God Visits
Mood:  bright
Topic: mental health
What is too personal for a blog?

Menstrual cramps. Blow jobs. The cost of your new piece of jewelry. Things you stole. The rape of someone close to you - it isn't nice to point the finger and name the victim. I've learned that rape is a crime you are supposed to sweep under the rug. The box name of the hair dye you dye your hair with. The size of your underwear. Some of the last words of your grandmother.

And maybe, a visit from God?

It is hard to describe such a thing. It didn't happen to me. It happened to my husband. The day after he had to deal with me being suicidal.

It was night. Before my husband goes to sleep. So it was dark in the room. I was snuggled against his side in bed and describing to him what I had written that day in my blog. The cat was lying on his stomach. I was telling him about my therapist's attempts to get me to believe that my life has purpose and meaning. My husband never reads my blog, but I keep him pretty informed. Its nice, because I can edit information, play loose with the truth, but usually, I always come clean.

I don't remember the sequence of events, and my husband says that his memory is pretty vague too. But I do remember my husband saying that he didn't care what my therapist said, for me to hush, that the Goddess had a message for me. That she wanted me to know that my life had purpose and meaning. And my husband began to cry. He kept saying that it felt so wonderful, but that if any more of the spirit entered him he would have a heart attack. And he said that I must know that the Goddess felt strongly about her prophesy, or else, why would she pay such an intense visit?

I know that he is used to his Goddess visiting him a little during ritual, but this clearly was something else. He was being visited powerfully and completely. The next day he would say that now he understands what early Christians say when they felt like when they were filled with the Holy Spirit. But that night, everything was a bit confused, and my husband was worried about the most ordinary thing in the midst of his religious experience; how would he get to bed and to sleep because he had to get up early in the morning and go to work? I told him to roll over and I would scratch his back. That usually relaxes him. And thankfully, swiftly, his Goddess released him and let him get to sleep.

I was left awake wondering what had just happened. A message intended for me? That my life definitely had meaning and purpose? And euphoria accompanying the message? Now I had someone I could pester any time, and ask for comfort, not because it was his opinion, but because it was the opinion of his God handed down to him. I could ask, "And what did she say to you?" And receive that same answer again and again. "Your life has meaning and purpose". Not because my husband loves me. Not because my therapist thinks that meaning and purpose is your birthright, given to you like you are given a kidney or liver,- so solid, so real and so unarguable. Now my meaning and purpose was wrapped up in a mystery. The mystery of a religious experience.

There was some doubt about the timing. The day after I was suicidal. Couldn't the experience have unhinged my husband? Was I just witnessing the expression of unconscious forces, bidden forth, by stress and trauma? Such an idea would meet with resistance from my husband. He is a true believer. And what he got was a visit. There was an I/Thou relationship going on. He received a message, he doesn't believe he concocted one.

It is always an adventure being his wife. One day, while we were on the street, and a couple passed us holding hands, a middle aged man and woman. I thought, "they look like tourists. I like her short, blond hair, it looks bleached. And wouldn't it be nice to be as thin as her in my middle age?" But my husband said out loud, "she is dying and she knows it. But she seems happy." He deduced all this from her aura, which he said was thready and see-through transparent, almost, as it was ready to disappear from this life with her.

I must admit that in the days following my husband's telling me that he was filled with the Holy Spirit and prophesizing about my meaning and purpose, I had a little more respect for him. Not that I don't always respect him, it was just that I had to wonder about him as a phenomena, a force in this world unlike any other. He is goofy. He is enthusiastic. He is creative. He is a humble worker-bee in his job. And I am sometimes grumpy and annoyed at him, but I usually do manage to hold my tongue, because really I know, he doesn't deserve any ill will from me. But for several days I was in addition to being his true-blue companion, somewhat amazed by him. He had an authentic moment of wonder and awe that I witnessed. Through it all he seemed blessedly human. Small in form being eclipsed by forces that were beyond him, and just trying, to hang on. And that silly worry on the heels of something important - "I must sleep because I have to get up early in the morning". What happened to him never happens to me. I don't get the same kind of visits and inside information. I certainly don't see people's auras. God whispers to me, he never shouts.

The worry that dodged me all last week, and partly encouraged my suicidal mood, has been taken care of. The bill for over one thousand dollars from my medication nurse has been reduced to $186.40, something that we can more easily manage. It took a phone call from my therapist asking what was going on before I got the phone call from the company's receptionist telling me that the bill had been adjusted. My medication nurse agreed to wipe out everything except from the date January 2009 forward. This manages to avoid debt for the hour long "therapy" sessions I had with her, which I would have never devised, if I had known that insurance and medicare wouldn't be enough to cover them. Now I am seeing my medication nurse once every three months, the leanest time I have ever scheduled a visit. But I seem to be pretty solid, with of course, the occasional suicidal fantasy tripping me up. But really, what heals me the most is seeing my therapist every Friday. What we discuss is usually central to my existence. He says I keep him on his toes, he has to be in top shape with me. And rather than being depressed by the challenge, I think it invigorates him.

When my morning is free, and my mind is sound, I manage to write for about an hour on my book. I'm still at the point where the story is in rough draft form. I'm writing with a ball point pen in a note book. When I come to the end of this chapter (a day in the life of my main character) I'll put her to sleep, with what final thoughts I do not know, and reach back with my notebook as reference, to the point where my computer draft ended. I ended on my computer with a group therapy session. In the notebook is everything that happens next. I counted it and as of today I have 73 notebook handwritten pages. This might condense when it is typed. It will certainly be altered as it is typed, a second draft.

The labor of a first, notebook draft and a second computer written draft are very different. In the notebook usually I do not know where I am going. Once the trail has been laid, the work changes. On the computer I'll usually write for several hours. It seems so much harder when everything is new. When everything is retold I'm more artistic, even, more visionary. It isn't true that what is fresh is the best. I do get the feeling that so much is being written, that eventually, things must be severely chopped. But I don't mind overwriting, because I hope that when all is distilled, every note will be new and different, as if my writing were notes in a song that surprised you with every turn.

I recently watched, cringing, the movie "The Color Purple". I rented it from the library. And what made me cringe was the brutality in the movie. Sure, it has a happy ending. I guess that is what saves the movie. Because there are some really dark themes going on. Incest. Beatings. Racism. Insanity. So I watched the movie, at times wondering whether I could bear it any more, and I thought to myself, "since I am writing a dark book, with the central theme of mental illness and suicide, this movie gives me hope. Darkness can be celebrated. But note to myself, you better pour on the honey at the end if you are going to hit the reader over the head with despair."

Some mentally ill bloggers get awards. "Mental health" award. "I choose life" award. I'm never going to win one of those awards. I'm not happy enough. I'm not positive enough. My brother and sister used to read my blog, but no longer. Just last week my therapist said that he is going to stop reading my blog because "it sounds like you are talking to your friend and I'm over hearing the conversation". It feels like I failed, losing his readership. But I know, he isn't getting paid to read my blog. It was something he was doing on his own time, and who am I to say what he should be doing on his own time? I made a joke once with my husband. While he was driving the car I said, nonchalantly, "My therapist called me today." He in fact had, to change the time of our meeting because he had a doctor's appointment. But what I told my husband was "He said he called just because he was thinking of me." There was several beats of silence in the car. Then my husband said, like a slow talking cowboy, "Now that's a scary thought." I started laughing and confessed that what I said wasn't true. But you know what they say about jokes. You sometimes joke about what you wish was true.

I read blogs of other mentally ill persons and I am instructed. I am instructed in attitude, in forms of insanity, and in recovery propaganda. Everything I read influences me. I must follow at least seven blogs by mentally ill persons who all have a form of schizophrenia. I don't understand why I write about feeling suicidal and suddenly I loose the readership of my therapist. I feel as low as someone who has described their rape. I feel like by detailing the dark, I've done something that trespassed against social graces. I feel like a fumbling idiot for writing what was true.

My muse holds a sword. And she cuts all who follow her.

I've been suicidal once, twice, maybe a hundred times. And given my illness, I'll be suicidal again. I don't like the pain. But doing ordinary things, having ordinary pressures and stresses causes me to get sick. It happens again and again because I go out into the world again and again. Even when I don't go out into the world, it comes into my home to meet me, and there is no escape.

But at this particular moment, I'm at peace. I've worked on my book today (an hour of writing) and I've finished a blog post today, and the weather looks promising for a long walk this evening. To my right, on the floor the dog is curled asleep. To my left, on the bed, the cat is curled asleep. And in my chest, the illness is curled asleep. All is well.

Suicidal
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: mental health
It was rather pathetic. I sat with a noose around my neck. My husband sat in a chair on the other side of the room, a book in his hand, I don't know whether or not he was reading it.

