of the restless quality of my ambition to become something else and instead rest mostly content with just being. The real reason why I love artistic creativity is that when I'm in it, it is meditation and so I will continue to write, to paint and to make up songs. I would like to write a book, but I want to change my attitude about why I want to write a book. I still hold on to the idea that if I create a book, it will validate my existence, that it will give my life the meaning it presently lacks, but this is a grave misconception. My life has meaning; it is the process of being and creation that gives it meaning and not the end products. I am more than what I create. The reason for creating anything is not self validation, but to help and give pleasure, maybe understanding, to others and to deepen the sense of our interconnectedness.

A Couple Of Quick Portraits

2011-02-02T18:22:00.000-05:00

I painted these two portraits yesterday using acrylic paints. The top painting was done on a 11" x 14" canvas and is based on a photograph someone in my family took of my mother's mother (nana) when she was quite old. The other portrait was done on a 10" x 10" canvas and is based on a photograph I got for free online.

I approached these two paintings differently. In the painting of my nana I began with a canvas that I had recently done a primitive self portrait on. The portrait was done vertically and so I turned it on its side to create a horizontal picture and began to draw with ultramarine blue paint over the previous painting. This was a bit tricky, trying to create new shapes over old shapes, but it also forced me to paint more boldly. In the second painting, I began with a new canvas and I drew the details of this girl's face with a pencil. I painted thinly, barely covering the canvas. The brush marks are therefore less obvious than in the first painting, though there are thin spots in that one as well. Though I enjoyed painting both of these portraits, I respond more to the way the first painting was painted. Using the paint to draw over an already covered surface means I go for approximate shapes and overemphasize them in a dark color, so that I can paint into them with a lighter color. I did that with the eyes particularly. This is something I learned in a 5 day a week figure oil painting class from an exacting and talented artist named Mary Beth McKenzie.

I think these two painting have different head sets. The first one done in a painterly style and the second done in a design style. The reason I respond to the first style a bit more is that I am not a careful designer, which is why I also like to paint abstract painting that are not carefully designed but more spontaneous. Actually there is some careful designing within the spontaneity, pauses that make up intuition, but mostly it is me in action.

I was watching a program that was on PBS called Art21 which is a series of documentaries on artists and one artist who caught my attention was a young woman who grew up in Pakistan. She paints miniatures in a very old style, very traditional, but with modern accents in the subject matter, carefully constructed and political. She is a design type painter, extremely precise and patient, and I admire her because I haven't painted that way and probably can't because it takes so many years of practice. And yet, I have put in enough time painting over the years to apply the lessons I've learned through trial and error and this is still exciting to me. The learning process is magical. I felt the same way when I used to developed film photography prints in the darkroom watching the image materialize in the developer.

Untitled Acrylic Abstract Painting

2011-01-30T20:30:00.000-05:00

I painted this 16" x 20" painting tonight. It's been quite a while since I painted abstractly with acrylics. This one came quickly. I kept the palette simple. After I had gotten a third of the way into the painting, I realized I needed a new perspective and so I pulled out a book of Kandinsky from my bookcase and opened it randomly here and there till I found a couple of paintings that I responded to. I wanted to use bold, bright colors the way he did. I appreciated how he varied his marks. I let his visual voice wake me up a bit. So he helped me to paint this painting. I'm not sure what to call it. I have to live with it, see what it looks like in daylight.

Bittersweet Success

2011-01-29T19:05:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I was trying to write a blog entry about success, how to measure success when you have a serious mental illness. I kept getting stuck and then negative. What is success for many of us? A loving partner, wonderful kids, a rewarding career? How many attain all three at once? I think some do, though the stories I've heard online and offline are that people struggle with their life situations. People who live with chronic mental illness struggle even more. I don't have or expect to have any of the three success elements, partner, kids or a career. I've gotten past wanting a partner or a child and I don't want a career so much as regular, meaningful, creative work, but then I am almost 50 years old and not at the beginning of my life. If I were in my 20s and into a recovery program, I might very well want to be with someone and have a successful career, maybe even a child. I'd want to strive towards being normal and be able to see my progress, my successes.

I'm not normal, not even as a schizophrenia sufferer. I am in the minority, but being abnormal is not being less of a human being. I consider surviving a serious mental illness as a bittersweet success. I am moderately proud to call myself a survivor, just as I am proud to associate online with others who have survived acute mental illness. Too many of us don't. And that is a measure of how hard the acute part of this illness is, hard enough to rob you of the will to continue living. That schizophrenia strikes many in their youth and young adulthood allows for the resilience of youth to withstand psychological blows, but it is a time of great vulnerability. It is a time when young individuals need guidance and direction, even if they don't have mental illness, but exponentially more when they do.

People measure success based on different things. If you're young perhaps you want it all and if you're older perhaps you compromise. Either way we need to work within our limitations. If you're really suffering, take small steps. Success for the day may be taking a bath or getting enough sleep or sticking to your schedule of taking your medications. Generous thoughts and small actions do count for something. Work with what you can handle because increasing levels of stress does act as a psychosis/anxiety/depression trigger. Be kind to yourself and go gradually. I'm saying this as much to myself as to you because I rush, looking for instant gratification.

In my mind I go back to the lingering after effects of psychological trauma. I haven't heard this often, but I think people who have endured through acute psychosis naturally suffer from variations on PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) long after experiencing the trauma. Trauma leaves deep scars, often buried in a kind of amnesia. I remember thinking that what I was going through was like a daily psychic crucifixion and at the time I meant it, but now, years later, into a modest recovery, I can't feel it. And yet I do feel myself shut way down whenever I hear people argue. Even the hint of aggression and I'm back with my abusive boyfriend anticipating violence. The other day my brother was giving an impassioned speech about the need for gun control, but I became threatened. I stopped talking and I felt anxious. But that's my normal response -- to shut down, blank out and get uptight. It's just this time the thought about identifying it as PTSD came into my mind.

I guess one of my points is that schizophrenia is not just a youthful detour. Anyone who's been through it knows that it is traumatic, but people handle the trauma in different ways. Some get on the road to recovery right away and have access to several support systems, this support gives the needed guidance and direction, but it doesn't remove the trauma. Not dealing with the truth of what has happened to you can be put off for a long time, but in some way it will block you from the success you want in life. It's not always just about moving on and coping, not about doing things the "right" way and fitting in. Sometimes you have to sit with yourself just as you are.

My bittersweet success is mainly the realization that acute insanity does not have to last forever, but what comes afterwards is still up to me to make or break.

Review Of The Film "Canvas"

2011-01-21T21:28:00.000-05:00

"Canvas"(2006) is a film written and directed by Joseph Greco starring Marcia Gay Harden as Mary, a wife and mother who suffers from schizophrenia. The character is based on his own mother and the story is a re-creation of several months of his boyhood that he spent mostly with his father and at school. Before she goes into the hospital, there are set-up scenes where she acts out in front of her family, the neighbors and the police which ultimately leads her into the hospital. The reason the film is called "Canvas" is that the mother is a part time painter.

"Canvas" is a "nice" film, a family film that is more about a father and son's reaction to having their lives disrupted than about the interior life of a schizophrenia sufferer. Visually it is pleasing as it is set in Miami near the ocean and the acting is good; it is the writing that leans towards the conventional. By the time we see the small family, Mary has been diagnosed with schizophrenia for about 18 months and is only intermittently taking the medication. Even when she does agree to take the medication later on in the hospital, she continues to hear voices and to act out during visits with her husband and son. She paints when she's at home and she paints in the hospital saying that the voices go away when she does. Considering it is early in her psychosis, at a time when the illness tends to be acute for many people, she paints pleasing "normal" paintings, portraits of her son and of the beach, that don't give even a glimpse into the turmoil in her mind. Other than that she seems more eccentric than deeply insane, despite the scenes of acting out.

From what I can remember of the acute stage of my own illness, I was deeply withdrawn from people. I had great trouble concentrating when people did talk to me because the voices were so intense in my mind. I couldn't watch TV or read or paint, though I did still do some journal writing. When I was alone I talked aloud to my voices and to the people I believed had bugged my house and car, the people who followed me whenever I left the house and drove by my house regularly, sometimes beeping their horns to let me know. Mary, in contrast, almost always makes eye contact, she paints, she cooks and from the state of their house, it looks as if she cleans too. Yes, she appears to hear voices and is somewhat paranoid, but there is little indication of a deep disconnect with her surroundings, no extended monologues, talking to space, no disappearing for hours in the car, no obvious lack of self-grooming, no growing mess in the living space, no deep earnest confessions to family members of a conspiracy, no delusions of grandeur and no staying up in a manic state till the break of dawn, repeatedly.

When I got sick, I was alone. Months later in desperation I called my parents in Florida and told them I was hearing voices that were telling me I was evil, then I went to a local hospital and had to convince them that I was in enough pain to warrant being checked into their psych ward. My father arrived the next day and got me out, but only after I got the diagnosis of schizophrenia and a prescription for Prozac and Zyprexa. My parents lives were disrupted for two months. The first month my father stayed with me and the second month my mother stayed with me; my brother was living in another state. Mostly my family didn't have to deal with seeing me out of my mind, but Mr. Greco, the director of "Canvas", must have seen his mother day after day in all kinds of states. Obviously, the experience affected him or he would have never written the screenplay or directed the film. It is unfortunate that he wasn't able to go more deeply into the experience. Being alone and suffering from schizophrenia is hard enough, I can't imagine what it would have been like to be both a mother and a wife at the same time. In the film I get the point that the father and son were upset by it, but there is no real going inside their minds either, it all too much on the surface.

I know it is a challenge to try and visually describe severe mental illness precisely because it is so much on the inside of an individual. I'm also aware that making a film like this is a business venture and that the director probably had to please other people with his treatment of the story, but the film could have been much better. The actors, Marcia Gay Harden and Joe Pantoliano, who played the mother and father, are good actors and could have been pushed further into their roles. The son, played by Devon Gearhart, is a cute and likable actor, but cute and likable is not what's called for here. The subtle bond between mother and son, and the mother's break with reality and with her son, is not realized, except in a conventional way. Obviously, I am not a big fan of the conventional and safe, especially when it comes to depictions of mental illness because mental illness itself is not conventional and safe. Mental illness is challenging to experience and to describe. Still, this film could be a stepping stone in the right direction. It does portray the mother as a sensitive and suffering individual and not some deranged monster, and so it puts a human face on a complicated illness. I guess what I'm looking for is an insider's view of mental illness, or at least a close consultation between a "sane" writer and director and someone who has survived mental illness and is in recovery from it. "Canvas" is not a bad film, it's just not a great film either. You can judge for yourself by watching it for free on Hulu (with commercials) here.

The Need For Mental Health Support Groups Is As Strong As Ever

2011-01-17T21:21:00.000-05:00

I just listened to a 50+ minute National Public Radio show hosted by Diane Rehm on January 11th. You can find the web page and audio link here. The topic of the show was called "Serious Psychiatric Disorders Among Young Adults" and was aired in response to the January 8th shooting by Jared Loughner in Arizona. For the past week I've been avoiding listening to or reading news reports about the shooting, but then I read Jen's Blog today and that got me thinking about the lack of basic services in this country for the mentally ill. There's no doubt in my mind that anyone who wields an automatic weapon and fires on innocent and defenseless people is mentally ill. I still believe that violence is a form of mental illness in anyone, but we live in a culture that defends certain forms of violence particularly by police officers and soldiers. And I bet if we could get inside Jared Loughner's mind, we would hear similar justifications about why he resorted to violence. But aside from some people's fixation on the right to bear arms in the United States, the real issue here is not only the need for gun control, but the need for a vast improvement in mental healthcare services in communities both large and small all across the country.

There has been massive deinstitutionalization of mental patients since the 1960s, the result being that many of those patients became either homeless or put in prison. What was needed then and still is needed some 40 years later is a functioning community service system for outpatients which includes access to medications, housing, therapy and local mental health support groups. Of all those things, the one thing that doesn't require much money is support groups, preferable groups for families and friends of the mentally ill and and groups for the mentally ill themselves. Advocacy groups for and by the mentally ill like NAMI are doing a good job in creating a weekly 90 minutes peer led support group in some places, the problem is that there is both an application and approval process and a 3 day training program that must be gone through before a group can start under the auspices of the NAMI organization. Unfortunately, the training programs are relatively few for the size of this country. In my state of New York this past year were only about two. NAMI is an important organization, but it is not large enough to supply the services that are needed, particularly in rural communities. I believe that there should be other organizations that focus specifically on cultivating the wide spread of mental health support groups.

I have stressed the importance of support groups before and have even dreamed of starting a group in my town, but on my own and without help from others I am not strong enough to get the job done. Initially there is the need for a couple of highly motivated people in the community to set up two groups, one for the family and friends and one for the afflicted. These people need to be either mentally healthy or firmly in recovery, able to show up to the meeting place each week, rain or shine, regardless of whether anyone else shows up. I base this idea on the Al-Anon group I used to go to where there were two to three people who showed up each and every week. Their dedication made the group viable and welcoming. And though I have never had a sponsor, I think sponsorship should be encouraged in mental health meetings that have people who are grounded in recovery and willing to guide a member who is less far along. This is just common sense. I also believe that every college out there should have at least one mental health support group organized by the counseling center or the students themselves. The university in my town gave up on a group a few years back because no one was showing up. To my mind that is not a good enough reason to stop. The founder of the Al-Anon group I mentioned showed up consistently for months before a few people started to show. A meeting place, preferably two people and consistency are key. That should be doable, especially in a college.

It's so obvious to me now that those with schizophrenia go through definite stages, a "normal" stage, a pre-psychotic stage, an acute psychotic stage and, for those who survive the acute stage, a recovery stage which can be broken down into various other stages from mild recovery to strong recovery. Those in the pre-psychotic stage or prodromal phase might get the help they need very early if family and friends and teachers, etc... are perceptive enough to notice and remark on certain behavioral changes. I lived in an extended prodromal stage from my mid 20s to my mid 30s. I was socially isolated. I didn't get a job or leave home and I heard occasional voices which I didn't discuss with anyone. By the time I was 27 I was in a relationship with an abusive, addicted and mentally ill partner. It was only then that I began to admit that I was mentally ill. It took three years out of that relationship before I showed signs of being delusional and paranoid.

The problem with the early stages of the acute phase of psychosis is that some of us are not ready to accept the label of schizophrenia and others aren't able to admit that they are ill, but it is then that an intervention can really do some good. Jared Loughner acted out enough in school and in his YouTube video to warrant an early intervention, but the people in his life didn't take action soon enough to prevent him from acting out with an automatic weapon. The people in my life didn't take action either, though, in retrospect, I wish they had; it might have led me into treatment much earlier, might have kept me from getting involved with an abusive person, might even have averted the suffering of acute psychosis altogether. As it stands, I wasted a chunk of my young adulthood, hurt my partner by accepting his abuse, and endured a lot of psychotic pain. Like most of the mentally ill, I didn't become violent, but I know that if the circumstances had been a bit different, I could have.

The hard part for all of us is taking responsibility for ourselves and each other. I think that when people act badly, it is because they feel badly. So the loud, obnoxious, abusive people in this world don't need to be dismissed or put in jail, they need to be taken care of. Suffering is expressed in all sorts of ways. If violence was seen as mental illness, Jared would have been treated a long time ago.

Good Day

2011-01-09T18:00:00.000-05:00

A couple of photographs from the Christmas holiday at my parents' apartment...

The portrait of Pema is only moderately good because it's the first portrait I've painted in months if not a year. I painted it before I visited my parents in Florida and have it hanging on my living room wall behind my couch where I can see her when I meditate.

Today was a good day because last night was a good night, but before last night I was feeling that shut down isolated feeling. I've been staying home due to the snowy weather for over a week now with no contact with other human beings. Why was last night good? Simply because I allowed myself to enjoy an episode of Saturday Night Live from December 1975 (with Richard Pryor and Gil Scott-Heron as musical guest) and to enjoy an old 1940 black and white film of Pride and Prejudice. Why was this special? Don't most people watch TV and DVDs? Probably, but not me. I haven't had satellite TV for maybe a couple of years now and I don't often watch DVDs though I like to. I don't often watch DVDs, though I have access to many of them through my brother who is a collector, because I become anxious when I have to choose something to watch. I get overwhelmed by the choices and worry that such and such a DVD will be too violent or negative for me to watch. I also feel guilty about just relaxing and enjoying myself. Lately, most of what I've been doing is studying Buddhist books and audiobooks, taking notes, reflecting, trying to meditate. I enjoy doing that, but it's all a bit serious and I start to worry that I'm not a good enough person because I'm not helping enough people.

Pema Chodron has said that the greatest obstacle for Westerners on the Buddhist path is self-denigration or, in other words, putting yourself down. I don't mean to do that, but ultimately I do. Last night after I watched the DVDs I felt some liberation from my isolation, if only vicariously from watching other human beings acting. I realized that I had given myself permission to be happy in a way that I hadn't done all week long. In fact, I have unwittingly told myself that I have to be and act a certain way before I can be happy. I've said to myself that I have to be a deeply compassionate person who helps others, a sort of bodhisattva in training before I can enjoy the fruits of my altruism. Now, almost by chance, I am coming to understand that I should strive to always enjoy my life, through thick and thin, and that in enjoying this precious life I can become of more benefit to myself and others.

Buddhist teachers regularly say that all human beings have one thing in common -- they all want to be happy. Pema Chodron's main teacher Chogyam Trungpa first taught that the basis for having compassion for others is to first practice deeply lovingkindness towards yourself. It's taken me a while to get to this point, to just see that it is okay to pursue my own happiness each day and that the happier that I am, the more of a benefit I can be to others in the long run. I have thought before that I am very fortunate. I have food and shelter and a loving family, a few friends and a bunch of cats and a wide range of creative activities to partake of -- art, music, books, writing, etc...

Studying Buddhism has put my life in a better perspective. I feel more able to accept myself in my small capacity to do good. When I was acutely ill I was under the delusional perspective that I was some special person. Once I entered recovery that feeling that I had to be some special person lingered if only unconsciously. I've had thoughts more recently that I should aspire to be a Buddhist nun, a bodhisattva. Before that I thought I would become a published writer. Before that I thought I was supposed to be a paid artist. Before that some kind of famous singer-songwriter. But the reality is that I am almost 50 years old and I am not meant to be particularly accomplished at anything. This is a relief; it takes the pressure off me to be who I am, a small piece in a large and complex puzzle. I am grateful that I am not special because if I were I wouldn't be able to handle the attention and pressure I would receive. I am also in very good company with most of the rest of humanity.

But the delusional feeling that I need to be special can creep back into me and so I remain vigilant, more vigilant now than I have been in the past. My new focus is to do what makes me happy and stop anxiously censoring my activities. New mantra = have fun Kate. There have been stories of angels who have become human and who savor each moment with all of their senses. I'd like to be like them, rejoicing in what's good. There is so much misery in the world, but with the right focus I can lessen that misery by becoming a happy person and encouraging others to do the same. The trick is to count your blessings, especially during the tougher times. The other trick is to rejoice when things are going well. Today things went well because I've had a shift in my overall perspective.

Blizzard At JFK Airport

2010-12-31T21:02:00.000-05:00

Life is precious and hence my flight to return home was cancelled at the last minute while our plane with all of us in it taxied on the runway. The airport was closed. We were told that we could get our luggage at the baggage claim area and then we would have to find an active service counter and try to re-book a flight out of there.

For the previous few days I had been tracking on the Weather Channel the winter storm that was working its way towards nearly the whole of the Eastern Atlantic coastline. The first report I heard said the storm might hit right along the coast, but the next report said it might just miss the coast and move off into the Atlantic. The night before I was to leave the Florida Gulf the more definitive report was that the storm had been upgraded to a blizzard and that it would hit the southern coast in the morning and then work its way up the coast towards New England by afternoon. My flight to the JFK airport in New York City was scheduled to leave at 7:20 am and meant to arrive by 10 am in New York. I woke up at 4:15 am hoping that getting up that early would also mean that I might just miss the blizzard and that once at JFK I could get my connecting flight at 1:25 pm to Rochester where the weather was not supposed to be as bad. My friend Richard was even going to pick me up and drive me home.

I flew up to New York on the an airline called JetBlue. They boast of having more legroom (which they do) and access to Direct satellite TV for each seat. I watched the progress of the storm once again on the Weather Channel, still hopeful that I would get home by nightfall. The weather was calm at JFK at 10 am. My next flight was still scheduled to be on time. Unfortunately, the flight kept getting delayed and I wound up kicked off a cancelled flight standing at gate 8 of the JetBlue terminal feeling helpless. It was after 5 pm, I was tired and a bit hungry and had no desire to get on a line to rebook a flight that might not be leaving for at least one full day if not longer. I decided to get my luggage, one blue and white floral pattern L.L. Bean duffle bag, not easy to miss. The problem was that I would have to leave the main terminal. I half realized this wasn't a good idea, but I didn't know what else to do, so I crossed the security line and headed for the carousels. That alone was a big mistake; I wouldn't get back inside the main terminal till the following day.

The baggage claim area was chaotic because we all were clueless trying to act as if we still had a clue. I discovered soon that the baggage was being indiscriminately thrown onto any carousel and there were at least six of them with two operating. This meant that you couldn't park yourself at just one specific carousel and wait patiently (or impatiently) till your luggage turned up, but instead had to move restlessly from one to another across a large and chilly room crowded with people old to very young. The reason the room was chilly was because there were three very large spinning doorways with people going in and out either to smoke a cigarette or look desperately for a taxi or just to watch the progress of the blizzard. I had no desire to do any of those things and once I got my bag I headed for a corner wall where I could sit down as I had been standing for an hour or so.

I saw that other people those with families or couples or people like myself who were on their own were finding their spots and taking a break till they could figure out what to do. Many people were on their cell phones either talking to friends and family or trying to contact JetBlue to rebook a flight. I wasn't ready yet to call my family. I was continuing to feel vulnerable and disoriented...and hungry. The only thing I had to eat were six small cake-like treats that my mother had given to me the night before. Not the best food, but I ate them. I had spotted in the middle of the room on the side of the spinning doors one lone small Dunkin Donuts with a very small store selling water, drinks, chips and candies and other not very nutritious stuff along with large cups of coffee or hot chocolate. The problem for me was that I was alone and couldn't leave my duffel bag with anyone. I also had a fairly full messenger bag and a small camera bag with my digital camera in it. Around my neck hung a wallet to hold my passport and some money and also my iPod in its padded little case.

I called my family in Florida. My father and brother wanted me to take the subway into the City and get a hotel room in Greenwich Village somewhere. They said I might not get a plane out for anywhere from two to four days. I knew right away that I was NOT going to do that. I was disoriented enough and didn't need to get lost in a blizzard in the City with no boots, gloves, hat or coat and carrying a heavy bag with no wheels on it. At least at the airport there was shelter and some heat (though not a whole helluvalot I found as the night progressed in the baggage claim area), clean and fairly empty toilets, access to water and a tiny bit of food, but more importantly I would have much closer access to eventually getting out of the airport on a moment's notice if a seat opened up in stand-by.

My father reminded me on the phone to not neglect to take my pills and really I needed that little nudge and I did get some water and take my pills. Then I went up one level to the ticket counter for JetBlue and waited online for a hour and a half. It was 9 pm on Sunday. The man behind the desk said that he could reserve a flight for me leaving on Tuesday at 7:59 pm. Most people were talking to their particular airline representative for a chunk of time, but I didn't know what to say, except that I wanted to get inside the terminal again where there was proper heat and the hope of eating a hot meal. I didn't complain and I was sympathetic to his plight (hundreds of disgruntled customers to take care of). He didn't give me a boarding pass, just an itinerary ticket which might be able to get me a boarding pass in the future. As I walked away from him, he took pity on me and said there might be a stand-by spot on a plane that was supposed to leave the next afternoon and to show up here again tomorrow.

I headed back downstairs and picked a spot where I had access to an outlet and watched over my cell phone as it charged for an hour next to a man who was lying on the floor covered up with two small Yorkshire dogs cuddled next to him for warmth. He was using the other outlet to charge one of his gadgets. There was an Hispanic woman sitting near me shivering and holding onto her stacked luggage with wheels. She didn't make eye contact with me and talked only to another Hispanic couple, but it was obvious that she was cold and I heard her say the word "frio". I opened my duffle bag and pulled out a long, large, black knit cardigan sweater that I had just gotten in a thrift store in Florida for $5 and decided to give it to her, which I did. Later, as I lay down on the floor and covered myself up with my fleece and rain jacket to try to get some sleep, she attempted to return the sweater. It was obvious she didn't speak much English, but I made my point that she could keep it if she wanted to. She thanked me and moved off. I felt good that I was there to be of some minor use.

To make a long story short, after shivering myself, and wandering and getting some fitfull sleep, after drinking a large cup of coffee, eating a little candy and talking to a mother guarding her sleeping son, I got through the night and into the morning and back up to the ticket counter. I learned that only people with a ticket and carryon luggage could get into the inner sanctum of the terminal. I was willing to wait another day and a half to get on the Tuesday evening flight out of there, if I could get inside and feel the heat and eat a meal. The African American man behind the counter was polite and articulate and responded to me being polite and sympathetic, if not so articulate. He sympathized with me and managed to get me a ticket and said I could take my duffel bag as carry on luggage, it happened to be small enough. This man was clever, he gave me a ticket to a flight that he knew was or would be cancelled and had me keep the itinerary ticket to get me on the later flight. This is the ticket that got me through security and into the terminal proper.

The first thing I did was get a hot meal. As luck would have it I didn't even have to pay for it because the stores' computers were down for 5-10 minutes and the person in charge let the four of us on line take the food instead of awkwardly standing on line holding all of our parcels and bags. I was very tired and I tried to eat slowly and savor the food and get my energy back to keep on keeping on. The airport was closed and it nearly looked it -- not a lot of people and only a couple of food/convenience stores open. I was very lucky to have gotten that far. I stayed there overnight and then the next morning got booked on a flight that was supposed to leave at 9:30 am. Almost 12 hours earlier than the other flight I had been placed on. This time I got a boarding pass with a seat assignment. The flight, which changed gates three times, began boarding at noon and left at one or one thirty. I got to Rochester at around 3 pm where I called my family and also Richard. I would get home by 6 pm. Once my seven cats were all accounted for to my great pleasure, I called my family one last time to say that my ordeal was finally over. I had been mostly awake for about 62 hours and had just run out of my bedtime anti-psychotic medication. I went to sleep anyway.