I looked up to the plant hook in the ceiling. The plant that it holds is rather large. My husband told me that the plant hook would not hold my weight, and that the computer cord that I had tied around my neck would not hold my weight either. I had not yet removed the plant. I would have to do that before I hooked the noose around my neck to the hook in the ceiling. I did not believe my husband about the noose cord or the plant hook not holding my weight. I thought I could strangle myself just fine. But I did think about how much pain I would have to go through before I lost consciousness and the fear of the pain stopped me.

There were a lot of pills in the kitchen. I wondered how many pills I could swallow before my husband took them away. And then I thought about the consequences. I could swallow just enough so that my stomach would probably have to be pumped at the hospital. There would be no real danger, they would do it as a precaution. And if I swallowed the pills I might be hospitalized on a psychiatric unit. They would try to change my medication, maybe by adding some sort of anti-depressant or mood stabilizer that would certainly have an unforeseen side effect. The stay in the hospital did not worry me, it was how they would monkey with my medication that worried me. I haven't been suicidal for six months, but they might try to medicate me strongly just to avoid another relapse. I don't want to live over medicated.

I didn't feel sad when I thought about killing myself. I felt at the end of my rope. I felt no love of live, no passion, no plans, no future, no love of self, no caring for anyone in my family. I just wanted to leave it all behind. Mostly, I felt like I was a failure. I certainly did not feel like my life had any meaning or purpose. I was also certainly in an altered state of mind. It was very close to being psychotic. I was not at all feeling like myself. Life was a dream, that was why it was so easy it seemed to end it. Nothing was real. So when my husband suggested that I take a dose of the antipsychotic drug trilifon, I said yes, knowing that it would alter my point of view. Because it takes about 45 minutes to work I added a small dose of klonopin. The klonopin would have the effect of relaxing me.

I knew the trilifon had started to work when, a little later on, I thought of a news story I had read on the BBC that I wanted to tell my husband about. In Iran they had just hung a 16 year old unmarried girl for promiscuity. The 51 year old man she said had raped her three times got a few lashes. And then, a little later on from that, I started to cry and say that I was so scared, scared about everything. That I could feel scared and fragile was a big step forward. It meant a return to me of a wide range of emotions. When I was suicidal I was emotionless.

This day had all the makings of a catastrophe. The night before I had fallen asleep at 7:30 pm and then woke at 3am. I could not get back to sleep and get the 10 to 12 hours that I usually must have on my particular combination of medication. Then I went to church. I went to church for about 3 hours. First I went to an education group, then the worship service, then the social coffee hour afterwords. I could not leave early because my husband was committed to take photographs of the members during coffee hour. People had been phone called at home, they were counting on us being in church and being useful. I had to stay and I had to act "normal" and socially outgoing. I laughed and smiled and made small talk when I felt like I had nothing left in me. I milked myself dry. And when I came home, in the back of my mind was the worry that the next day I had to talk to my prescription nurse about a bill totaling over a thousand dollars that came in the mail. They are trying to bill me going back to 2006 and because I have never received a single bill from them for her before, I had assumed that the combination of my insurance and medicare money that they were receiving was sufficient. This amount had been sufficient for the therapist who is part of their office that I used a while ago. If I had known that there would be extra bills from my medication nurse I would have never used her so frequently and for such long sessions. But the worst problem, before I became suicidal, was not lack of sleep and not social stress and not worry over a large bill that stinks of being unethical. It was that my period, for whatever reason, is late this month. My tubes are tied so I doubt that I am pregnant. I am going through prolonged PMS and I wonder how out of whack my hormones are.

In my last session with my therapist he said that on day one, when I walked through his door, he knew that my life had meaning and purpose. It sounded really nice and special until I asked him if he told all his patients this. And yes, he believes that every life has meaning and purpose. I bet that there are very few patients who are canny enough to ask him, "do you tell everyone this uplifting news?" Instead, they think that he sees something invisible in them, some quality that they do not know they possess, that somehow elevates them and separates them from the rest of humanity. If you are told your life has meaning and purpose, and that the person telling you this can see it, you think "ah, I must be doing something right". At least, when he first told me, that was my initial reaction.

I told the therapist that believing every life had meaning and purpose was a religious point of view. He said that he did not consider himself an especially religious person. He said that even atheists feel this way. Otherwise, there would be many people like Hitler or a Stalin sending people off to the gas chambers. I told him what I heard that the agnostic author H.G. Wells wrote, that in the heart of every atheist is an empty space in the shape of God. He said he would have to Google that quote.

That Friday evening after my therapy session I discussed this idea that every life has meaning and purpose with my husband and he said that this is indeed a religious concept, because to believe it, you have to have faith. And as he said this, I wondered about that word, faith. If a life is miserable, and the person is paralyzed and sickened horribly by their mental illness, to say that their life has meaning and purpose is not to look at the dry, social facts. That they are utterly dependent on social services, that they are not producing anything, and that they are experiencing intense suffering. They may not have even one person in this world who truly loves them, except maybe, for the strangers who practice compassion and love towards others as a way of life. Life can be hard. It would be understandable that such a person in this condition would have a difficult time believing that their life had meaning and purpose. It would take an outside pair of eyes, one that had faith in the future, and faith in the sacredness of life, to try to convince someone who was so down and out that their life was not as it may feel internally. The fact that life has merit even when we severely doubt ourselves and we are doubted by the people around us has to often, be taken, on faith. And this faith feels to me to be a cornerstone of many religions.

In Andrew Solomon's excellent book on depression, "Noonday Demon" he meets an institutionalized, partially paralyzed, mentally ill person who Andrew thinks is a possible candidate for euthanasia. The patient says that he is so miserable and helpless that he would like to die except that he cannot physically take his own life. It was clear to me that Andrew, while feeling compassion towards this lonely man, could not see in front of him a life with "meaning and purpose". Andrew has been clearly taught, in his experience with sickness and suffering, that there is a point where suicide is a reasonable option. In fact, Andrew keeps a bottle of pills just so he can one day have an out, should he decide he ever needs one. From my point of view, Andrews life is full of meaning and purpose - he can write. Boy, can he write well. His prose is effortless and beautiful. But he sees a wall that others may not see. He believes that you can know only so much pain and then life is not worth living. Beyond this wall life has no meaning and purpose, and he wonders, after meeting the unhappy institutionalized patient whether this man's back is up against he wall.

It was rather chilling for me to be inside of the head of man who looks at another man and thinks, "you would be better off dead". Andrew believes he is looking at a life that has no redeeming value. The coldness of a wish to murder is hidden in the midst of his warm compassion for the other man's suffering. Perhaps Andrew puts himself in the other man's shoes, and thinks, "I could not stand living such a life, therefore, such a life is meaningless." After all, Andrew did say that he avoided a hospitalization in a psychiatric ward by instead going on a sailing ship in the Mediterranean with a few friends. Andrew is used to a certain quality of life, we get that from the book. He is used to a certain level of productivity and professional respectability. And oh, we get the information that Andrew has a lot of friends.

Most certainly Andrew has been persuaded by his interview with the man in the institution that there is no hope for the future. The patient has no hope, and so, Andrew has no hope either. Faith in the sacredness of life is defeated by simple argument and showmanship. Because the man says, my life is not sacred and worthy of being saved, Andrew is persuaded, into thinking, this life is not sacred and worthy of being saved.

Andrew is not, in my view, a religious man, although I would say that he is a spiritual man. He has much compassion and writes with a broad range of emotion. You can't help but say to yourself, "this author has life and spirit, and he knows it". But at times he lacks faith and hope. Andrew never discusses his religious views in his writing. But clearly he sees places where the presence of a loving God is absent. And where a loving God is absent, the conclusion Andrew seems to draw, is that death has a right to be present. I would say that Andrew has a tenuous relationship with God, at best.

Andrew has so much going for him, despite also having a mental illness (the author of a book about depression has experience with depression) that from my point of view his life is full of meaning and purpose. His mental illness is less disabling then my own, although not less painful. And his intellect is far superior to my own (schooling at Yale and Oxford). But I know, that in the midst of his depression, probably Andrew can feel like his life lacks meaning and purpose. (That is why he keeps his bottle of pills). It would take a leap of faith to convince a seriously depressed and suicidal person otherwise. When he feels well Andrew can easily make the leap of faith and see, especially in a social sense, that his life has meaning and purpose. But when he is mentally ill this may be hard to do. That is why it is important to tell mentally ill people that their lives have meaning and purpose, because it may not be clear to them from their point of view. My therapist has stumbled upon this phenomena. But he cannot say that the meaning and purpose isn't grounded in faith and religion.

There are certainly humble lives that may have no other saving grace socially other than that they are spiritual and religious lives. Monks and nuns that retreat from society to pray and meditate are left alone by society, we don't say, their lives aren't filled with meaning and purpose because we respect that they are spending their time strengthening a connection to God. But they aren't having babies, and they aren't producing goods, and they aren't educating themselves in a conventional sense, and they aren't improving the world, other than perhaps, taking care of those that society thinks have no meaning and purpose. The homeless. The poor. The criminal. The whores.