I'm grateful that I was safe from harm, that I had my family and Richard to talk to, that I endured without complaining, that I got to talk to several people in the airport and that I got home. This experience taught me a tiny bit of what it would be like to be homeless -- the wandering from place to place, to where bathrooms and water fountains were, to where outlets were, to where food was, to where shelter and heat were, having to guard your stuff, catching a little sleep here and there on the floor or ground, talking to other people who were also homeless, perpetually waiting for something good to happen but feeling tired and almost resigned, living in twilight world, never at home, always a not quite welcome guest. So tired, so sad. In limbo. And without proper facilities to shower and brush your teeth, to have that luxury we call privacy for 10 to 15 minutes, you will begin to be identifiable by smell as well as sight branding yourself as one of the walking wounded, homeless and quite possibly mentally ill. For who remains sane without proper sleep and nutrition, living in continual stress in order just to survive? I'm grateful I was given this window into the lives of the homeless because it has made me appreciate humanity all the more, into the sheer endurance and flexibility of the human spirit. I was also pleased to note that most people behaved very well considering they were stranded. We all knew that we were strangely united by the blizzard raging outside and that we would have to wait together in peace. And we did.

I saw nothing that would make me say that we were all just a bunch of sinners getting what we deserved; there were no shouts, no aggression, very little bad behavior at all. As far as I could see, there was a lot of Buddha Nature being passed about within us and between us.

In a few hours it will be the first of January, 2011. I'm going to think of all those people (including the elderly and children of all ages) who are stranded in airports around the world or homeless and cold at the stroke of midnight. I'm going to be wishing them the best new year of their lives because they deserve it just as much, if not more than, the rest of us. No, really, we all deserve a happy new year.

Happy New Year Everyone!

Using Obstacles As A Path To Awakening

2010-12-11T16:03:00.000-05:00

"When the world is filled with evil, transform all mishaps into the path of bodhi (awakening)."
Lojong Slogan # 11

Tibetans believe in ghosts they call "dons" that suddenly attack you in order to wake you up. I see my voices and the web of my psychosis as these dons. Though they appeared to be evil and set on causing a great deal of trouble, pain and suffering, they were in fact a blessing.

Life is hard; we all face obstacles every day, but what if we saw our difficulties as the fertile soil of our spiritual path, as the ground we use to plant the seeds of well being? Most of us are deep in sleep, so lost in thoughts about the past or the future that we don't see the present moment. A lot of us feel guilty if we stop doing things and move into the being mode. For those of us who do take the time to just sit and enjoy the view, we often feel our own restlessness or resistance to accepting things just as they are. The root of that restlessness is fear, fear of acknowledging that we are not in control of our lives. We and those we care about could die or get sick or hurt at any time. This is why the present moment is precious, why life is precious. This is why it is infinitely better to be awake now than asleep and on automatic pilot.

What wakes us up? Problems wake us up. We are fortunate in that we all have problems. Without problems we would be lost in a bland complacency, a place of few changes. Because of problems we get curious, curious about solutions to our problems. Curiosity is the mother of awakening. Even questions such as "Why is this happening to me?" lead to the beginning of a spiritual journey. We learn by falling, by failing, by misunderstanding. We learn by being persistent and flexible despite our mistakes.

So we all have problems, we all make mistakes and we're all in the same situation. Life is precious. Death comes for us all. Actions have consequences (karma) and being dissatisfied with life as it is (samsara), is the first step towards spiritual growth. In Tibetan Buddhism these are called "The Four Reminders" and we need these reminders because the sad fact is that we are continually forgetting. We forget that our life is precious and fall into patterns of complaining and self pity. We live in denial about death, saying to ourselves that perhaps it will come, but much, much later. We skirt around taking responsibility for our actions which causes us a lot of personal suffering. And finally we adapt ourselves to the sickness of the world, perpetuating wars and innumerable conflicts amongst ourselves, thus remaining spiritually stunted.

How many people are willing to stand up and say that all of humanity is family? That we are all facing essentially the same situation? Why do so many of us buy into the myth that some of us have it "easy" because of fame or fortune or good genes? No one has it easy; we're all going to die. So why are we killing or condemning each other every minute of every day?

Two things are certain -- life is about change and there will always be obstacles. We will never live in a world where there is only pleasure and no pain. Pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin. So we must learn to cherish the pleasure and see pain and obstacles as stepping stones on our spiritual path. We must learn to grow up. This is difficult to do. We are taught as children in stories that there are good guys and bad guys and that the good guys always win and go on to live happily ever after. This good guy/bad guy, black and white thinking continues into adulthood with us as the "good" ones and others as the "bad" ones. If we're honest with ourselves, we know that we all have our shadow sides. If we can't admit to the fact that we've made a lot of mistakes along the way, we will never truly grow up. To see these mistakes as lessons for growth is to bring obstacles to our spiritual path. Mistakes precede successes. We wouldn't even be able to identify success as success if we didn't make the mistakes in the first place. Our language and our psyches are structured around yin and yang, opposites, because they complement and clarify each other. The key is to change our attitudes about pain, to see it as a natural and necessary step in deepening our understanding of ourselves and our world.

Thanksgiving Lessons

2010-12-04T15:35:00.000-05:00

The night before Thanksgiving I forgot to take my medications and instead began drinking coffee after a three hour nap so that I could continue cleaning and organizing the house in preparation for the guests that would be arriving the next day. I stayed up all night getting tired and wired at the same time, but I did get the house in order. Unfortunately, I was not in order as I again forgot to take my morning medications before going to get my brother early the next morning. Neither my brother or I had the chance to take a nap before the guests arrived. Compared to me, my brother was in good shape cooking the Thanksgiving meal. People arrived at around 3:30 PM, three men, one middle aged and two younger men, one of whom I had never met before.

I sat down with them in the living room while my brother worked in the kitchen. Very soon one of the young men started talking about war and religion. I knew that at some point he had been in the military; I learned later that he also had an I.Q. of 160 and a tendency towards severe depression. He was addressing the middle aged man who was also very bright. Suddenly I shut down and felt very threatened, awkward and unable to speak. Soon I found myself in the kitchen with my brother making excuses about how I had to go downstairs for a while. I wound up staying downstairs the whole time the guests were in the house, all through their meal. I was too embarrassed to go upstairs and take my medications because they happened to be in the living room right by the couch. I tried to get some sleep, but was still too wired from all the caffeine I had been drinking. My friend Richard stopped by and came downstairs to see how I was. He sat in the darkened room with me and talked and joked and cut through the tension. I was grateful.

Later, when everyone had left, my brother came downstairs. I had been afraid that he was angry with me, but he wasn't, just concerned. I asked how everything went and he said that actually everyone had a good time and a good meal complete with leftovers to take home. I was relieved to hear this and so I went upstairs and finally had my Thanksgiving meal while talking to my brother. Then I took my medications. Later I got the sleep that I so dearly needed. My brother was impressed with how clean and organized most of the house was and wound up staying over for four nights. He also got a chance to use my computer which has a high speed internet connection as opposed to his much slower dial up connection. This allowed him to explore online videos, especially on YouTube. He had a good time and we ate turkey dinners for four days. I brought him home on Monday afternoon.

The irony of all this is that because I stayed up drinking coffee and cleaning all night last week I got my house ordered and clean, something I have been wanting to do for many months. That may seem like a small thing, but to me it is a big thing. My habitual response is to not clean and watch my living space get more and more disorganized and dirty which in turn makes me quite depressed. Now I have a fresh start, a chance to change my pattern and keep up with cleaning a little each week instead of once every six months. I vacuumed a couple of days ago and plan to vacuum upstairs once a week from now on and the same for cleaning dishes once or twice a week and doing a laundry once a week too. If I can step up to this new routine, I will be stepping closer to normalcy and away from my mental illness. May it be so.

Yesterday I brought my electric guitar, amplifier and recording equipment upstairs and set up in a corner of the dining area. I also have my acoustic guitar in the living room, but I've been playing so infrequently that I don't have callouses on my finger tips and it hurts to play it. The electric guitar is much easier to play and so sounds better. That's a relief because I play so poorly as is. I had a couple of elementary lessons on the guitar when I was around eight years old, but that didn't last long. I got an acoustic guitar when I was fifteen, but no lessons. I used the guitar to make up a few very simple songs, but mostly I didn't play. I played my boyfriends electric guitar in my late twenties and would use it to make up songs, but I never took the time to try and master the instrument. I still haven't. I have told myself that someday I will take lessons. Right now I don't have the money. I did get a Guitar For Dummies book a couple of years ago. It comes with a CD and I think I'm going to study it. It's not the same as having a teacher, but it is better than nothing.

As you can tell, I haven't been writing, not here or for my memoir. I'm not giving up on it, just been taking a break, as is my way. I've been able to see my creative pattern more clearly this year. Generally it's two months of dedicated creative activity in one artistic field and then a shift to another after that for another couple of months. If I had talent in just one area that would focus me I'm sure, but I've always been multi-talented and that tends to scatter my energies. I do make progress, but very gradually. So I've started working on two new songs and I'm thinking of painting a portrait of Pema Chodron, the one I meant to do months ago. When I focus on writing, I miss the music and the painting and when I focus on them, I miss the writing. I want to do everything at the same time and I can't. Or I can sort of, but not with the level of skill that I yearn for. I'm not really complaining, just slowly getting used to myself. And actually I'm quite grateful that I am creative. It may have saved my life. It certainly has injected meaning into my spirit and made me a lot happier over time. I think everyone should be creative, especially individuals who suffer from any form of mental illness. It's been a key factor in my recovery.

I've decided that regardless of my creative pursuits that I want to continue to study the dharma and meditate. While my brother was visiting, I didn't do my meditation routine and didn't read my dharma books, but now I've returned to it. My goal is to be able to call myself a Buddhist by this time next year. That means putting my life and my artistic pursuits into a larger context. It sounds almost artificial that I want to be of benefit to others, but I do. I'm at the aspiration stage. I pray to apply the dharma teachings to myself so that I can understand the lessons and reach out in whatever way to others. Applying the dharma to myself means practicing patience, generosity. It means including discipline into the way I live my life. It means continuing the practice of self-honesty. It means having the courage to sit with the pain and not run away from it. There will be no sudden transformation for me. I'm hoping for a gradual and more lasting change.

Shenpa = Getting Hooked

2010-11-11T20:55:00.000-05:00

Shenpa is the Tibetan word for attachment, but Pema Chodron calls it getting "hooked" linking it much more directly with addictions of all sorts. In her book Taking The Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears she writes, "In terms of the poison-ivy metaphor -- our fundamental itch and the habit of scratching -- shenpa is the itch and it's also the urge to scratch. The urge to smoke that cigarette, the urge to overeat, to have one more drink, to say something cruel or to tell a lie." When we scratch the itch we get temporary relief, but then the infection spreads until it begins to cover us and makes us extremely uncomfortable. All of us, without exception, feel the pull of shenpa in our daily lives. For some of us we can still manage without totally falling apart, for others we spiral down into an addictive hole, but either way the essential quality of the pull, the pain and sometimes strange pleasure of it, is the same for everyone. Lately, I've been awake enough to identify three main shenpa triggers in my life. They are worry, eating and smoking cigarettes.

Monday I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked them. I felt the itch and I scratched it. The first cigarette tasted horrible, but soon I was puffing away as I knew I would. By two in the morning I had finished with them and threw away all the remnants, silently making the vow to not indulge in them again. Today I took comfort in Pema's words: "We can rejoice when we are able to acknowledge and refrain, and also we should expect relapses. Sometimes it's one step forward, one step back. Then maybe one step forward, a half step back." Three years ago, I quit smoking cigarettes and in the interim I have returned and quit several times more. I have heard that the more times you try to quit, the closer you get to a full quit. Up until Monday, I had been clean for over six months and now I plan on going for another six months. If I wind up smoking two packs in one year, I'll be doing all right. It is a small blessing that a pack of cigarettes costs around $8 because I know I literally cannot afford to be a smoker.

Though the pull of wanting to smoke can be strong at times, my other two problems, worry and eating, are even more challenging because they are more deeply rooted into my life. Worry quickly turns into a generalized anxiety which is hard to shake, but I have been sitting with it and not running from it. And then it dissipates and I'm left without anxiety. Those are the times when I feel good and relaxed. Of course, the anxiety returns, but I'm trying to teach myself to breath into it for at least a few moments. Even that short interruption noticeably strengthens me and gives me some courage to keep working at it. I have also been teaching myself to put off thinking about problems until my calm has returned. Before I would latch onto the problem and scratch and scratch and frighten myself with visions of being overwhelmed and doomed.

As for eating, there is no way around that. I have decided that I would rather be too fat than to be anorexic or bulimic. I see eating disorders as a kind of death to the spirit. But, of course, that's not the only choice. I could start a healthy diet and gradually lose the weight that I've put on. It's not that I eat so much, it's that I eat a little more than I should here and there and with my middle aged metabolism that means I keeping putting weight on a bit at a time. Still I need to work with the shenpa of eating when I don't need to eat, the way I have been working with the worry, when I don't need to worry. I have to learn renunciation, in Tibetan it is called "shenluk." I have experimented a bit with this and there is a kind of freedom in turning away from the pull to eat that extra bowl of cereal, turning instead to nice mug of tea or to meditation. I believe that it is possible to cultivate healthy attitudes and behaviors. It's not easy, but it can be done.