For the lowest of the low, monks and nuns never give up on the fact that these lives have meaning and purpose. People whose lives are seeped in religion see meaning and purpose everywhere. For that partially paralyzed mentally ill person in the institution that Andrew interviewed, and so pitied, they would see a soul and a life with meaning and purpose. Monks and nuns would not expect him to contribute to society or become famous or rich. They would expect him to simply live and enjoy life. And they would tell him the secret that they have learned that lifts them up from suffering, that all life has meaning and purpose to a higher power. Perhaps they would say that all life is seeped in that higher power, life is sacred, and to know this and to see it all around you is to be lifted automatically from suffering.

It is impossible to feel that the sick mentally ill person's life has meaning and purpose without the fact that someone loves them, and that their life is valuable to someone. Whether that someone is God (and you are relying more on faith than fact), or a sister or brother or mother or father, it does not matter. You are conferred meaning and purpose, it is given to you either from a notion deep inside, which is faith driven (something along the lines that "I am sacred"), or it is socially driven, when there are authors who write books about you (while you are alive or while you are dead) which all suggest "this life has meaning and purpose". I just finished a second biography on Abraham Lincoln, and boy, did I get knocked in the head that this life was full of meaning and purpose. Irony is, that Lincoln was suicidal at least twice, and many times considered himself a failure. He must have wrestled with the idea that his life had meaning and purpose because he wanted so bad, for exactly that, to be true. He wanted to do something for his fellow mankind. History is great for choosing whose life has meaning and purpose, and whose life has none. There is no other force that is so merciless.

I know that when I was suicidal and very depressed yesterday I did not internally feel it, but now that my normal emotional senses are back I realize that I am stuck like a fly in a web of a social network, I have people all around me who rely on me being alive. They would all say, because they love me, "Your life has meaning and purpose to Me".

When I was so sick yesterday my husband stuck to my side like glue. I remember being in the hospital and having a nurse assigned to me "one on one". It is what they do when they think the threat is great for you to commit suicide. They will let you shower but the door to the bathroom has to be open and they are standing there outside. I don't remember what happens when you pee, but they can be relentless. Probably the door is not shut all the way and they listen to you pee. There is usually no conversation. You are usually too depressed for that. But you feel the presence of a human body sticking to you like glue and it really puts a dent in your fantasies of suicide. It is hard to fantasize about suicide when there is someone there who you know will stop you. Maybe it is comforting to know that there is someone there to stop you. Frustrating, but comforting. Someone is telling you, through their stark body language mirroring you wherever you go "your life has meaning and purpose". You are so valued that I am going to stick to you like glue.

After I took my extra medication my husband said, "Let me give you tickles". So I stripped down and he scratched my back. It was not at all erotic, but it felt ever so nice. My husband believes that he has found a hidden pathway in the brain that can be used to combat depression. Back rubs. A strong form of physical touch. You can be depressed, but can you deny the pleasure? And once there is the pleasure, does this break through a little of the depression? I don't know why, in all psychiatric hospitals, they don't give therapeutic massages. My brother is a "massage therapist". He mostly does trophy wives. But wouldn't it be great if his title was really put to the test, and he gave therapy to people who are at the end of their rope? (Which, unfortunately, some trophy wives are.)

I felt very weak and fragile today. The medication nurse told me about payment plans, that nobody expects you to pay $1000 all at once, and that she personally has a three thousand dollar medical bill, but also, that being billed back to 2006 after being never billed at all was "crazy" and that she would look into it. Mixed messages. I had trouble talking to her during our session. I talked very slowly and had trouble finding my words. She said that I had been "traumatized". But she made no promises to trim the bill. I know from working with a therapist in that agency that it is entirely within their power to accept the medicare and insurance payments as whole. They do control the billing, it doesn't control them. So we shall see. Depending on her behavior, I may not continue working with her. It is too bad, as she is competent and we get along fine. My therapist however had one telephone conversation with her and can't stand her. He may be more sensitive than me. He may be a better judge of character.

I saw my mother today and helped her pick out handles for her new cabinets in her new kitchen in her new cottage on the Maine coast. I went to a website that sold glass ones. She picked clear green glass. Very pretty and very expensive.

The more time I put between me and the suicidal trouble I had yesterday the better I will be. But like my medication nurse said to me today, I have a bad mental illness and there will be rough times. She admires my use of medications to get me through crises. She predicted that I won't know smooth sailing.

Me, I'm still thinking about "meaning and purpose". I am an awful lot happier when I do think that my life has meaning and purpose. It is scary how easily I can lose my grasp on this concept.

Depression and Lies
Mood:  a-ok
Topic: mental health
Last Friday my therapist said this;

"I hate depression because it is a bunch of lies."

He was very passionate when he spoke.

I thought about what he said and remembered what I thought of myself when I was depressed and suicidal and came to him for the first time. I thought this way as recently as last November. Six months ago.

1. I am no good
2. I am a failure
3. The future is dark
4. The future cannot be changed
5. I am stuck
6. The suffering is more than I can bear
7. I am broken and cannot be fixed

In our sessions I have accused my therapist of brainwashing me and telling me lies. He was very disturbed to viewed as a brainwasher. In fact, he looked this word up in the dictionary. It is a habit of his to look up all words that he is uncertain of (I think my vocabulary exceeds his) or that the patient insists on using that might have a negative connotation. He reads out loud the dictionary's definition of the word and you must determine, right there and then, whether it is a word that you wish to continue to flout in his presence, or else, you must take it back as being inaccurate. This way he closely examines the truth or fallacy of what comes out of your mouth. As a medical doctor looks up information on the medication he prescribes, my therapist looks up additional information about the words that come out of your mouth. It is clever. It is eccentric. The dictionary is ever close at hand, on the floor, by his feet.

The official definition of brainwashing was so, may I say evil, that I no longer use the word in my therapist's presence. Oh, he has thrown it back on me, having been wounded by it he doesn't forget the insult, but I hold my peace. If he does not like to see himself in this light I will not press the matter. As I said last Friday to my therapist "I have the desire to tease you, but not the desire to disrespect you." This includes not wishing to hurt his feelings.

However, the essence of my claim is still true. I am being influenced by him and guided by him. I am impressionable; this is a fault and a strength. It is a fault in that I can be mislead when I think that an authority figure is telling me some truth. I bow to authority. I love to be in awe of people, especially people in power. When, twenty years ago, a doctor told me that a patient "was perfectly happy being locked up in isolation, he has made for himself a little nest and adapted to it" I believed this to be true. When a fellow patient in the hospital protested that the continuing isolation in a tiny locked room was inhumane and cruel, and lobbied to free the poor soul and let him mingle for several hours every day with his fellow patients, I realized the error of my ways and was astonished how easily I trusted in the doctors. I had been a sap, a follower, and had little in my bones of a revolutionary nature. Then years later, when I was told that there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and a leader who was prone to use them, I let this political lie be the reason to support going to war. Again, I did not question the wisdom of those in power. What little space I have in my head that allows me to think for myself is precious to me, because, it is such little space.

But my impressionability is a strength in that I am open to the world around me and allow change to happen. Just yesterday, I visited Wal-Mart and twice I saw people that made me say the small prayer, "But for the grace of God there go I". There was a lady with a beard, shaved of course, but obvious in its disfigurement of her looks, and a lady being pushed in a wheelchair. My looks, while not beautiful, at least do not gather pitying or curious looks. And although I am having some difficulty with my knee, at least, I am not confined to a wheelchair. There is great hope that something in my knee will heal or be fixed, and I will walk with ease once again. I saw two people with disabilities that I am glad I do not have.

I was happy that the lady in the wheelchair, who was young, was being pushed by a handsome man, and I imagined, that the two knew domestic bliss. I was also happy to see an interracial couple pushing a carriage with a baby in it. The man was dark chocolate brown, and the girl was fair. The baby was obviously their own, having a complexion that favored the mother, but hair that was very kinky, and showing in texture, that it was a mix of both African and Caucasian blood. I thought about the social obsticals that this couple must occasionally face, and I cheered them on, hoping that they had a love that makes them persevere, even though, they look so very different on the outside. Now they have a baby that really cements them together. If it weren't for my impressionability, such scenes would pass me by without internal remark. I would be more blind to the world and more hard in considering it, if I weren't so impressionable. I know I can be a fool, but occasionally, the world does give me visions.

Knowing that I am impressionable, when I first came to see my therapist, where I saw tragedy of a mental illness, he saw courage in the midst of a mental illness. And he has steadily been working, hard, to change my point of view. He has succeeded in altering me slightly. For instance, I now notice that in my peer support group I elaborate on a participant's "courage" and say that I view the little steps that a sick person makes to link himself to the world at large as being "victorious"over the illness. It is all well and good to be supportive of others who are down, and yet, I am confused. I know signs of illness and disability, and yet, here I am, chirping positive feedback instead of feeling the depths of despair over situations that are far from normal or healthy. It is like I have been granted double vision. I see the hell of things but find myself voicing affirmations. The clown is crying even as he stands on his head, balances a little dog on one foot, and makes you smile and laugh.

I know that my therapist is not depressed, although I do not know if he experiences sadness. To my perception he is a very happy person. It seems like he is a Peter Pan, a boy who has never grown up and who flies through the air. He certainly has the point of view that a happy person has who is wedded to his joy - depression "lies". And I know that I am no longer depressed, my mood is somewhat elevated, and that I no longer usually think the gloomy thoughts that in the beginning of this post I made a list of. But I have not completely turned my back on my list and in it I can see the glimmers of truth. Depression does not teach lies. Depression is truth without hope. And I've just read, in a book, scientific evidence that supports my belief.

I am reading "Lincoln's Melancholy" and on page 135 is a scientific investigation that supports the notion that I am not crazy, but in fact, it may be my therapist who is crazy.

"Previously, depressed people were believed to be drawing conclusions about themselves and their experiences that were unrealistically distorted towards the negative. Yet as this research suggests, one cognitive symptom of depression may be the loss of optimistic, self-enhancing biases that normally protect healthy people against assaults to their self-esteem. In many instances, depressives my simply be judging themselves and the world much more accurately than non-depressed people, and finding it not a pretty place." Abramson and Alloy termed the benefit that depressed people showed in the experiment the "Depressive Realism" or the "Sadder but Wiser" effect.............."We have a tendency to regard people in their ordinary moods as rational information processors, relatively free of systematic bias and distorted judgments.........(while in fact) much research suggests that when they are not depressed people are highly vulnerable to illusions, including unrealistic optimism, overestimation of themselves, and an exaggerated sense of their capacity to control events. The same research indicates that depressed people's perceptions and judgments are often less biased." The psychologist Richard Bentall has taken this research to its extreme conclusion, humorously proposing to classify happiness as a psychiatric disorder - "major affective disorder (pleasant type)."

So I don't know what to believe. A person who is very joyful, and who I know intimately, is my husband. And I know this one fact - he is terrified of 1) facing reality and 2) projecting consequences that are negative into the future. Here is a sample of a conversation I had with my husband several months ago. Obviously I do all the banking in my household and I pay all the bills. He earns all the money, but he wishes for me to do all the management. My words are italicized, his words are bold.

"I want to tell you how much we have in our savings account."

"I don't want to know how much we having in our savings account."

"But you should know."

"I don't care."

"I promise, if I tell you, it isn't as bad as you think. We are doing better than last year."

"I still do not want to know how much we have in our savings account."

Finally I did not care what shock it did to my husband's system, I blurted out the amount to him of how much stood between us and utter poverty. It didn't seem fair that I should shoulder the cares and worries while he floated oblivious.

Just an hour ago I got a phone call from my husband. He called to tell me that he is working overtime every day of this week. He was happy about this fact because, it means, that there will be more money to put into our "Ireland" account. Now overtime to him is all about taking some future dream vacation. It used to be about saving for a car when our car is worn out. Which is the more sensible concern? And yet, I want him to be happy about having to do overtime work. I don't want him going to work with dread for the long hours he will have to put in. And so I'm going to leave the bait and tease alone and not veto the "Ireland" account.

When I think about us going to Ireland, I think about giving him memories that might keep him happy when he goes blind. Yes, he is slowly going blind. And you know what? I have to mix his eye vitamins with my medication because he has proven, that on his own, he neglects to take them. When I take my medication I give him his medication. The one thing that can prevent his eyesight from deteriorating further he will not do without my interference. This little dance with medication occurs because I am thinking about the future, and he will not project negative consequences into the future.

My husband is happy, blissfully happy. But in our relationship I am definitely the realist. So I must ask my therapist, next time I see him, what exactly are the lies that depression tells people, and then judge, whether or not to join him in his fantasy.

Tenacity of Life
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: mental health
I love the question Kate posed to me in her comment; What would you say to someone who was schizoaffective, manic-depressive or schizophrenic if they were suicidal? In my last post I seemed to be on the verge of saying; watch out, it is only going to get worse. Catastrophic advice.

I wrote my post in a moment of weakness and I'm afraid that what I had to say was not life affirming. I talked about the horror stories I knew. They were all true, I didn't make anything up. I was in a state of horror myself, thus the choice of topic.

To someone who was suicidal I would have to say, choose life. Even if that life is one with a diagnosis of mental illness. Even if you must live a life that is outside of the norm, where you have a life that is full of pain, still, I would say, bear the pain and choose life. Because pain is transitional, it happens only in the moment and then it lifts. Because there are little things in life, like the warmth of the sun shine, or the feel of your body as you walk and tire it, that feed and nourish the soul.

Most of all I would say choose life because you are stepping through the fire of mental illness (the pain is transformative) and you are being purged, you are being cleansed, and you are being made anew into someone that God smiles upon. You will be the weak, the disenfranchised, the struggling, the imperfect, but most of all, - most beautiful of all is what the fire of the mind does to you; it makes you authentic.

The highest compliment I've ever received was from my sister. She said, "You are the most human person I know." She could not have said that about the person I was before the mental illness. No, that person she was a little afraid of and would probably have been called a bitch. It was what the mental illness did to me, fifteen years later, that made her think about the compliment. The mental illness changed the life path I was on, and as a result of this, I became a better person. I'll take being human as a high compliment.

I don't hear lies and falsity in the voice of most of the mentally ill I have known. I hear ringing clear and delightfully as the sound of a bell is a voice that tells it as it is. The mentally ill usually don't have the energy to construct elaborate masks and they can't play games with you. They are direct, they are candid, and they are refreshing. The one game I know that is played the most by the mentally ill is; hide. I see mentally ill people withdraw. Sometimes the illness brings a type of shyness. But mostly, instead of shyness, I would call it humility. Rarely have I met a mentally ill person puffed up with pride. The authentic person I can imagine would have humility instead of pride.

I am not a good one to council the suicidal. But I know enough to know that suicide is a mistake. Me, I cling to routine and to work to stay alive. I cling to the happy emotions of my husband. I cling to a type of searching that I find myself doing with books and with going to Church and with conversations with my husband- trying to find religion, trying to believe in a God that loves me and walks by my side. I do believe my mind is known, first to me, but maybe, first and foremost to a higher power.

There was a woman who existed before the mental illness and she was often dissatisfied with herself. I am so grateful that I've put some of her behind me; the second guessing what I say, the painful remembering of conversations where I wish I said something better, the bruising I gave myself for not being more socially popular.

But that woman was driven, and so am I. That women wished to excell, not for fame or money, but for the feeling of power given to ones who try their best and always work themselves to the bone. Both my parents work themselves to the bone. As I was growing up it my father who kept up a grueling schedule as a doctor, now it is my mother who in her later years hasn't a moment to spare because of her three businesses, one of which is a bed and breakfast. I've inherited a whip at my back that drives me. Oh yeah, I'll be the first to admit that I spend a lot of time in bed staring off into space. My life from the outside looks simple and carefree, except of course, for those two to three hours every morning when I write. But the reading of books, the watching of movies, the taking of long walks - it seems like I've got it good and easy.

I suppose there are times when I'm contemplative and rest and times when I'm on and creative. Because of the illness the times when I create are limited; I don't have the brain power that I used to have before the illness. But what power I have isn't wasted. It is all used to produce - creative product. I love my mind. Sometimes I hate my mind for its moments of mental weakness, but fess up, I love the power of the mind. I love that the power can take meaningless pieces; tubes of paint, or a cacophony of words - and create paintings or essays and books. I've got a paranoid schizophrenic friend who takes her mind, and a base guitar, and makes music. It is as close as taking nothing and making something when you are dealing with products of pure mind. The times I've faced a blank page and drawn a picture. The times I've faced a blank computer screen and found voices for my characters to say shocking things. I summon up from deep within me creative product and the result is contentment. On rare occasions joy. Using the power of pure mind you can go from being a penniless pauper to king. This is the journey of the artist.

I know a paranoid schizophrenic who loves playing ping pong. His face lights up when he talks about his games, keeping score, and analyzing how his opponent plays. He isn't an artist like me, but his life really does revolve around playing ping pong. And I've known him long enough to realize that he has a zest for life. He has heard me talk about suicide, and this was his response (in an astonished voice) - "Why would you want to kill yourself, life is fun!" He is one of the great success stories of mental illness. Not because he went back to work and got off social security. He has tried to work and found that he cannot do it. He is a success story because from his point of view, and I'm taking his words here, every day he wakes up, and he wonders with joy, "how will I spend my day?" His days are precious to him. His life is precious to him. By the strict view of society he is mostly dropped out of it, but he has just enough money to keep from being a homeless man, and he has the social skills to find people, and places, in which to play ping pong.