Pema Chodron also talks about the shenpa of a prejudiced mind. She says you should watch yourself closely when you begin to get self righteous because it is just another form of fundamentalism. Recently I was reading a left wing blog that attacked a right wing media figure. There were five comments and all the comments were backing up the blogger's point of view. Now I myself am a liberal Democrat, but the feel of all this made me think of fascist Germany. It doesn't matter whether you are on the left or the right, both sides are sick when they give into the pull of intolerance. It's not the fighting spirit that's needed, it's the bridge of communication that is needed. Polarization is just another form of war and war is not the solution to anything. It's not an easy thing either to see your enemy as actually your brother or sister, but that's a lot closer to the truth. In Taking The Leap, Pema Chodron tells the story of an American soldier in Iraq who after witnessing his fellow soldiers being blown up found some Iraqi men who might have been responsible. He and his group wanted revenge and began to beat up the men, but it was nighttime and when they aimed a flashlight at them they saw one of the men was actually a boy with Down's syndrome. The American soldier happened to have a son with Down's syndrome and was so disturbed by this situation that he stopped the violence right then and there.

Pema has said that we are all addicts of one sort or another, be it in our hateful attitudes or with particular substances or any number of things. The process some of us are going through is called waking up. The way to wake up is to interrupt habitual patterns and do something different in a non harming way. The importance of waking up has to do with peace on earth, has to do with taking care of this planet. It starts with each of us as individuals. Too many people don't believe that there can be peace on earth and too many people don't believe that we can take care of this earth or worse, don't even care. That means each person who steps forward and starts working on him or her self is a precious commodity. I for one believe peace is possible, which is why I'm working towards taking the leap. Seeing where I'm hooked and being honest about it is a good place for me to begin. What about you?

Buddhist Practice

2010-11-05T15:34:00.000-04:00

A few days ago my Kindle appeared to have gotten some kind of virus and I couldn't open any books or audio programs. When I tried to go online with it, it froze, so I turned it off, but when I tried to turn it back on, it wouldn't come on. I assumed the worst, that I would have to send it back and either have it wiped clean or get a new one. And so I avoided dealing with it until today when I went to the Amazon Kindle support page and read what to do when the Kindle freezes. The instruction was to hold the power switch for 15 seconds. I did that and the Kindle began powering up. Once it had, I turned it on and found that everything was in place and I could open up the books and audio programs. This was a great relief to me. It was only after I couldn't use it that I realized how attached I had already become to it within the three weeks that I had had it. Each day I listened to at least 45 minutes of Pema Chodron and each day I read from it. I mention this because according to Buddhist practice it is important not to become too attached to anyone or anything or any situation. Too much attachment leads to craving and inflexibility which are forms of suffering. The key is balance, what Pema Chodron calls "not too tight and not too loose" or not too grasping, be it with craving or aggression, and not too indifferent.

When I couldn't listen to Pema Chodron on my Kindle, I turned to an audio program of hers on CD called "True Happiness". Am I getting too attached to Pema? I don't think so. I see her as my main teacher for now. She helps me to stay connected to dharma study. No doubt there is some attachment but hearing her voice each day does cut through my isolation. I feel grateful to her; I might even write her a letter telling her my story and how much she has helped me off and on in the last 8 years since I first discovered her. Of course, I wish she could be my teacher, but she cannot, only indirectly. The main thing is that I continue to do the practice each day.

In the "Noble Heart" audio program she was teaching on the 6 Paramitas. The word Paramita means "to go to the other shore"; the other shore is enlightenment. We are on the shore of suffering. When we begin Buddhist practice we get into the boat. The boat symbolizes all the various meditation practices and dharma studies including the 6 Paramitas. The 6 Paramitas are the means by which we benefit others and ourselves. They are the practices of Patience, Generosity, Wisdom (Prajna), Meditation, Joyful Exertion and Discipline. This week I consciously practiced the Paramitas of Patience and Generosity with my brother.

My brother is a great talker, he has what the Irish refer to as "the gift of the gab". Over the years he has taught me how to be patient when he meets someone on the street or in a store and starts talking. At first I felt annoyed and hurt because he would leave me standing there waiting for him sometimes for up to half and hour. But I realized how important it was for him to connect with others this way. It was his way of practicing generosity, his way of being a good friend and/or neighbor. The other day we went to the store. On our way in he met someone coming out who he hadn't seen in a while and they began to talk. I continued on my way and did my shopping. When I came out, he was still talking to the young man. I didn't say a word, I just went to the car and sat down. I realized that I felt self-conscious sitting there waiting for him, so I turned on some soothing music and listened to it. I began meditating while I looked at the concrete wall of the store. Every now and then I would get restless and irritated and look over towards my brother, but then I would return to thinking about being patient and to my breath. Pema Chodron has said that people show us where we're stuck and that's what my brother showed me. I didn't run away from the discomfort. Instead I sat with it and accepted it. Eventually my brother stopped talking to his friend and did his shopping and came back to the car. He made some brief apology, but I told him it gave me the chance to do the Buddhist practice of patience, which it did. I actually felt grateful to him for giving me the opportunity to practice.

It was Election Day here in the US on Tuesday and my brother was scheduled to be a poll watcher at the voting place in town for a 16 hour stretch from early in the morning till the evening. Poll watchers help people through the voting process and can't leave their post all day. I told my brother that I would stop by a couple of times and bring him food or whatever he needed. The night before I was thinking about how I could help my brother have things to occupy him during that long stretch of being on duty. I decided to bring him some magazines, my iPod and my Kindle. And so I was practicing the Paramita of Generosity and it was good practice because I found myself not wanting to give him the Kindle; I had come to rely on listening to Pema Chodron each day to reduce my depression and anxiety. And then I worried that he would accidentally leave it behind somewhere because I knew he would head for the bar after work. So I told myself that I could listen to Pema on Cds and that I could bring the Kindle to my brother in the morning and then pick it up later in the afternoon. It took a little while, but I decided that I would indeed let him use the Kindle the following day. Just deciding to do that made my heart open a little wider. The irony was that after I picked up the Kindle the following day, it froze and I couldn't use it and so I had a double lesson about letting go of my attachment to it.

Two other things have been helping me with both lessening my sense of isolation and with doing my Buddhist practice: I have started an email correspondence with someone who suffers from schizophrenia and is studying Buddhism and a dear friend of mine and I have begun to exchange audio tapes. My dharma buddy, as I call him, has problems with anxiety, just as I do. He said he was reading a book called Full Catastrophe Living by Jon Kabat-Zinn, Ph.D. I happen to have picked up that book at a book sale a while back and I decided to start reading it too. Jon Kabat-Zinn is well known for promoting mindfulness meditation to help cope with stress and chronic pain. The book was written to describe an eight week stress reduction clinic workshop and to encourage others to experiment with it. I actually had bought the audiobook before I got the book, but never applied it to my life. One of the meditations is called a body scan. My dharma buddy highly recommended the meditation to help cope with anxiety. So for two days in a row I have done the body scan and plan to continue doing it as part of my meditation practice each day. I have yet another audio program called The Mindful Way Through Depression which includes a guided body scan practice, some standing yoga and guided sitting practices and I've been using that Cd to organize myself. With the body scan, you lie on the floor and place meditative focus on all the parts of your body starting with your toes and feet and working your way up. The meditation session lasts for about a half an hour. If I continue on to the yoga practice and the sitting practice it can take over an hour total of meditation which is a good, healthy practice.

The audio exchange practice with my friend is a great success so far. We are both finding that it is bringing us closer and having a therapeutic effect. Just the other day I re-listened to her tape when I was feeling down and isolated and found myself perking up and even laughing at points. It is so obvious to me that she cares about me because she is genuine and direct and that immediately softens my heart. I also get to connect with her life and her struggles which deepens my compassion for her. The fact that we go way back to grade school and junior high school just makes the whole deal even more special. I feel a sense of continuity which was lacking before reestablishing itself in my life. I lost that continuity when I left New York City and began a relationship with an abusive partner who was so threatened by my past that I systematically shut out my memories. Now they can return at least in part.

The last part of my recent Buddhist practice that I want to write about has to do with addiction. October 30th was my six month mark without smoking cigarettes. It has been the last in several attempts to quit for good. Mostly I've gotten through the six months with not a lot of craving, but lately I've been feeling the pull back to smoking yet again. This time of year gets me down. Thanksgiving in particular is a trigger holiday for me. Last year I bought a couple of packs and then gradually began smoking more and more, off and on, until I quit last spring. I've been listening to Pema Chodron speak about addiction in some of her talks. She says we are all addicts of one sort or another. For some it is food or lying or being hyper critical of others and for others it is addiction to physically addictive substances like cigarettes, alcohol, cocaine, heroin, etc... She calls the addictive craving the "hook". Not biting the hook she says is hard work and takes a lot of courage. Sometimes we get how harmful the behavior or attitude is and we just stop, but other times we go through what Pema calls "The Big Squeeze" between our ideals of ourselves and how we want to behave and the craving itself. When we're really stuck, we go for the instant gratification of feeding the craving, which only makes it worse in the long run.

Part of the core of Buddhist practice is a combination of both not running away from discomfort when it arises and being lovingkind and compassionate towards ourselves and others. It's a lifelong practice because there will always be discomfort and a tendency to lack compassion for ourselves and others when we fail. And so I have to work with my mind and with my heart. There is no easy solution most of the times. I've felt this addictive pull many times before. I haven't bitten the hook yet, but I know I'm close. For now, I reach for my sweet tea or sometimes I'll indulge in a cookie. I'll listen to Pema, study my notes, do the meditation practice and take it day by day.

Aspiration Practice: May I Be Of Benefit

2010-10-31T17:22:00.000-04:00

Ozzie hasn't been dead for even a week, but I am pushing on. A few weeks back I returned to listening to Pema Chodron teach on Buddhism in her audio program Noble Heart: A Self-Guided Retreat On Befriending Your Obstacles. I listened daily for nearly two weeks and then started to re-listen to it, when I decided to download one more audio program by her called Bodhisattva Mind: Teachings to Cultivate Courage and Awareness in the Midst of Suffering. This second audio program is a bit unusual in that she is closely following the 5th chapter in a book by Shantideva, an Indian monk and scholar from the 8th century, called A Guide To The Bodhisattva Way Of Life. She also wrote a commentary on most of the book in a book of hers called No Time To Lose in 2005. Pema Chodron does make reference often to the teachers she's had and to some of the books she's read, but this book by Shantideva appears to be particularly important for entering into the Buddhist path. The Dalai Lama also makes many references to this seminal work. So what did I do? I found that Shantideva's book was available on the Kindle for $10 and I bought it to study it more closely. I have read through the first half of it and find that there are verses (it is a long poem of sorts) that I want to memorize and reflect upon.

A bodhisattva seeks enlightenment in order to help all sentient beings to seek and find enlightenment as well. Pema Chodron is teaching me to cultivate the aspiration in my daily practice to be of benefit to others. The heart of Tibetan Buddhism is to learn to place others before the self in all situations by cultivating compassion. This is quite a challenge for me because I withdraw from much of human contact, except online. I live in what Pema Chodron and her teacher Chogyam Trungpa call an "ego cocoon". More than seeking to make others comfortable, I seek to make myself comfortable and thereby withdraw into my home. But, of course, separating myself from others does not make me happy or comfortable and so I struggle each day. I have become an alternately anxiety ridden then depressed individual. I rarely take a walk or sit outside even though I live in the country. I don't help my local community. I keep the focus on myself and my brother and my cats. This makes me think of Jesus exhorting people to "Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect" by loving not just your friends and family, but your enemies as well. He says, "If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?" and "If you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others?"

It's good to aspire to be a better person, but first you need to become aware of how you are failing yourself. It might seem as if I'm getting down on myself here, but I am not. I am waking up to what it is I do. I have gotten to the point where I treat myself as a friend. Talking to my therapist, my brother, myself on tape and now my dear old friend on tape has helped me to do this. Without befriending myself I couldn't face the fact that I am a self centered individual who doesn't put herself out for anyone but her family. My heart is becoming softer and the warmer I am to myself, the warmer I can be towards others. Now, when I light an incense before settling into meditation or dharma study, I send out the aspiration that I be of benefit to others. I say it aloud. It's like making a vow to become willing to help. It's the stage we all have to go through before we come to act on other's behalf. What a simple thing--"May I be of benefit to others." It's like taking a closed fist and gently, patiently opening that fist up. Some people when they pray place their open hands face to face before their chest which to my mind is a beautiful sign of peace, love and respect towards the higher power and all others.