This particular man is conscientious, caring, and honest. Morally he is the tops. When his dying mother, who he had taken care of for many years, wished to leave her house and all her money to him he declined, and said that the inheritance should be split equally with his two brothers. He is a reformed alcoholic and besides ping pong, he life revolves around attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Externally the illness has left a mark on him. His face and demeanor is not normal. One Sunday he attended my church and I know that he did not blend into the congregation. He would be marked by the people in the congregation as perhaps a homeless man and someone to be afraid of. The illness has made him seem "other". He can't pretend to be a man with a lifestyle or mind like the majority of the population. He doesn't blend. But he seems utterly unconcerned with that fact. He isn't trying to be someone who he is not. He is perfectly authentic - happy with who he is. By society's standards he is a tiny fish swimming in a tiny pond. But I think he is buried gold.

This year I got his address and sent him a Christmas card. I see him every week Wednesday night. After I sent out my cards I asked him if he had received his in the mail. He said yes, but that he hadn't opened it. Why not? I asked. "Because I want something special to do on Christmas Day" he said to me. So he was saving my card for Christmas Day. Like it was a present. Which I guess it was. But how many people understand a Christmas card as being a present? It is taking what is small, and ordinary, and naming it large and precious. It is like a magician taking a lifeless white scarf and turning it into a flying dove. My friend transforms his simple days of ping pong and Alcoholics Anonymous and finds life affirming, deeply felt satisfaction in them. And his abilitiy to do this, in the face of having the worst type of mental illness named, that is I think the greatest success story I know of.

Feeling Weak
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: mental health
I'm feeling weak but I don't want to rest my head and sleep or read. The impulse to write drives me. I tell myself, "watch a movie" but instead I wish to do something constructive. If I watched a movie I would feel guilty.

Two days in a row I woke panicked. During the day my husband and I have been planning a very small business. It would require two employees besides ourselves and commit every penny of our savings. I would be in charge of the payroll for the employees, having to learn all the paper trail and tax needs that a small business generates. I would be essential to the business, and perhaps this point panicked me. I don't want to be essential. I don't know if I can be essential. I don't know if I can handle the stress of the responsibility.

To handle more stress, to become a more solid person, probably I would have to go on more medication. I could change my anti-psychotics from Geodone to Seroquil and add the mood stabilizer Lamictal. This would cause me to gain weight. It is a struggle right now, being under stress, to just keep my weight even.

My husband knew a beautiful Chinese woman named Chang. Chang had a husband who was embarrassed by the fact that his mentally ill wife did not work. So to satisfy her husband Change got a small job working at Burger King. This job was stressful enough that she needed extra medication to continue working. She got the extra medication and then developed a permanent side effect. She developed tartivdiskinesia, a type of re-occurring muscle spasm in the face. A permanent tick. Chang had hands that shook because of the tartivdiskinesia, and a mouth twitch, kinda a jerking at the side of her mouth; a half grimance.  It marred her beauty and made her seem odd.

One night I said to my husband "I was planning to use my best hours tomorrow to write. I should instead use my best hours to study my book on business accounting and make phone calls and emails to research the business needs. I created a little to do list. It all seemed so reasonable. Intellectually I am smart enough to do it.

But then in the morning I woke with a mighty fear about what might happen should an expensive machine the business would depend upon break down, and we have employees that need to work and get paid. And then I thought about how I had turned down my writing to work on the business, and I thought, "I am raping my mind. Causing it to act in a way that it doesn't want to act in". And I began crying.

I can't plan the business with passion and excitement, it only causes me to break down further. This bodes ill for when the business is up and working. Either I adjust or I break and require more medication and maybe a hospitalization.

Oh I know about recovery. I'll tell you about recovery. You don't get better and better and more competent and your brain heals from the illness. This maybe happens to some people. Other people get worse. I've seen it happen. Usually a stress comes along and re-wrecks your mind. You have a second breakdown. New hospitalization. Sometimes, a new and worse diagnosis. From mild manic-depression to schizophrenia in a woman who used crack cocaine. From schizoaffective to paranoid schizophrenic in a woman whose best friend committed suicide and she had to be re-hospitalized because of the trauma. From paranoid schizophrenic to suicide in a man who had successfully gotten off social security and worked full time. I've seen all this happen to people.

In myself I am less than I was three years ago because I'm using a weaker anti-psychotic and weaker anti-depressant. The anti-psychotic was changed because of the side effect of weight gain, the anti-depressant I had been using gradually lost its effectiveness. Now I need to see a therapist where as three years ago I was feeling well enough, happy and confident, that I did not need to see a therapist. Now seeing a therapist literally helps keep me alive. I rely on him that much.

Recovery? With mental illness the circumstances of your life could change or drugs could stop working. I've seen a stable woman who worked as a truck driver loose her job and become an emotional mess because her lithium stopped working. I've seen a nice, mild mannered schizophrenic have a nervous breakdown after working too many hours in a hospital laundry and have a marked personality change that ruined relations with his family. He acted out with anger, and his family feared for the safety of young children. Children that formerly he had been a happy uncle to, now there were no more visits. His family withdrew its support, having been frightened, and he withdrew socially from the world - his life pattern completely disrupted after his second, late, work-induced breakdown.

The horror stories about how mental illness gets worse, and the medications get increased, the body becomes obese and has medical problems, and the personalities change and the diagnosis changes - these horrors never get reported. The people who get lost in the system the system never keeps track of. There are no statistics about failure, only about success.

The failures can't speak for themselves. Illness mutes the voice, only when there is a success will you hear a voice. And that voice, being a success, usually says, "you can do it!"

I'm going to go read about the poet Emily Dickinson. The book is due back at the library in three days.

Alexander McQueen
Mood:  cool
Topic: mental health
The truth will come out. One British tabloid said that he hung himself. My therapist thought that he died of a pill overdose. The death was not ruled as suspicious, so I believe, there was a suicide note left behind. The man was making unhappy remarks on Twitter. Anyone who uses Twitter will be prone to leave a suicide note. You will want to communicate with the world.

I've always wanted to own something by the fashion designer Alexander McQueen. I admire him oh so much. Last fall they were selling a hot pink sweater at Neimam Marcus for a little over $300. I saw it online. I knew I couldn't afford it, but I would have liked to have bought it. Later in a grocery store I saw the cover of Glamour magazine with the bleach blond singer Gwen Stefani wearing the sweater. The reason that the sweater was even remotely within my reach was that McQueen had started a second, mass marketed brand of clothing called McQ. Naturally I would never be able to own any of his couture clothing. But after the sale of a book, if I was flush with money, maybe I would be able to afford one item from the McQ brand.

I had done my writing for the day and I checked in at Yahoo news, see if I have any new email, what I always do before I fold up my computer and put it away. And this was when I saw that he was dead at 40. The news articles mentioned that he was upset over the recent death of his mother on February 2nd, and that he had left Twitter remarks like "life must go on!!!!!!!" and "if I can only make it through this week". He had fashion shows coming up. He must have been under pressure. One article said that there is a pressure on a genius to always come up with rave reviews. His last show received rave reviews.

A suicide means something different to everyone, but to someone who has attempted suicide it is a bit like looking in a mirror. I think "I've taken a forbidden path that not many people have taken" and then here is this man McQueen, who took my forbidden path, yet, followed it all the way to the end! There is a feeling that he succeeded where I failed. In a secret part of me, I am in love with death. The end to suffering. An escape from myself, a self that I at times despair over and loath. The girl who tried to kill herself in 1995 and the woman I am now are not quite the same. I have become a bit more accepting of my illness. I am involved in a relationship that puts no pressure on me to be more than who I am. But there is still the feeling that I am a failure at life, and that if I did not have this mental illness, I would not be a failure.

I always assumed, because of my experience, that at the heart of a suicide was a person who felt that they had failed at life. It is hard to imagine that McQueen felt like a failure. The people in the industry used words like "brilliant" and "genius" to describe him. The Queen of England gave him a medal in 2003. He has started learning his trade at the age of 16 so he always knew exactly what he wanted to do. And he was given by the owners of his label great creative latitude. New stores of his were being planned in the largest cities of different countries. He was on the rise.

Part of what binds me to this world is my creative work. I want to live because I want to see my book completed. I want to live because I want to solve this creative challenge I've made for myself. Also, as I write the story, I am curious to see what happens next. I have set a mountain in front of me and it is my task to climb it. The part of me that wants to live wants to stand on the summit and take a look at the view. How will I feel when I am closer to the clouds? When the book is finished, published or not, I will not feel like a failure. I can only assume, because I know myself, that once this mountain is climbed, I will begin to look around for another mountain to climb next. This is a healthy part of my personality that keeps me involved in the process of life.