Quite a few months ago I joined the Awakened Heart Sangha online and began a Buddhist course called "Discovering The Heart Of Buddhism" taught by Lama Shenpen Hookham in Wales. I learned right away that the center of the course was in the meditation practice and in cultivating a deep compassion for yourself. At first I embraced the meditation practice and got in touch with the student teacher, my contact person, who lives in Poland and is a senior student of Lama Shenpen. We exchanged several emails, but then my life got busy because my parents were visiting and I used that as an excuse to distance myself from the teacher and the course. In the coursebook there was a lot of talk about exploring your heart and I wasn't yet ready to do that. In the interim, I have moved towards being ready by studying Pema Chodron and beginning my aspiration practice along with daily meditation once again. A few days ago, I returned to the Awakened Heart online forum giving myself a gentle push to reach out to others there. The forum is not very active, but one of the people who had posted recently was a man who actually suffers like me from schizophrenia, but is dedicating part of his time to Tibetan Buddhist practice. What good fortune! I responded to his post and asked him if we could be "dharma buddies" and begin an email correspondence and he said yes, he would be very happy to try that out. So perhaps we will be of benefit to each other along the way.

A year ago, I couldn't even consider the idea that I could in some lifetime become enlightened. It just was out of the question. But now, I am opening to the idea that is it okay to move towards enlightenment, to strive for it and to wish that all of us could reach some kind of liberation. Maybe because of my isolation I feel no ill will towards anyone. No-one gets the chance to provoke me and so I settle into a kind of general acceptance of others. Pema Chodron would say that that is not such a good thing, that human interaction and problems create the needed challenges for a fruitful practice. How can you practice patience and generosity without the input of other people? She has said many times that we are all interconnected, more than that, people need people. Even I, who keeps to myself most of the time, rely on business men to sell me their products, doctors to treat me, sanitation men to remove my garbage, postal workers to handle my mail, etc... I also need very much the contact of my brother and my online friends. This blog, too, is a lifeline for me, a place where for a hand full of people I am of benefit in a small way. I'm planting a few well intentioned seeds, watering them and hoping that they will grow.

Rest In Peace Ozzie

2010-10-26T19:16:00.000-04:00

Last Monday, the 18th, I brought Ozzie in to the vet because his mouth was hurting him. The vet said he had a serious infection, but that it could be treated with antibiotics twice a day for the next 10 days; he gave the medicine to me in liquid form. After I got home I tasted a little bit of it to see how bad tasting it was, and it was horrible. Nonetheless, I had to give it to him and give it to him I did. I wrapped him up in a towel and squirted the dropper full into his mouth. I didn't get all of it into him on first try, so I would have to hold him down and try again. Afterwards I would give him a portion of wet food which he would eat up. This went on several times a day until Saturday morning when he stopped eating and drinking. On Sunday he disappeared for hours and I couldn't find him. When he did show up, he was still not eating or drinking. Mostly he rested and slept; he was obviously weak. Early this Monday morning I called the vet and was told to bring him right in, which I did. They were going to give him fluids and test his blood. A couple of hours later I get a call from the vet's sister, who is the receptionist/nurse. She tells me that Ozzie is very ill, that he has diabetes and several other things wrong with him and that she would like to keep him over night so that the doctor can give him some insulin to see if he responds, but that if he doesn't they will recommend that Ozzie be euthanized. This morning I called and was told that there was no change. I went in to the vet's office at noon and then visited with Ozzie for 25 minutes. He cried out when he saw me. I calmed him down by petting and kissing him and talking to him gently. The vet's sister stayed with me for part of the time and we talked sympathetically to each other which I think also soothed Ozzie. He drank a lot of water, but had not touched the food. I asked the vet's sister if they would give Ozzie a pain killer first before they euthanized him. She said that was their policy. They would give him a mild sedative, leave him alone for 5-10 minutes and then give him his lethal injection. I had asked before if I could bring him home to die, but was told that there was a distinct possibility that Ozzie might go through seizures because of his condition. And so I was strongly urged to let them take over. And so I made the decision, as I have with other cats, to follow their advice.

I had been forewarned by Ozzie himself that he would not live as long as I wanted him to because last year, after I took in 6 kittens, he lost about 4 pounds. Then he stopped doing a good job of grooming himself and with the weight loss he was not as strong or as confident as he had been before. I thought he was having a bad reaction to the kittens, but it appears that in actuality diabetes was the culprit. There were several times in the last 6 months where I could have sworn that he was going to die, but miraculously he would perk up and I would feel a rush of gratitude.

I got Ozzie as a kitten in 1999 from someone I had met and befriended in a domestic violence support group. This friend and her family were avid animal lovers and had several dogs, a bunch of cats and a cockatoo. I was distinctly psychotic at the time, paranoid, delusional and hearing lots of voices, but I managed to hide my symptoms somewhat from the women I met at the group. Eventually I would get another partially grown kitten to be Ozzie's playmate. That cat, Moocher, I still have and he's in good health, knock wood. I had other cats too from when I was with my ex-boyfriend, but gradually, one by one, they died or were euthanized. I hoped that I would have Ozzie till he turned 14 because that's usually the age my cats have been when they've started to fail.

I have been generally fortunate with my cats healthwise, no drawn out cancers, no diabetes till now, not much in the way of having to give them medicines. They have been a pleasure to be around and a comfort in my darkest hours. Ozzie, in particular, was a very patient and sweet natured cat. I felt connected to him because he was my oldest cat, besides Moocher, in a house full of youngsters. I would make sure to pay special attention to him to let him know that he was particularly loved and he responded to my attention and caresses.

The closest I've been to the visceral quality of death has been through my cats. I have had them die in my arms. They are great teachers of what Buddhists call Impermanence, the fluid changing quality of life that also includes death and maybe rebirth. The love of my pets and my love for them has been a reliable joy in my life. So now I have seven to care for instead of eight. Despite my deep sadness at losing Ozzie and at losing all my many cats over the years, it's been worth it all. So farewell, sweet Ozzie, till I join you, and all the others who have gone before you, on the other side.

On Stigma

2010-10-23T20:58:00.001-04:00

Stig-ma -- 1 a) archaic: a scar left by a hot iron: BRAND b) : a mark of shame or discredit : STAIN c) : an identifying mark or characteristic: a specific diagnostic sign of a disease 2 stigmata pl: bodily marks or pains resembling the wounds of the crucified Jesus and sometime accompanying religious ecstasy. (taken from the Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition)

To be branded and shamed because of having a mental illness such as schizophrenia is a form of psychic crucifixion. Much of stigma is due to ignorance that gets fostered by the media in film and news stories. The main stigma attached to schizophrenia sufferers is that they are at best deranged and violent and at worst all premeditated serial killers. The flip side of ignorance, which in this day and age of internet access to information comes down to plain laziness, is fear of the unknown. Though, really, I question that, for who hasn't acted irrationally by the time they reach adulthood out of jealousy or resentment or envy or even joy, love and happiness. We all know what it is to be upset, to be impulsive and to trust in ideas, beliefs and people that may not be trustworthy. People get crazy in love and out of their minds in anger and just simply mistaken about other people's motivations as the result of some complex situation. And then there are many people who have tried one mind altering drug or another, who have temporarily crossed over into some very strange experiences. To get drunk is to act crazy. Even excesses of caffeine can give a person a glimpse of what mental imbalance is like.

So, on second and third thought, I'd have to say that most people know quite well enough what it is like to be mentally ill. It's not unknown, but it is deeply disturbing. And part of why it is so disturbing, other than the obvious reason that it is horrible to be so out of control, is because of the stigma that our culture brands people with who don't tow the line, who don't try to be respectable, "normal" and conformist. It's the potential for unpredictable behavior that puts those "normal" people on edge. I can understand this fear because I, too, get anxious around people who act out. My instinct is to repress any strange impulses I have and generally I didn't act out except when I was sure that I was alone, which consisted of me talking aloud to myself, gesturing, pacing, even dancing. I had an urgent need to express myself, but at the same time, I had an urgent need not to make other people uncomfortable. Also, in paranoid states, I didn't want to draw people's wrath against me, so I kept a low profile.

I have been unusually fortunate: I have not been the victim of stigma. In my day to day activities I keep to myself and visit only my brother each week, and so I haven't given others the opportunity to label me and put me down. I don't talk to anyone about my illness except my therapist and sometime my brother. My identity as a schizophrenia sufferer is reserved for my online presence, mainly in this blog. The reason I started this blog was to do my part to fight the stigma. I don't feel comfortable yet reaching out to people in my community, but I do feel comfortable sharing my world and struggles and successes with the hand full or so of people who follow or stumble upon this blog. I also wanted to encourage those with the illness to come forward in order to show others that we, the afflicted, are not the monsters portrayed in the media, but are just as human and deserving of kind treatment as anyone.

Thanks to the internet, it is becoming more widely accepted that depression, bi-polar disorder, schizo-affective disorder and schizophrenia all have their basis in biology. As a biological disorder it can be treated in many people (though not all) through psychiatric drugs. The hard reality of that is that there are side-effects and because of the side-effects many people resist taking the medications consistently. And there are other hard facts as well, such as it can take months, even years to find the right combination of medications. Then there is the cost of these drugs and the fact that way too many people do not have health insurance. One of the reasons why I didn't commit to taking the drugs during the first three years of acute psychosis was because of the cost and because I only had the minimum in health insurance. If that hadn't been the case it might have saved me three years of on again/off again hell. But a really big reason why some people do not take the medications is that they don't have insight into the fact that they have an illness in the first place. This, too, might be due to the stigma attached to mental illness. All too often, we who suffer, internalize the stigma and label ourselves "freaks" and "psychos". Those who refuse to accept their diagnosis may just be trying to avoid those very labels.

Though I have met a few people face to face who suffer from bi-polar disorder or schizophrenia related disorders, most of the people I have contact with are online. My closest friends with mental illness are almost all bloggers. Several of them are visual artists, too. All of them are intelligent, sensitive and creative. None of them are "freaks". The more people who come forward in blogs, on message boards, in YouTube videos and ultimately in the news, the more I believe much of stigma will be defeated. Also, people have to start getting honest about either their own mental illnesses or those of their loved ones and share their stories if not publicly than with their friends and family or in support groups. I'm a firm believer that honesty is the best policy to overcoming virtually all our problems. Open non-violent communication might be the way of the future. Let's all use our intelligence, sensitivity and creativity, the way my friends are doing, and take a stand against the stigma. And while you're at it, boycott the films that are making a huge profit out of the misery of the mentally ill.

More On Combatting Personal Isolation

2010-10-21T13:09:00.000-04:00

The other day I got an email from someone saying that my blog had touched her life; she encouraged me to keep writing. I thought that was very kind of her to be supportive of me. I thanked her and told her to feel free to email me anytime. She and my other online friends who follow this blog got me thinking that maybe I should spend a bit more time writing more blogs each month, at least once a week. I know that I don't have a great following, but those that do follow I greatly appreciate. This blog give me the opportunity to actually do some good in the world, if only in a small way. So thanks everyone for reading and an especially big thank you to those that leave such great comments.

On the homefront: still struggling with on again, off again depression and anxiety, but two things this week helped to cut through my isolation (which I believe is part of why I get depressed and anxious), I got some snail mail from Nancy and a tape from an old friend. The snail mail was a card with a reproduction of a painting by her father, truly beautiful work. There is something to getting a handwritten note as opposed to an email. It's more personal and intimate. I've begun a letter to send to Nancy and hope this is the beginning of a long correspondence. The tape from my old friend came yesterday. In it she talked to me honestly about her life and gave me some guidance on my life as well. It was so good to hear her voice. I'm hoping that our tape exchange continues, though I also want to get to the point where I give her a phone call. She says some very wise things on the tape about the importance of having someone to confide in on a regular basis, about how this is a big factor in being happy. Therapy helps, but it can't take the place of a deep and caring friendship. And I can talk to myself to relieve some of my isolation, but again, it is not the same as having the warmth of human contact.

Many people take human contact for granted. They have families of their own and see co-workers every day of the work week. If anything, some people have to schedule some alone time into their busy lives. It's a very different orientation from those who live in isolation due to mental illness, especially those who suffer from schizophrenia. Why are schizophrenia sufferers so very withdrawn? Hearing voices (though not all schizophrenia sufferers do), having delusional and paranoid thoughts and, as a consequence, usually experiencing depression and anxiety, all turn a person inward instead of outward. The untreated illness, which is where most of us begin, quickly establishes a pattern of aversion. At this stage we are overwhelmed by internal stimuli that seems so real and so pressing that we lose sight of what is going on in the world. Those people who do become aggressive and confrontational are usually under the illusion that they are being attacked or abused and are acting out of the instinct for self-preservation. More often they withdraw from human contact the way anyone who is seriously ill does in order to heal their wounds away from stressful human conflicts. There's only so much one can deal with when one is internally attacked and confused. Temporarily withdrawal makes sense, but as a lifestyle it does more harm than good.

My therapist has said that the key to feeling good is balance. We all need some time alone and perhaps those with schizophrenia need proportionately more time alone, but the goal is to include some regular contact with others so that feelings of isolation don't get out of hand. I still believe that part of the solution to the isolation of the mentally ill is quite simply access to support groups. Unfortunately in a country as large as the US there are a lot of areas without groups. I live in one of those areas, though there might be a meeting starting up within the next month or two. Right now and for the last few years my brother has been my main contact with humanity. The rest of my contact has been through the computer. I am very fortunate in that I have a small group of online friends that I keep in touch with. Without them, I would be in trouble. I think part of why I've been getting into trouble lately with feelings of isolation, depression and anxiety has to do with the fact that I have been online less than in the past. In the past, I participated in message boards and read other people's blogs and commented regularly. I wrote more blogs. And so I've decided to return to that pattern once again.

Writing these last two months has been good, but again, there's a definite element of isolation within the practice. I'm basically writing by myself and for myself, unlike with the blog where I'm writing for others. A week and a half ago I got my Kindle, which is a wonderful little computer; I have been downloading a ton of excellent free books. I am reading a lot more because of it and reading does cut through the writer's isolation. I'm starting to establish a sense of kinship with the writers that I've been reading. Unfortunately because I've been reading more, I've been writing less. So today I'm putting myself back in the saddle and will return to daily writing. At some point, maybe soon, I will try to find an online critique group to join. That, too, will help to cut through the isolation.

I also downloaded an audiobook by Pema Chodron called Noble Heart: A Self-Guided Retreat On Befriending Your Obstacles. It's over nine hours of a combination of dharma talks and meditation practice that is divided into 12 forty five minutes sessions. I listen to one once a day. Meditating and contemplating what Pema Chodron teaches is another way I combat a sense of isolation. I must also return to the Buddhist group I joined several months back. I need to make myself reach out and make contact with friends and new acquaintances and with other Buddhists and writers.

I think the main way to combat isolation is, first of all, to be aware of it. Once you see it and see what you do to cause it, then you can turn towards some of the solutions which will invariably require you to reach out to other people. Start a blog, comment on other people's blogs, join a mental health forum, find or start a support group, have regular contact with at least one person every week, establish email or snail mail correspondence or exchange tapes with online friends, talk to someone on the phone and also, go out and be around people even if you don't interact with them, go to a library or a coffee shop. These are just some of the things you could try.

If all goes well, you'll be hearing more from me in this blog. I'm going to have to start thinking of what topics I want to discuss. If you can think of any suggestions, please let me know.

Working Through Symptoms, Bonding With Friends

2010-10-10T17:29:00.005-04:00

Coffee has been a partial antidote to my depression lately, but I have to be careful to stop drinking it sometime in the afternoon or else I stay up all night. Occasionally that's okay, but as a habit it invites psychosis back into the forefront, which is not something I'm willing to do. Before I became psychotic, I didn't realize how important sleep was to maintaining mental health. So if any of you are having psychological problems, be sure to focus on getting your sleep. That's why I take the generic Risperdal before bed, even though it also increases my appetite (hence I stay fat) and decreases my sex drive (hence I stay celibate). I have learned to compromise. Because I am middle-aged and have lived alone for so long, I can bear with the compromise, in a way a younger person might not be able to do so readily. Ultimately, for those with psychotic disorders, you have to choose between sanity and insanity. I chose sanity because insanity threatened to swallow me whole. But within my sanity, or relative sanity, because I still hear voices and still believe that they come from outside of me, I struggle with the negative symptoms of schizophrenia.

Except for the voices, my positive symptoms, such as hallucinations, delusions and paranoia, have all almost completely diminished. The most resistant of the three has been paranoia, but even that rarely bothers me for long. My negative symptoms, which for me are social isolation, apathy towards cleaning my house and other self-care issues have combined with healthy doses of depression and anxiety, perhaps as a result of the negative symptoms. Lately I have been trying to treat my depression and especially my anxiety by returning to meditation. But after doing a google search on negative symptoms of schizophrenia I learned that the medications I take are mainly for treating positive symptoms and not for treating negative symptoms. There is no effective medication yet for negative symptoms and so many people are turning to cognitive behavioral therapy and talk therapy.

I don't know much about cognitive behavioral therapy, though my therapist says she uses some of the techniques with me, but I do know about talk therapy. I see my therapist once every two weeks and the rest of the time I talk into my tape recorder several times a day and listen back to my recordings. I take short notes that I write on the tape sleeve that fits into the case, so that I have some idea of what's on the tape if I want to listen to it at a later date. At some point I might transcribe sections of the tape to use with my other writing, especially for my memoir.

What I've found is that talking into the tape recorder helps to ease my sense of social isolation, which is one of my negative symptoms. I equate social isolation sometimes with depression and anxiety, so talking and listening help to treat all of it. Unfortunately, it appears to do little towards helping me to clean my house, wash my clothes and brush my teeth. I wish there was a pill for that and for shedding the weight I've put on in the last 10 years. But I will take what I can get, though I am considering asking my psychiatrist for an anti-anxiety pill. I did some research on that and found most of the potent anti-anxiety pills are addictive, plain and simple, and not really worth taking, unless you have severe panic attacks, and then only temporarily. I did discover that I might be suffering from something called General Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and that there is a relatively harmless drug called Buspirone or Buspar that has been helpful for others. It is mildly sedating, has no serious drug interactions and is basically non addictive. I'm going to talk about it with my therapist and then with my psychiatrist.

In order to tackle my self-isolation I discovered a new approach this week. I asked an old friend if I could send her a tape of me talking to her. Technically I should be able to pick up the phone and give her and other friends a call, but I've developed some phone phobia. She said yes and even offered to send me a tape of herself. So I sent the tape to her, she got it on Friday and is working on a tape to send me this week. I am excited to be doing this. I have thought of doing it before with another friend, but I chickened out and never sent the tape. Now I feel ready, especially after conducting my self-talk experiment for over three years now. And I am so glad that it is this particular old friend that I'm communicating with. I worried that I got a little too personal with her on the 2nd side of the tape, but she said it just made her feel as if I really cared about her, and I do! It is special to have this connection with someone from my childhood and youth, someone from my old neighborhood. I'm blessed that she's responded to me. I am even more fortunate to have a circle of online friends who have been so good to me. Last night I picked out a bunch of small presents to give to two other friends. I will send the packages off tomorrow. And Nancy has promised to mail me an old fashioned letter very soon.

Other than this, I have hit my two month mark for writing and reading each day. Tomorrow I will celebrate, I will get a new gadget in the mail; it's called a Kindle. The Kindle is a computer the size of a paperback made for downloading and reading books, listening to audiobooks and listening to music. It also has an experimental program for surfing the internet. Books published before 1923 are mostly free to download and many others are $10 or less. I decided to buy it based on that and the portable internet connection. It can hold up to 3,500 books. I'm hoping it will reduce the pile of books around my couch. Luckily, I had an extra couple of hundred dollars this month, though normally I try not to spend too much. What this means is that I can have an entire library at my fingertips in time. I can browse through so many books and even highlight and take notes on specific pages. I can also have access to the internet wherever I travel. The Kindle is made by Amazon and Amazon pays for the internet connection through AT&T (I think). I am very excited to get it and try it out. I'll let you know if it works out well.

Autumn Choices And Time Will Tell

2010-09-30T13:12:00.003-04:00

It is a very wet and dreary day here. It has been grey for what seems like weeks and as soon as I sniffed autumn in the air (and I did that in the last week of August when the temperature dropped and the students returned), I began sleeping late. When I did wake for the day, sometimes in late afternoon, I felt distinct touches of both depression and anxiety. I woke to a perpetually messy and dirty living room (dining area, kitchen, library, bathroom, etc...) with piles of books around me and eight cats curiously living their cat lives. The living room depressed me; the books both gave me an odd mixture of anticipation, comfort and anxiety, and the cats lessened my discomfort by being friendly and lovely to touch. That the living room depressed me and that the cats lifted my spirits made perfect sense, but what was this book anxiety? It has to do with choice.

I have a large collection of books on a wide variety of subjects: novels, history, plays, poetry, essays, self-help, philosophy, short stories, memoirs, religion, visual arts... You name it and I probably have something to represent it. I began collecting books by keeping the ones that I read for high school. Books by Hemingway, Freud, Maya Angelou, Shakespeare and many others. In college my book collection expanded even more and covered a greater depth of subject matter and I began buying books for the pleasure of it instead of only for classes I needed to pass. I read a lot and enjoyed myself; I wrote interesting papers and discussed what I read with my boyfriend. After college I continued to read and collect books.

There were two lulls in my reading career, one was when I was with my alcoholic and unfortunately abusive boyfriend and the other was after I became acutely psychotic with schizophrenia. Both times abuse, one external and one internal, stopped me from settling into a good book. Once I entered into recovery from the most dire aspects of my illness, I, once again, reached out to the book, but I didn't commit to daily reading. Now within the last 2 months, 12 years after I became acutely psychotic, I am back to daily reading and daily writing. The writers I've read who have written about the writing process generally agree: if you want to learn how to write, you have to read. So I picked out books to look through from my library and brought them into the living room just by the couch (which is where I sleep and work when I am upstairs). I would read one book and the author would refer to another author; I would get curious and look to see if I had any writing by that newly referred to author. Often I did and so I'd carry the book into the living room to be closer to me as I worked. Within a week of doing this, the piles of books increased and spread, some that I had wanted to read getting lost under a new group.

With the proliferation of choices of what to read I developed "reading anxiety". Every time I woke up from a long sleep, often restless due to pressing and strange dreams, I would look around and see books. Though I kept certain key books in view (books on writing, several memoirs, short short stories and a book or two on feminism...) they and all the other books were not organized. I remember when I was acutely ill, I would go from one book to another reading little snippets trying to find some kind of guidance for this mental upheaval in my life. How lost I got! To the point where I stopped turning to books for any length of time. But now I am no longer acutely ill, but still my illness leaves me this anxiety about setting priorities and making choices.

After surviving the judgmental nature of my voices, I learned that I had indeed made many bad choices in my life. I had hurt myself, my family and my abused and abusive lover. I began to see that the choices I made went to form the life I lived. Poor choices (and bad karma) pulled me into more poor choices, until I scraped the bottom. At the bottom I looked into my own mortality and decided I wanted to fight to live. The first time that happened I had to reject my lover and the second time that happened I had to reject my delusions and take my medications. After each crisis and partial resolution, I have been left with myself and with a new set of choices. Invariably I wound up wandering from one thing to another. I dabbled, but did not commit.

So seven weeks ago I chose to return to daily reading and writing. Several weeks into it I set a goal -- to stick to this routine for 12 months and not return seriously to painting or songwriting. Next week will be my 2 month mark and it's an important one because it is usually around that time that I shift my focus. This time I will not. But still I have the anxiety over what to concentrate on each day. I have dipped into feminism, existentialism, US history, into memoirs, essays, prose-poems, flash and sudden fiction (which are short, short stories), and so much more. And I've been writing down memories for my memoir, poems and prose-poems, the beginnings of several short stories. As usual, I am going in many directions at once, tasting, testing, letting new or revisited ideas sink into my unconscious and then re-emerge into my writing. What I'm learning is that writing, with the intention of writing at least one book, is all about being willing to go into a mysterious creative process. The process requires a certain amount of surrender. I tell myself when I don't want to write -- Just Do It! Write anything, but commit!

I am commitment shy with my work and with my friendships, afraid of intimacy and potential revelation, but this makes me feel ill, depressed and anxious. I am in the process, I am surrendering, but it will be uncomfortable for a while till I grow my roots. Each day I face my discomfort and I make decisions. Fall will shift into winter and I will have months and months of time alone in my house with my books and my writing schedule. The more time I put into it, the more material I will have to work with, especially by the end of a year's apprenticeship. The deeper I go into the process of gathering and growing words on a page, the clearer I believe my sense of direction will be, the less the anxiety, the greater the sense of purpose. I do believe, but only time will tell.

Shadows And Light

2010-09-16T16:39:00.004-04:00

I just read a lovely long email by Karen Sorensen. Half way through it she writes that in her experience I am a rare schizophrenia sufferer. Some of those that she has had contact with are low functioning, have trouble using the computer or are struggling to survive in one way or another. I am what psychiatrists call a "high functioning" schizophrenia sufferer. I still have the basic symptoms like poor self care, social isolation and lingering voices, but I am alert, intelligent and creative, so I have more resources than others who suffer from the same illness. Karen reminds me not to lose sight of this basic fact.

In the past I have embraced the recovery model for schizophrenia, not wanting to acknowledge the harsh facts of life that we are not all created equal, that some are stronger, faster, smarter and more beautiful than others. That children are starving right now. That there are people dying miserable deaths after living miserable lives. Anything is possible, from the wondrous to the hellish, in this world. In the spectrum of things, I am somewhere in the middle, neither very fortunate nor very unfortunate. I still tend to think that the majority of people in the world fall into this middle category and that it is very healthy for all of us to count our blessings, such as they may be. Even people at the lower end of existence need to see and acknowledge what is good in their corner of the world. And there are good things like sunshine on a cool fall day, sipping a good cup of tea or coffee while reading, catching a child's smile directly at you while shopping in the grocery store and the list can go on and on.

The other day I was thinking about suicide after reading about a leading feminist's suicide in 2003 at the age of 77. She had said earlier in her life that she would consider suicide at a certain age after living a full and rewarding life. Her reasons for committing the act would not be mental illness or despair, but a desire to leave this world with a certain dignity instead of wasting away into old age and being a burden to her family. I might someday follow suit and do the same. I like the idea of making a decision, preparing for it and doing it, instead of living in the shadow of death. But later that day I was feeling poorly, wondering, as I do from time to time, what the point of my life was and my thoughts circled back to suicide. I lost sight of the sunshine, the tea and the child's smile. I felt stuck in my ever present isolation from other human beings, stuck in my aimlessness; I was getting sick and tired of myself. And yet still I reached for my tape recorder to talk to myself or talk myself out of my depression. What could I, as my only best friend, do to alleviate my discomfort but talk to myself and then listen back to what I had said that day only hours beforehand. It wasn't much, but it was something.