It is hard to believe that a creative person who knew great success due to their creativity would want to end their life. There is much joy to life that simply being creative gives you. Sometimes I think how lucky I am to write every day. Some days it is not on the book, it is on the blog, and some days it is true I do not write at all, but the majority of the days I write. I am not dreaming about becoming a writer, I am doing it. I have met people who dream about writing a book. Not that they have written a book and hope to get it published, just that they dream about writing! It puzzles me, what is stopping them. Perhaps not wanting it enough. Their life is busy and they don't make the time to be creative. For the type of work that I do you need empty, very alone time to be creative. But perhaps there is fear about the act of creativity. The worry of "will I be good enough not to be laughed at" and "can I get what is in my head out of my head and onto......." whatever it is, paper or canvas.

So did McQueen feel like a failure? Or did he feel a lack of love in his life, especially with the death of his mother? I suppose that for a suicide life feels empty. I take note from McQueen's death - fame can feel empty. It is something I have had my suspicions about anyway. But this death confirms it. Fame will not automatically make your life feel worthy of being lived.

I have to believe that McQueen was depressed and grieving. I know a little bit about depression. Depression strips life of meaning. Depression severs ties to life. People outside of yourself no longer matter. Activities that had brought satisfaction no longer matter. In a deep depression nothing can touch you. And you can't see the future in a depression. Time compresses down to the moment, and the moment is black and empty. In that moment you have tunnel vision, there is one thing you see before you, and that is death. This is the depression of the suicide. I suppose that you can go toward death with feelings of adrenaline and a type of joy. It is joy without happiness. When you want death you want freedom from life. Committing suicide you act with purpose and there may be some relief that in the midst of so much emptiness, at last you have found a purpose. It is the purpose to go though with some act (involving a belt or a knife or pills); it is an act that will end life. The moment seems pregnant with meaning. You say to yourself "This act will end my life" - and it is exciting - thus the small jolt of adrenaline. So you can actually feel good about what you are doing. Not all suicides are crying buckets of sad tears when they commit suicide. Some feel very resolute and determined. The secret joy of a last act in life.

What I felt first, after I read the meager facts gathered right after McQueen's death, was not grief. Hours later I would feel grief and I cried a little bit. I turned very sad and morose. Distant from my husband when he came home from work. He tried to feed me chocolates. But all that came later. What I felt first was a shock and a thrill. It was not a happy thrill. But it was a high. It was excitement. A suicide of a personal hero! I looked into a dark mirror. I felt kinship. I felt close to death. Death not by car accident or plane accident. Death probably not from a heart attack because then the death would be investigated as suspicious and an autopsy would have to be preformed. No, the police knew exactly why McQueen had died, and this said to me the causes were not natural. This was death by choice. Death by his own hand. And a note to curtail the investigator's curiosity. I could look at a suicide but not touch it. And so, it was, morbidly exciting.

I have felt this odd excitement before when our country entered into war. There was a moment, in the first invasion of Iraq, when we were defending Kuwait, that the American people were told; we are now at war. Some invisible geographical line was crossed or the first shots were fired. And the news people were told; this is it. Diplomacy is at an end. Lives are being lost. We shoot with the intent to kill and in return, we are being shot at. Even as I write these words shivers are running down my arms as I remember where I was when I heard, over a loudspeaker in the library, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now at war." Horror spikes adrenaline. I'm not proud of my reaction. I wish the first reaction was pure grief. But I think that in the few split seconds before grief there is horror. Horror is a primitive emotion. You are shocked into stillness but you are restless. You are sad but you are ready to jump out of your skin. Horror fascinates.

My therapist Jim says that somewhere in Shakespeare there is the perfect suicide. This is how the perfect suicide should proceed.

A blind older man decides that he wishes to commit suicide. He summons his grown son and tells his son that he wishes to be led to the cliffs of Dover so that he can jump off. The son takes his father into a field. He tells his father that they are at the very edge of the cliffs of Dover. The father jumps. He jumps and then he falls flat onto the ground.

My therapist says that the old man got to live through his death. He experienced the intent, experienced the action, and then, I suppose, he was reborn. My therapist thinks that when you want to die, something inside of you wishes to die, a part of you needs to pass away so that there can be a rebirth of something new. The problems with suicides, according to my therapist, is that the body is mistaken to be the thing that needs to die. But always there is a mental existence that needs to be let go.

Jim says that when talking about the self, it is always best to say "the depression within me" or "the genius within me" - not "I am depressed" or "I am a genius". Thus you say not "I want to die" but rather, "Something inside of me wants to die".

I can clearly see the sanity of saying "The God within me" rather than "I am God". And my experience of writing, or drawing, is that I am channeling something. This is because the end product usually surprises me. I think, "I did that? No way!" And then there is curiosity. "Where did it come from? I'll have to try again tomorrow and see what new thing mysteriously appears." It is "the creativity within me". I would be a bit presumptuous, and inaccurate, to say "I am creative". Although, of course, this is the common way of speaking.

So now, because I have been working with Jim, when I feel the pain of being suicidal, I ask myself "What in me wishes to die?" Usually it is an expectation of something happening which did not happen. I feel disappointment and I want to die.

Last week, I suppose because I am mentally ill, I felt suicidal while waiting for the plummer. The plummer was supposed to come in the morning and I felt some mild anxiety about letting a stranger into my apartment and having a courteous conversation with him. When the hours went by, and he did not appear, I felt more and more anxious, until finally I was pricked with a feeling and thought that was familiar and yet like no other; I wanted to die.

I called my mother, who is the landlord, and told her that the plummer she ordered had not appeared. She told me, (being an experienced landlord), that often you must wait for plummers and electricians. She said that people in this trade do not know what they are going to find when they go on a job. It can be a monstrous problem or it can be a little one. They have a hard time defining how long a job is going to take because they don't know what the problem really is before they have arrived and investigated. I must be patient she said. The problem was not an emergency - an emergency would be a cascade of water falling from the ceiling which did not stop. This problem was a leak when the upstairs tenant used his shower. He had stopped using his shower. Thus the leak was dry. She said that she would call the plumming agency (I had tried and no one had answered) again and again until she spoke with someone. Eventually she did speak with someone and a new time was set for the next day. On that day the plummer arrived as planned. And as a matter-of-fact, I got along dandy with him. He was a genuinely sweet man.

Inside of me I had an expectation that was not being met. I had to let it go. My mother's voice was very soothing as she talked to me. It felt great. She assured me that she would take care of the problem, and that she would not stop until a solution was found. The burden was lifted off my shoulders and shared with my mother. The stress of the situation evaporated when it was looked at through a new perspective, that of my mother's. My perspective, whatever it was, was diseased and could be discarded once someone else gave me their opinion. I adopted my mother's view of plummers, and the suicidal pain disappeared.

I deeply believe that Alexander McQueen made a mistake. Whatever his anguished view, by talking with someone skilled, it could have been turned. If it was depression he was experiencing, that could have been lifted (not necessarily abolished though) with the aid of medication. That the man was deeply unhappy I don't doubt. But he had reasons to live, the first of which was the talent that lay hidden within his breast.

It is funny, but as I was grieving McQueen's death I said to my husband, "Am I next?" I meant, will life conspire to take away my reasons for living and cause me to take my own life? Or, will I act like a fool, in some moment of desperation, and do what he did?

Always suicide is a mistake. I believe this with all my heart. But believing doesn't set me free. If a missing plummer causes me to feel suicidal, I will feel it again. It seems to be a condition of my illness for my mind to turn, when it is stressed, in that direction.

Jim and Death
Mood:  a-ok
Topic: mental health
The mechanic heard the noise my husband and I complained of when he drove the car into the shop. Thank goodness. You don't want the mechanic thinking that the noise you are complaining about is happening only in your imagination. He showed me two bolts, one on either side of the car. One bolt was rusty, the other was not. The rusty bolt had rust coming out of the inside of it, meaning that it was probably rusted clear through. The mechanic suspects, though he cannot promise, that rusted bolt is the cause of the noise. The rest of the car on that side seems tight. This rusty bolt, if it comes off while you are driving, is very dangerous. It will cause the whole wheel to come off. So when he offered to fix it, not promising that he had absolutely found the cause of the noise, worrying that I would angrily come after him if the bumping noise continued, I said yes, replace the bolt. I like to drive a safe car.

My therapist Jim says that when I want to die, something inside of me wants to die. He says that feeling suicidal, is a reaction to when a part of my psyche, the inside me, needs to go through a death and then a rebirth. So thinking about suicide, is like taking a metaphor of the mind, too literally. When I hurt there is no need to kill myself, only, a need for some part of me inside to die and then be reborn. According to Jim people go through deaths and rebirths often - sometimes everyday - I suppose it is how people grow and change.

I said that I could understand hating my illness so much that I wanted to kill it. In the process of killing my illness I got caught up with killing my body. I do fight mental illness. Perhaps the fight has gone on for long enough.

I said to Jim that my mental illness is a part of me, so it does feel wrong (in a soul searching, sensitive moment) to hate that which is a part of me. It is like instigating warfare against the self. It is exhausting and self-defeating. You only end up wounded.