I don't really want to die just yet. My recent commitment to writing (five weeks and counting) is a daily affirmation of my willingness to keep trying. The feminist who killed herself was 77 and I am only 48. The feminist had lived a full and rewarding life as a writer, teacher, mother and wife. My rewards have been more modest; I still believe that my recovery can grow deeper roots, that I can learn to work more consistently and that that work can bear fruit. So I plod along each day writing at least 500 words whether I'm in the mood or not. The pile of books that I'm reading is growing around me as I awkwardly reach for self-expression. Right now I'm thinking of the song "We Shall Overcome" not in terms of the civil rights movement, but in terms of my own struggle to overcome lethargy and silence. I want to use my high functioning skills to speak out for myself, maybe speak out for others as well who can't speak so well for themselves. My fantasy, like so many writer's fantasies, is to publish a book that reaches people's hearts and minds. I want my story to matter to more than just me.

The heart of all good stories, factual and fictional, is conflict and resolution. I resist the darker side of things. I want conflict to go away. I want recovery to be possible for everyone. I want us all to cease suffering and be forever happy in a nirvana-like existence. I'm like a little girl dreaming of a utopia. But most utopian stories don't make for good reading because that's not what we're experiencing in the real world. Instead we keep coming up against road blocks and detours and accidents. We keep losing our way and our balance...and then we get back on track due to our own resourcefulness or by luck or the grace of some enigmatic higher power. Conflict and resolution. Conflict is fraught with subtle meaning, shadows and light and we never stop yearning for the resolution of our temporary problems. But sure as one wave follows another, conflict returns. We can't just rest in the space between the waves. Life keeps pushing forward and the past keeps receding behind us.

The human condition is challenging for all of us, no exceptions. We can either step up to the challenge and live or make a final exit and die. Most of us step up whether we want to or not. We take comfort in what comforts are available to us. Maybe we won't all recover, but nothing should stop us from trying to improve our lot in life as best we can. And those that can, through their honesty and example, should help others along the way. For now, I'm going to keep trying, that's all any of us can do.

A Response To Isolation

2010-09-03T19:51:00.005-04:00

I am having trouble staying in touch with new and old friends. One of them called me up and left an endearing message, another wrote me a great long email and others I just want to interact with again because they, too, are sensitive, creative and interesting people. Instead I choose to remain isolated. I do write my minimum of 1,000 words a day and that does takes precedence over writing to my friends, but I also think I use it as an excuse to stay pulled into myself. Is this strange social detachment, which I have gone in and partially out of for years, even before I became acutely ill with psychosis, the natural outcome of suffering from a "brain disease"? Is it not a choice, but my biological/spiritual fate? Will it only become a more pronounced way of life for me as I age? Except for contact with my brother, which I truly enjoy, and occasionally with my sometime friend Richard, I am a recluse, hermit and loner, but up till now I have been sociable online, in my blog and with online friends or on message boards. I used to spend five hours or more at the computer communicating with others, valuing their lives and contributing my thoughts and good wishes. Now I use the computer for word processing and research more and more and for communicating with others less and less.

The question--is it a stubborn will or is it a biologically supported fate, is an unnerving one. If I am being stubborn, I find that rather perverse and if it is biological, I find that scary. Perhaps it is a temporary dip into depression, which I have been going in and out of for years. I hope that's the explanation, but I really don't know.

And yet, I write. I'm writing here like a scientist at the the North Pole with a desire to share my discoveries and with a need to affirm my value as a solitary human being. Perhaps I'm calling out for help or maybe to leave a small mark that communicates, yes, I was here at such and such a time and place, like those ancient hand prints on cave walls. That a handful of people read my blog (sparse though it has been lately) is another reason I am motivated to write and post what I write. I want to appeal to your value as a solitary human being because I do believe that we are the only ones living our lives. No matter how close we get to other people we all return to a solitary space within ourselves. And in that space, we take the time to reflect on our days and nights. If we're fortunate, we learn something and pass it on to someone else.

I still have this urge to pass on something, to join the human circle or why write at all? I'm fostering this activity which is my writing process, so that I don't get sucked up into a void. I read for the same reason. I get to know other writers through what they write. I learn from them; it eases my solitary confinement and then I get inspired to write my version of a corner of my life. I want to stop blaming myself for being odd, as if my oddness were a bizarre willful choice. It's just possible that suffering from schizophrenia is my lot in life, a lot I can't change, the way a zebra can't change its stripes. I am not just my illness, but still my illness does set up some of my limitations and thereby defines me. I know there are those that disagree, who say "my illness does not define me," but I haven't found that to be the case. The illness is a handicap that I can live with, which doesn't mean I can't aspire and work to excel in whatever capacity is available to me. I have a need to be pragmatic more than I have a need to be delusional and that is an accomplishment aided by psychiatric drugs, therapy and my own dogged persistence of living day by day and night by night.

Something I do want to say to those of you who are my online friends, I appreciate you, your life and struggles, though I may not be able to tell you this as often as I'd like. You all give me hope with your intelligent creativity and general kindness that humans are not meant to be a lost species that winds up destroying itself. You reinforce for me the idea that we are all basically good (Buddha Nature). And so I want to thank you for reading what I write and for all the times that you have responded with words of wisdom and support.

An Award And An Offer

2010-08-26T16:39:00.004-04:00

As you can see I just got an award for my blog. Here is a list of the other nine winners:

Schizophrenia - A Carer's Journal

http://mindriddles.blogspot.com/

Overcoming Schizophrenia

http://overcomingschizophrenia.blogspot.com/

Schizophrenia Blog

http://www.schizophreniablog.org/

Gaining Insight

http://gaining-insight.blogspot.com/

Hope Is Real!

http://hopeisreal.blogspot.com/

Suicidal No More

http://www.suicidalnomore.com/

Living With An Invisible Disability

http://livingwithaninvisibledisablity.blogspot.com/

Schizophrenia Society of Nova Scotia

http://ssnsc.blogspot.com/

Tony's Schizophrenia Corner

http://tonysschizophreniacorner.blogspot.com/

So congratulations to me and the other blog winners for doing a good job. I definitely appreciate it. It makes me think that maybe I'm doing more good with this blog than I realize. I also got a short email from someone "working on behalf" of the Janssen pharmaceutical company. Here's the email:

Dear Kate:

We had the opportunity to read your blog and learn more about your experiences as a person living with schizophrenia and all of the great work you do in the mental illness community. That is why we are reaching out to you.

Our company, Barsamian Communication, is currently working on behalf of Janssen, to develop a Mental Health Community Council comprised of people living with schizophrenia, caregivers and advocates to share their experiences and help guide the development of educational and marketing materials.

I would love to set up a time to speak to tell you more about the Council and see if you might be interested in participating in our next meeting in September.

Please let me know.

Best,

Leah

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So I was wondering what some of you think about this offer. I've emailed Leah to say that I am not very good with talking on the phone, but would be happy if she emailed me more information. So I have to wait and find out if that is okay.

I'm of two minds about volunteering to work for a big pharmaceutical company, even just minimally. On the one hand a company like Janssen is such a powerful business company that I am suspicious of its motivations. On the other hand opening the lines of communication between those that suffer from schizophrenia, either directly or indirectly by being a caregiver, and those that make a product that treats it, is potentially very commendable. Because the Janssen company is so wealthy they have the potential to really help those in need. My first thought is that they could organize support groups in very rural areas, such as mine, to give people the opportunity to receive free mental health support. The support groups that I know of all encourage medication compliance, as do I, and that could benefit the Janssen company, but more than that it would benefit the people who have the least access to healthcare, but who desperately need the community support with or without the use of psychiatric drugs. It still amazes me that no one has latched onto the incredible potential of support groups. They are low cost, low maintenance and they allow people to get help and give them a place to organize themselves.

If a company like Janssen did sponsor and organize support groups in rural areas throughout the U.S. there would have to be restrictions put on them. Community service above business promotion. It would be good public relations for them and that should be enough. I do not know if it can be done legally, but it is worth looking into it. Anyway, though I am somewhat skeptical, I would love the opportunity to help those in need.

*******************************************

On the home front, I've been writing nearly daily for over two weeks. My goal is to write at least 1,000 words a day, or close to that. The idea of writing daily for those who do write and aspire to get published is an old idea, but a generally good one. I recently got the idea from several writers who have written popular books on writing. Carolyn See in her book Making A Literary Life: Advice for Writers and Other Dreamers, pushes her formula which is write 1,000 words 5 days a week for the rest of your life. Stephen King in his book On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft, pushes for writing 2,000 words every day, but then he says he can get through the first draft of a novel in three months. Julia Cameron in her book The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path To Higher Creativity, urges that writers write three pages in stream of consciousness style every morning.

I finished reading the King book yesterday. I had gotten the book for my brother one Christmas because he expressed an interest in writing, but I had never read it. Then I read in Karen Sorensen's "Dignify Me" blog that she was reading the book, so on impulse I bought it for myself as a gift instead of going through the public library system as I did with the other books I mentioned. Mr King starts the book out as a memoir of parts of his childhood and youth up until he became a success with his novel Carrie. I enjoyed that part of the book, especially the author's honesty and sense of humor. There were laugh out loud bits there mixed in with more serious descriptions of his working class mother and his working class youth. I learned later on in the book that it was around this point in his writing and his life that he got run over by someone driving a van and nearly lost his ability to walk. He almost gave up on writing the book, but then found that it was a kind of mental therapy that went along well with his physical therapy and he finished the book. The rest of the book was good too, but not as fun to read. He goes into the nuts and bolts of writing, or at least those aspects of writing practice that he came to stand by, though there is certainly still a lot of honesty and humor in the remaining parts as well.

It's good to be reading and writing regularly again. Many of the writers who write books on the craft of writing obviously write from their experience, hence these books are memoirs. Lately, that is the kind of book that I have been drawn into reading, rather than to straight out memoirs. I like reading about how writers came to become writers. I may not follow all of their advice, but it does stimulate me to keep trying.

Mammogram Results

2010-08-14T15:02:00.004-04:00

A month ago I went to have a mammogram done. A week and a half later I got a short form letter from the hospital saying that they had found something on my mammogram. There was a sentence saying that most of these findings turn out to be benign, but, of course, I began to worry. The news came just before my brother and I had to leave for the Grassroots festival for four days. I quickly made an appointment for the end of the following week to have another closer mammogram done. Soon after we got to the festival I told my brother about the letter. My parents would be arriving soon for a 12 day visit and I would have to tell them too. My brother tried to reassure me that it was unlikely that I had cancer because we have no history of breast cancer in our family, but I knew it was wiser to stay open to the possibility in case he was wrong. I wanted to be prepared for the worst. I didn't want to take my life and health for granted.

Despite the shadow from my news, we had a decent time at the festival, no real problems, just a bit of thunder, lightning and rain. I can't remember the first time we went to this festival, but it must have been within the last decade. We try to make it an annual event since neither of us get to hear live music very often. For the last couple of years we've stayed in a mildly run down motel that's maybe 15 minutes drive away from the festival. It's good to be at the festival, out of doors and around people listening to music and eating good food, but it is also nice to go back to the motel and withdraw from all that, go back to home base.

Off and on throughout our trip I would consider the possibility that I did have cancer and wonder how long I would have to live. My breasts did not feel lumpy, but my left breast did seem to me to ache more than usual. I began to pray that if I did have cancer, that it would be in the very early stages of it because then I might have a chance to recover from it. I couldn't quite get myself to imagine what it would be like to have a breast or both breasts removed surgically. I'm not very fond of my breasts since I put on all this weight due to taking some of the anti-psychotic medications, but that didn't mean I wanted to lose them either. Before I got really ill in 1998, I had thought that I would live to a ripe old age because both of my grandmothers had lived to be 94. After I began to recover from my illness I knew anything could happen and stopped taking my life for granted. The hard fact is that many people who suffer from schizophrenia die a good 25 years before the general population.

I think the reason many mentally ill people die so young is 1) due to suicide and 2) due to not taking care of oneself by going to doctors during the early stages of problems. I hadn't had a mammogram done since 2007 when I should have been having it done once a year. Presently I don't have a gynecologist and haven't had a Pap smear done sine 2007 too. I'm at an age when I have to be more responsible about going to doctors and resist my urge to put it off for another day, week...year.

Since I became psychotically ill, a part of me has become tired of life and willing to let go of it. Contemplating my early death seemed possible and if I had to die, I wished to die well, with some dignity. I needed some time to prepare. Buddhist are very much into contemplating death and preparing for its eventuality. I have several audiobooks on it, but never got very far in listening to them. I still have a touch of a superstitious mind and believe that if I think about death, somehow I will bring it closer to me and die. I'm pretty sure that's another illusion and the only way to deflate an illusion is to pop it by doing what you are afraid of doing. This attitude didn't get me to listen to those audiobooks, but it did get me to face death more squarely and consider it.

The part of me that wanted to live prayed that I didn't have cancer. I haven't accomplished much in my life except surviving domestic violence and acute psychosis. I still wanted to write at least one book, a book that might include some of my artwork, possibly a CD of a few of my songs. All that required time, persistence and discipline along with some talent, all of which I wasn't sure that I had. Still I prayed.