The idea to fight mental illness came from somewhere. It came from the psychiatric professionals I worked with in my first hospitalization who hated psychosis and hated depression and hated anything that deviated from the norm. They, and I, hated anything that prevented me from returning to the life I had before the onset of my illness. Mental illness is the enemy, I have never viewed it as any different from that.

I think that the mental health professionals wanted me galvanized and motivated. I know for a fact that for a while they said that I was choosing to be mentally ill as a ploy against taking responsibility for being an adult. They said I wanted to stay sick and dependent and a child. After a while, when I remained sick, they gave up on me and predicted only that I would be able to buy groceries for myself and cook my own meals. The change of plans they had for me was drastic. I was young and impressionable and listened to them. I despaired greatly for what the illness was doing to me. The mental illness was causing all my dreams and hopes to go down the drain. I glamorized being normal. I glamorized not having a mental illness. The fact was that I had become institutionalized. Too much hospitalization is not a good thing. I realized this once I started working at the art museum. I was more free, more myself, saner, happier, and competent, in my job.

When I am catatonic, and cannot move, my fury against my illness is all that I can feel. My fury against being powerless and having a brain that malfunctions leads easily into thoughts of killing myself. Rarely is suicide not accompanied by feelings of utter contempt, of total self-hatred. I hate my illness so much that nothing else matters but the hatred. And the illness. So much about life is completely forgotten and disregarded when you are suicidal.

I am not normal. I have normal ethics, normal emotions, and normal ways of interacting with other people. But I lose energy early, am fragile, and have periods of time, when to preserve myself, I have to disassociate a little from reality. I wonder what it would be like to accept this version of me. A gentler, less impressive, less effective, smaller person than I was before the onset of my illness. It would probably be a big relief.

What is most frustrating about being mentally ill is not being able to earn any money. Without much money, I find that there is uncertainty about the future. Having money makes you feel like you can meet any challenge and over come them. Not having much money makes you feel like you are a child of fate - adrift in a boat, destined to rock with the waves of the ocean - never quite being in control, always doomed to make the difficult decisions in a way that you can't be happy with.

The funny thing is, the difficult decisions haven't yet arrived. We have a car that has 56,000 miles on it and we don't drive it much. I have all my teeth and none of them hurt. I have my physical health and am working on becoming even more physically healthy. Today there is money in the bank to cover the costs of fixing the car. Hopefully this fix is a fix that will solve the problem. I have a long standing job to do tomorrow (return to work on my book) and a dog and two cats that fill the house with love and affection. I have a husband who is a best friend. A husband who, my sister says, adores me. My husband is good at his job and his boss knows it. The company he works for seems to be weathering the recession pretty well. We live in an apartment that is ours for the rest of my life. It is not quite the same as owning your own house, with all the mortgage paid off, but it is close to it. As long as I pay the rent, my mom won't kick me out. My parents love me and do not show any signs of wishing that I had turned out as a different kind of person than who I am. My brother and sister always treat me with the utmost respect. You kind of get used to this being the eldest. Being the eldest is a position in life that never goes away. And what is best of all, what I am currently very happy about, is that I haven't felt suicidal for over a month and a half.

Ever see the tee-shirt with the slogan, "Life is good"? This is how I feel. I was able to go to sleep at an early hour (quarter of 9) so that waking at 7am wasn't too difficult. I was able to arrive at the mechanic's at 8, talk to the mechanic without anxiety, and walk home. I waited for the phone call that the car was ready and typed this essay. I then walked again to the mechanic to pick up my car. On the ride home I heard not a thump or a bump from under the car. I believe fully that the problem is fixed. Since this is our only car, having it in good working order is necessary for peace of mind. We do not have so many friends that we can call to help us if we are in trouble. We must be self-reliant.

I have to believe that accomplishing this small chore of fixing the car is a great achievement. In my small life, it was needful and worrisome. For some other people it would be no big thing. But I can't imagine my life in terms of what it would mean for other people. I have to think about what things mean in terms of myself and my capabilities. I have to live at my own speed. I have to listen to the beat of my own drummer. The rhythm of my life is not the rhythm of other people's lives. On my terms, I was successful. And so, at this moment, I can honestly say, "Life is good."

I'm Not Lazy
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: mental health
Had a short spat with my husband yesterday. The name calling and yelling rose in pitch, I called him a swear word, he controlled himself and did not swear back. It was an old issue, one we have fought over before.

I object, strenuously, to being called lazy.

I have no problem with my husband calling himself lazy. But do not include me in that statement. I do not want my husband saying that "we" are lazy people.

The first time we fought over this issue my husband's daughter called on a Saturday evening, and over the phone, asked her Dad what he was doing. My husband said that he and I were both being lazy. Hadn't left the house all day. Hadn't gotten any exercise, were still wearing our pajamas. We had been working on the computers all day. He said that for both of us, it was a lazy day.

I remember that that day I had worked on my computer and wrote. I probably wrote for my book. Book writing is intense, tiring, and usually difficult to start. I was exhausted by what I wrote. And I was suffering from symptoms of my illness. I had to take things slow, not because I was lazy, but because my mind was malfunctioning. I was, at the time that my husband said over the phone that we were lazy people, suffering from my mental illness. And there is, as far as I am concerned, a big difference between being lazy and suffering from schizophrenic symptoms. That day, when my husband called me lazy, I felt that I had been valiant in accomplishing something creative, and was riding the effects of being riddled with mental pain afterwords.

Often, about half of my day, my activities are difficult to do. In order to accomplish things I must push myself. I believe that with the schizoaffective illness I have symptoms of amotivation - the scientific term for lack of motivation. In order to do something the act is often initially accomplished by a feeling of anxiety. I often force myself to move. I force myself to think. I force myself to make a phone call. I force myself to do anything that involves getting out of bed or using my brain. The alternative is just to lie in bed and read a book or watch a movie. Sometimes, when I'm really sick, I just want to lie in bed and close my eyes. Not to sleep, but to rest. No music, no books, no television, no physical movement, I lie under the covers frozen in place. It can be boring. But when I am sick I am often up to doing nothing else.

The problem with my husband telling his daughter that I was a lazy person is that once, she made comments to the effect that judged her life as more significant, and worthy, then my life. She summed up the activities we both do during the day and said that based on how much each of us got done, she deserved to be on my husband's health insurance policy more than I deserved to be on his health insurance policy. At the time she was busy, going to school full time and working at a grocery store. No doubt about it, she was not a lazy person. What was I doing? At the time I think I was working on oil paintings. My creative period is short, about three hours in the morning. Usually after I create, either painting or writing, there is a time of suffering where my brain is very weak and I am capable of little. In other words I spend time paying a penalty for thinking too strenuously. Most sundry activities are strenuous - painting, writing, walking to the library, cleaning, going grocery shopping, etc. Normal activities are strenuous, simply living and being active is strenuous.

Knowing that my step-daughter has shown contempt for my lifestyle, and contempt for the value of my life itself, I did not want my husband characterizing me to her as being lazy. I do not characterize myself as lazy. I am, within the confines of my illness, very driven.

There are very few schizoaffective people who have the creative output that I have or are capable of the level of quality that goes into every creative project I do. I do not feel like I am dancing or floating through life. I feel like I am walking into a stiff wind that is blowing against me. I slog. I am in a swamp wading through mud, muck and mire. I am sometimes in the dirty, befouled, trenches of a battlefield. And sometimes I've been shot. Oh no, I am not lazy.

My husband apparently feels some slight embarrassment over the amount of time he commits to his creative projects, like his comic book making. I think he calls himself lazy out of guilt and self-abuse. He is astonished at how selfish he can be with his time and get away with it. He can literally do nothing other than work on his computer for eight to twelve hours on the weekend. There are no children demanding his attention. Housework does not get done. Chores do not get done. Conversations do not happen. Friendships are not practiced. He is solitary. His hair is unwashed and oily. He does not eat. He does not move from his one chair.

One of the ways that my marriage is a success is that I let him have this time to himself to do his solitary pursuits. He wakes at 4:30 am, I wake at 11 or 12 noon. See how he has the house, and the time, all to himself just by the differences in our schedules? And after I wake, it is my time to practice my creative pursuits. So he is left alone, to do what he wants, for even longer. Basically he does not want to be bothered until 3pm. This is when he feels burnt out. Then he is open to some different type of activity, like walking the dog or doing a household chore or taking a shower.

Yesterday my husband was talking to our dog when he called us lazy. It was 3pm in the afternoon. I had woke, spent some time on the internet, and then wrote for several hours. I had been productive. After I finished my writing I suggested we walk down town and look at a thrift store and an antique store. I felt like I was pushing myself to do something physical and get dressed, get moving. I had not, since waking, spent a moment not using my brain. This was when he turned to the dog and said, "Aren't mommy and daddy lazy?"