My parents arrived two days after we got home from the festival. I had done some cleaning, but because I was worrying much of the upstairs was not ultimately cleaned. The downstairs, where they would be staying, was in good shape. They had a bedroom with two twin beds, an eating/studio room, a laundry/kitchenette room and a very small bathroom. I had also had a new phone/computer jack installed in the bedroom, so that my father could have free use of my computer while he was here. This meant that I did not have the use of my computer, but I found that I got along without it while they were here.

After I told my parents about the mammogram result, they both insisted on coming with me when I had the second, closer mammogram done. And so we went. They waited in the waiting room and I was taken by the same woman who did my mammogram the last time to the same mammogram machine. She said this time it might hurt a little bit more, which it did. She only took an image of my right breast because the left breast (which I had been worrying about) was all clear. A few moments after that she came back with the results: no cancer. Not just no cancer, but no benign lump either. Nothing to do except thank the Higher Power for the thumbs up sign. The woman then went on to talk to me for a bit saying that she didn't like bringing women back in, but that if she had any doubt due to what was on the mammogram, she didn't want to wait for a year to go by before another test was taken. She then showed me the before and after picture. On the before picture was an area that was lighter than the rest of the image indicating something, but the after picture showed no such indication. She said the first image was just a skin fold and that the tighter second image showed this. The main thing was, I was okay. I thanked her and told her she had a tough job. I was grateful to her for being so thorough, despite the worry it put me through. I knew she deserved a lot of credit for being willing to do this work for other women's health. She agreed that it was a hard job; I knew she needed to hear what I had said to her and hoped that it made her feel good. All I knew was that I was feeling pretty good myself. When I saw my parents in the waiting room I made the double thumbs up sign and smiled.

And so we were all very relieved. My parents went on to stay for another week and a half. We went to two plays, two movies, a historic Native American site and out to several good restaurants including two Thai and two Indian restaurants. I had to do a lot of driving, but it was worth it because my family had such a good time.

So no breast cancer and another chance to get back on track. All throughout this I did not meditate. Time to return to it. Time also to return to my writing. One of my old friends who I found on Facebook encouraged me to continue with my memoir, so did my mother. Just having them give me encouragement is all I need to renew my commitment.

Wake Heart Be Open

2010-07-05T20:13:00.005-04:00

I made up these cards to help me to meditate. On the first card -- Wake Heart Be Open -- are words chosen by the head teacher, Lama Shenpen Hookham, from the online Buddhist course I am taking. The longer version is "Wake up. Connect to your heart. Be fully present. Open out into space." Lama Shenpen places a lot of emphasis on the daily practice of meditation, gradually extending it from sitting to include walking and then to weave it into daily activities. I'm at the very beginning still. I sit, albeit restlessly, for around 45 minutes a day. The bare minimum is 15 minutes. The meditation instructions we are following are for Shamata Vipashyana or "Calm" "Insight" meditation. It's insight that made the Buddha wake up, but first he practiced calming himself. But I am not calm. I have moments of calmness, but they get repeatedly swept away. So I continue the practice and wait. I have a resistance to sitting cross legged on the floor because my back gets uncomfortable and yet, ultimately, that's the sitting pose I would like to adopt. Years ago I wouldn't meditate until after I did at least 45 minutes of yoga and that worked fine because the yoga stretched out the kinks in my body and settled me down through my breath.

I'm trying to understand what Buddhist practitioners mean by "waking up" to the present moment. I know it does not mean being lost in thoughts. How much time am I lost in thoughts each day? Quite a lot and some of that thought is negative and leads to anxiety and/or depression. Then other thoughts are pleasant or helpful. Not all thought is bad and must be gotten rid of, but one point is that there is so much more to life than thinking. The only way to see that is to rest in non thinking moments. What's going on when you are not thinking? Unadulterated awareness. If you are fortunate, you have all your senses, alive and well and they sharpen your awareness.

If you've ever wondered if an animal can be considered as intelligent as a human animal, feel your own non thinking awareness. There is great intelligence in basic awareness. It's not the thoughts that make you smart. I saw a bear outside my house very, very early one morning. There was just enough light to make out her form. I was standing on my couch looking out the window and the bear noticed me right away. I could tell by her body language. Her body language even in such little light was so expressive and I had no doubt that the bear was smart and very vital. I recognized something in her that was in me too -- alert awareness. Also I was a little frightened and that made me even more aware.

Above my computer, I have tacked on the wall a small abstract painting I made in art school, one of my favorites. I put it there so that I can look up and see it during the moments when I'm resting from reading or writing at the computer. It talks to me, but not in words or thoughts and I just like looking at it. There's a medium sized rectangular window above the painting and I get a similar sensation of satisfaction when I look out at the sky and the tops of the trees. I don't think, I just look, listen, smell, feel. I am awake in those moments, the way a cat or a dog (or a bear) is awake. How am I different from the cat or dog? I respond to visual symbolism: words/books, photographs, paintings, films -- the world of illusions. My sign telling me to "Wake Up" is also an illusion. I imagine that it is telling me to be more alert, but it is not telling me anything, it is a piece of paper with marks on it that I have interpreted and given meaning to. I am, in effect, using the illusion to my advantage.

The "Wake Up" sign has no meaning unless I attach the words to memories of being awake. I need to make a strong association. This is also thinking, but of the useful kind. It's all about remembering because for so much of the time we are forgetting what we've learned. I know I am lost in forgetfulness too much of the time and so I study and then spend that 45 minutes just existing and while I'm existing I have thoughts and when I get lost in thoughts there comes a point where I realize it and wake up and sort of shock the thoughts into silence and say "thinking". I'm grateful lately when I do get to that point because usually I am too restless. Honestly, I want to get lost in thoughts, wake up and then say "thinking" so that I can identify that sense of space I feel when I label the thoughts and let them go. I want to know that it is okay to let go of elaborate worrisome thinking. I need to give myself permission to stop taking it all (and a lot of it is purely imaginary) so seriously.

How many of us stop for a half an hour and do nothing once a day? No computer, no TV, no books, no cooking, no cleaning, no writing, no talking etc... just sitting in a chair (or cross legged on the floor). When I first meditated the instruction was to close my eyes, but in Lama Shenpen's Tibetan tradition you are supposed to keep your eyes open. I both like this and find it distracting. I want to look around. I see a cat (and I have many cats!) and I want to pet the cat(s). I see my mug of tea and I want to drink the tea. I want to move my head and study the room. I am awake, aware and not thinking very much, but I am restless and unfocused. I know I need an anchor and the anchor I need is placing bare attention on my breathing. I think it will prove to be more important than my "Wake Up" and "Wake Heart Be Open" signs. Lama Shenpen made the point that her instructions are just suggestions, gentle guidance. The trick is knowing when to use what technique. There's a lot to test out in Buddhism.

"Wake up" and "Be fully present" are closely related, but not the same. "Wake up" is the main instruction for all of Buddhism. "Be fully present" is added emphasis which lets you sit up straighter and with more dignity. "Connect to your heart" is harder for me to understand but, according to the Lama, very important. I know she doesn't mean it in any sappy way. I think she means tap into your own tender sensitivity. The "heart" of Tibetan Buddhism is compassion, which is another word I have to reflect on. Before you can have compassion for yourself and others, you have to connect to your heart. You have to feel something. Being intelligent, aware and awake is not enough. The heart run deeps into everything that is alive. It shouldn't be ignored. My heart is getting more flexible, but for a long time it was numb. It's easy to ignore a numb heart, but it is not wise.

"Open out into space" is also hard for me to understand, but I do associate it with the heart, opening the heart and letting go. But how do you open a heart and how do you let go? Flower buds open, doors and windows open, hands open--how does a heart open? Through kindness. What is kindness? It's a special sensitivity to the needs of yourself and others. When you do something nice for someone you open up something in yourself that was shut down, you offer your good intentions. There's a lot of talk with Buddhists about space. What's so important about space? Space is forgiving, all embracing, calming and space is everywhere. Even in an atom there is space. In order to open you need space.

"Wake Heart Be Open" is a meditation puzzle. You can move each word around, make different phrases, turn it into a mantra, add new words. But they are still just the finger pointing at the moon. The real prize (the moon) is in understanding, intuition and insight that comes from playful meditation. I need to remember that when I begin to get overly serious. I also find labeling my thoughts "thinking" sometimes makes me smile and lighten up. So does the Tibetan Lojong slogan "Always maintain only a joyful mind."

NYC Visit

2010-06-21T14:32:00.007-04:00

So I went to New York City a week and a half ago to meet up with my parents for a four night stay. About an hour or so before I arrived at 35th Street and Park Ave, my 83 year old father had tripped and fallen in the street while he and my mother were shopping for dinner and supplies. At the time he refused to go to the hospital and managed to walk back to the Unitarian church apartment we were renting out. He was waiting outside for me and quickly told me what had happened and showed me his wounds: a scraped left knee and a swollen and bruised left hand. I told him he should go to the hospital, but he refused, that is until the next day when his knee felt strange and he was having difficulty walking. He called a friend who lives in Manhattan and she suggested that he go to a hospital on East 17th Street. It was very fortunate we went there because we didn't have to wait. My father had come well prepared with a list of all his medications; he also filled out many forms with no problem. The nurse looked at his wounds and asked him specific questions, then a young doctor did the same and then my father had x-rays taken of his hand and knee. We got the results quickly--no broken bones, which surprised the doctor because my father's hand was quite swollen. A splint was put on his knee and one on his hand and wrist and he was sent home, told to rest, to keep his hand elevated and put ice on it as well.

My father decided that he would remain in the apartment for the duration of the trip, but we soon found out that he was having a lot of trouble getting in and out of chairs. So my mother and I stayed close to him. I took on the responsibility of going shopping. We were located in the Murray Hill section of New York and there were plenty of delis and drug stores and a supermarket. One night, after setting my father up in a chair in front of the TV, my mother and I went out to a nearby Korean restaurant and had dinner, which was very pleasant. The other nights we had sandwiches or a pizza and lots of tea. The day before we were to leave my parents urged me to go out for a few hours, so I took a 5th avenue bus down to 8th street in Greenwich Village. I had found a Thai restaurant on Bleeker Street that I wanted to try as well as walk around and do a little shopping. I didn't want to buy too much because I had packed too much in my duffle bag to begin with.

So, no going to museums and art galleries and no New York City Ballet performance this time. You would think that I would have been unhappy or depressed with the situation, but I wasn't. I see my parents so infrequently that getting to be around them and to actually be helpful to them satisfied me for the most part, though I certainly wasn't happy that my father had fallen and hurt himself. I think we were all relieved that he didn't need to be hospitalized because he had no broken bones or internal injuries. When things go wrong, count your blessings first. I was pleased with myself that I didn't back down from the challenge of the situation, which I probably would have several years earlier when I had been sicker. I enjoyed being in the small apartment with my parents and I enjoyed going outside and doing the shopping for us all. The City had visual appeal, skyscrapers and old brownstones, wide avenues and the delis and restaurants, but mostly the visual appeal was in all the people rushing past me, young and old, multi-cultural, a great and dynamic diversity. I still liked the City and felt the privilege of staying in an apartment so centrally located. I imagined what it would be like to live there, but knew that I wouldn't. In fact, this was the first time I went to the City where I wasn't dreaming of being back in it again, though I still wish sometimes that I lived only an hour and a half away from it. I had looked at a house in 1988-89 in Saugerties, New York which is roughly near Woodstock, New York (which is not THE Woodstock of the late 1960s festival, but close enough). It was a good location, but the road was too isolated and I knew not a soul around there. Not that I know so many people where I live now, but I do have my brother and that makes all the difference.

I did not meditate while I was away. I had thought I would meditate on the bus, but I didn't feel comfortable and then after getting together with my parents and after learning of my father's fall, I spent much of my time being attentive and supportive towards them. I found I also couldn't settle into reading my Buddhist books. I became easily distracted. I was disappointed in myself for not even trying to meditate. I guess it was too soon in my practice because I had only been meditating for just a month and under mostly non stressful circumstances i.e. me quietly at home reading and meditating. Some Buddhists say "The path IS the goal." And if the path is the goal then one day when I'm in a stressful situation I will remember to approach it through meditation.

I've been home for a week, slowly trying to get back into a routine of meditation and reading. I have not contacted anyone online except for my parents and uncle. This is a typical pattern for me. After I come back from a trip, I keep to myself for a week or so. And this will happen several times more this summer. I go with my brother each year for four days and three nights to a music festival in Ithaca New York called the Grassroots Festival. That's coming up in a month and then my parents will be staying at my house for a week and a half a few days after we get home from the festival. I have a little over a month to get this house in order. If I start now and do a little work each day, I should be in good shape in late July. A couple of days ago I listened to an audio program called Organizing From The Inside Out by Julie Morgenstern. I wrote down some of her ideas, such as, to analyze and take stock of your situation and then create a plan of action, a realistic schedule and then get to sorting and arranging.

Well, maybe I'm a little disappointed about the trip to NYC, but I did learn that I can make the trip to the City, that I can handle myself better than I realize. That's good to know. I also learned that I need more overall meditation practice and to take it slowly.