The dog does not care whether or not my husband calls me lazy. The dog was, in fact, mighty distressed when mommy and daddy started shouting at one another. She ran and hid under the bed.

Part of my husband's argument, and his belief that no apology was needed, is that "normal" people talk to one another this way. He was making "normal"conversation. I had to suck it up and just accept that "normal" people prattle on and say things that make no sense, but that are accepted by other "normal" people. Apparently he comes by the information of how "normal" people act by his vastly superior experience of having a full-time, job - at which he learns this "normal" pattern of discourse. I, who stay at home, can't understand "normal" interactions between people who don't have a mental illness. I, who have a mental illness, am being too sensitive. One of the hallmarks of the difference between "normal" people and the mentally ill is how sensitive the mentally ill person is to meaning, and how insensitive and inauthentic the "normal" person is when it comes to the way they talk. As far as I can tell, at work, "normal" people lie and exaggerate all the time. No one really takes each other seriously. I am trying, at home, to hold him to too high a standard of behavior.

I think, because of all the noise I made, my husband will not soon be calling me lazy. But because my husband really feels that "lazy" is an innocent, innocuous word, and because he does harbor guilt and self recrimination against his lifestyle on the weekends, I will hear the word "lazy" again. My only hope is that when he uses the word, he calls himself lazy, and leaves me out of it.

Grey Roots
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: family
This weekend I'm dying my hair. I buy the color at the drug store and do it myself to save money. I try to go for as long as possible without dying my hair in order to preserve its health. The ammonia and other noxious chemicals they put in the hair dye can make the hair brittle and dry. My hair is long, so its state of health isn't hidden, its obvious to the viewer. I've seen older women with long hair that they dye themselves that looks horrible. I feverishly hope, (here you can see how wide my streak of vanity is) that I don't look like some of the women I see siting in the psychiatric health center I use.

I got my first gray hairs back in 1990 when I was hospitalized in a psychiatric institution for two years. I was only twenty. Know that old story about the mental shock that turned the man's hair white? Well, I suppose that living in that hospital, and weathering the onset of a mental illness, turned a couple of my hairs white. Stress can make you prematurely gray, this I know is true. President Obama, after a year in office, apparently has more gray hairs. There was an internet article about it. Some of those hairs might be old age, but I am certain that trying to lead a country out of a depression (I'm not going to sweet it over and call it a recession) while it is at war in two countries, and develop national health care, has given him stress related gray hairs.

Dying my hair is a complicated affair. First of all, during the winter, I can only do it on the weekend. This is because during the week we only heat our bedroom, but on the weekend we turn up the heat for the whole apartment. On week days outside the bedroom the apartment has a little propane heating, but the setting is low, only enough so that the cats stay alive and the pipes don't freeze. Usually the bathroom is very cold. And it is in the bathroom where I sit, naked, with the chemical dye in my hair for approximately 25 minutes. It has to be the bathroom because I don't want the dye to ruin anything in the apartment. Every room in the apartment is covered with Oriental rugs. (I know one woman who collects teddy bears, another woman who collects light houses, but I have collected, over the years, Oriental rugs.) Inexplicably, I have noticed that once I got brown hair dye on the white bathroom wall. I know I get dye on my shoulders and forehead. So I do not underestimate that it is a messy process.

Once, a women told me that she puts her hair, wet with hair dye, in a plastic bag, knots it shut, and then walks around the house. This is a sensible habit. And perhaps a necessary habit for her because she has three children, two of which are young. But I can endure the discomfort of sitting in the bathroom naked. I usually pass the time reading a book.

I don't mind that a little bit of my natural brown hair, streaked gently with gray, should show at the roots. This is part of my punk sensibilities. I used to be punk when I was in my twenties. Punk says "Who cares if you show some artificiality?" Punk says "Don't let the pressures of conventional society mold your behavior." Punk says, "This is who I am so fuck off."

The dye I use is the same color every time. And it is one shade lighter than my natural color. So that is why my roots are dark. I like the lighter shade because when the sun shines on it there are glints of red and gold. If I had my hair professionally colored they would put in it unmistakable streaks, whole long locks, of blond or red. I am slightly saddened that I cannot afford my hair to be professionally colored. A women in my peer support mental health group that meets Wednesday night has long hair - she is post menopausal, and treats herself with a professional dye job. She has glorious, sophisticated hair that appears to be worthy of a girl many decades younger. She told me last visit the price was $108. I believe this was before a tip.

I dream that if I publish a book I will treat myself every other month with a professional hair dye job.

Realistically I could go for another month without dying my hair. But I have an event to go to next Thursday. It will be in a place where I hope to look as young as possible. I will be going to a strip club.

I've never been to a strip club and I have to admit I am glad of the opportunity. I prefer not to go to my grave and never have been to a strip club. My curiosity is unchecked. My husband's daughter specifically invited us. She will participate in a pole dancing contest, with a thousand dollar prize. She has been practicing complicated moves. She will have a costume on that will cover her breasts. We would not go if her breasts were uncovered. Still, after she competes, we have to immediately leave because then her real job begins. She will change into a thong and she will pole dance and give lap dances mostly naked.

I believe that what my step-daughter is doing is about two steps up from prostitution. She teases her customers with sexual fantasies, and enhances the sexual fantasies by very sexual behavior. She flaunts her practically naked body and manipulates men's minds with flirtatious conversation in order to get as much money as she can out of them. I used to wonder, would it be better for this girl, after she had just lost her high paying job, to go into the army or become a stripper? She had only a couple of college courses to her credit and two years experience as a customer representative at an internet company. The economy was in a depression and nobody was hiring. When my husband was young, inexperienced, and at a cross roads in his life he joined the air force. The discipline was really good for him, he traveled widely, and he got training that lead to a job with a police force when he became a civilian again. Oh, he disliked it while he was serving, but now older and wiser, he looks back and says that he made enormous gains of character while he was in the military.

I know, with my personality, that I would join the military rather than be a stripper. However, my step-daughter has a different type of personality. She can handle the emotional strain of sexually selling herself. She dances three nights a week and goes to college full time. When we saw her last she had just signed on for another semester of school and told us that she wants to get her Master's Degree in computer science, and eventually, start her own business. There is nothing stopping her from making these dreams a reality. Unless, perhaps, she accidentally becomes pregnant. She makes more money stripping, three nights a week, than my husband does working a 50 hour week in manufacturing. His daughter is apparently a very good stripper and out earns the other girls. She drinks a lot of coffee for energy while she dances, drinks "fake" drinks that are really just fruit juice with no alcohol that the patrons buy her trying to get her drunk, and has told us that it is no use making friends with the other strippers, most of who are alcoholics and drug addicts and prostitutes. The owners of the strip club are really happy with her and she is secure and proud that she is making them, and herself, a lot of money. All the other jobs she has ever had she complained about. She complained they were unfair at the grocery store. She complained that they were making her work too hard at the internet company. We hear no complaints about stripping. She has the job figured out. Probably she is a very, very smart girl.

As far as I'm concerned my husband and I are going to see his daughter in a play. She's an actress. And I really hope she wins the big prize. Her boyfriend has not committed whether or not he will come to the contest. He thinks it is enormously wrong that her father is coming into her work place to see her perform. Well, I know perhaps a little more about this family. My husband used to walk around his house in the nude. He used to sunbath in the back yard nude. When his kids got old enough he dropped the habit. But he and his daughter are related, they have the same genes, they have some of the same emotional make up. They both are very sexual, sensual beings with very little (at least compared to me) sense of shame. If his daughter can succeed in her job, how much of a stretch is it that her father would not support her in her job?

I call the love that my husband has for his daughter "Jesus love". I don't know much about Jesus, but what I do know is that he seemed to have a bottomless pit full of love and compassion when it came to the people around him, the good and the bad, the holy and the sinners alike. My husband has a bottomless pit of love for his daughter. She could be a murderer and he would forgive her and visit her often at prison. She literally, can do no wrong. Oh, he calls her a diamond in the rough too. He says that she has some sharp edges that times needs to wear away. He isn't naive. But I think, when it comes to his daughter, there are two forms of judgement. There is the quick judgement, a surface judgement, and then beneath this an ocean of pride and acceptance.

I don't think that I will dress sexually at the strip club. I'll try to look nice, obviously I'm dying my hair for the occasion. But I don't want the men looking at me, I want them to focus on the strippers. I'm debating wearing a pair of black heels or my beloved blue canvas converse sneakers. I don't know if I'll wear some big gold earring, and flash some bling, when in real life I prefer to wear the little diamond stud earrings that my sister gave me. I may curl my hair and make it big and fluffy. I could wear the clingy wrap around dress with fish net stockings that I wore one Christmas, or I could wear my favorite pair of jeans with a gray sweater. I think that the environment will be so scary, and such a new experience, that I will opt for comfort over all else. Probably I'll get to the strip club and just hope to be invisible.

The Mermaid and the Sailor
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: art in progress