Mood:  cool

At the cathedral, the Rev. Toussaint described his own near-miraculous survival.

"I watched the destruction of the cathedral from this window," he said, pointing to a window in what remains of the archdiocese office. "I am not dead because God has a plan for me."

"What happens is a sign from God, saying that we must recognize his power - we need to reinvent ourselves,"

Others, however, were angry.

"It's a catastrophe and it is God who has put this upon us," said Jean-Andre Noel, 39-year-old computer technician "Those who live in Haiti need everything. We need food, we need drink, we need medicine. We need help."

I don't know where God was in the earthquake. I do not believe that God punished the Haitians. I do believe that all the deaths from the earthquake, falling ceilings and falling walls of concrete, were innocent deaths. God kills the innocent and the good alike. He kills through cancer, he kills through earthquakes, he kills through automobile accidents. He killed off a portion of my brain through a brain disease. I certainly did not get a mental illness because I was a bad person. I do believe that the mental illness challenged me, and perhaps, I have learned from it. I have learned from being powerless and in pain. The survivors of the earthquake are now all learning through their struggle to stay alive. Their courage is tested. Their ability to do good or evil is tested. Their faith is tested. My mental illness tests me every day. I believe in a God that challenges and tests. And yes, I suppose, I worship a God who has the capacity to cause great suffering.

This does not mean that I believe in a God who does not love or have compassion. I believe that God gives his companionship through all tests and challenges, and that this companionship brings healing. I feel loved by God. I feel that in his eyes I am special, even though in the eyes of society I am weak and ill. I am one of the meek who Jesus had special words for.

Sometimes, when I am feeling blessed, having a roof over my head and food in my refrigerator and people who love me, sometimes I get scared that it will all be taken away from me. If you believe in a God, like I do, then you feel that your life is somewhat being carried or being guided. I suppose that the priest who lived, and thus feels that his life was spared for a greater purpose, definitely has faith in his God. Not faith because he lived. He doesn't believe in God because God spared him. He believes in God because he believes that a greater power is shaping his life. He knows very well, in his gut, that he could have easily been killed. But he attributes the fact that he lives not to luck, but to God's choice. God makes some choices, like the deaths of children, that are almost unfathomable to the parents of those children. Yet all life must come to an end. It is just that some endings are bitterly too soon for those who stay behind and survive. For those who die, their end may have been decided before their birth. I certainly believe that my illness was genetic, and decided, coded in my DNA, before my birth.

I feel that it is God's choice that I have my blessings, but I know, in my gut, that it could be God's choice to take my blessings away and test me a little more. I dearly hope, that should I be tested, I will be worthy and graceful. I could get a physical disease. My house could burn down. My husband could die. If God were to take my blessings away I would probably cry a great deal. I might take prescription drugs that would lift me up and numb me. Currently I am probably already taking prescription drugs that are lifting me up and numbing me. My anti-depressants and anti-anxiety and anti-psychotics. I am such a fragile creature that psychiatric medicine is trying to keep me alive. The drugs enter my life as good people would. As good people are like angels walking this earth, so the psychiatric drugs are like angels ministering to the suffering.

If a void entered my life I might turn to prescribed, psychiatric drugs, or, I might pray a little more. I could foresee that if the degree of suffering increased, so would the fervor of my prayer. I would pray until my ego was obliterated and all that remained was the mental ground upon which God makes his presence known. If I suffered more, I would die more, so that the God in me could better live. I do foresee in my life more tests, more challenges. Old age brings infirmities. Nothing remains the same forever.

Already, this last year, one route of my survival was threatened. My anti-depressant Prozac lost its effectiveness. And this led directly to two things. One was to my joining a church. The other was to find a therapist. I had gone about three years without a therapist. Didn't need one. Had gone for about 6 years without going to church. Didn't need a church. But when the anti-depressant failed, and nothing as good medically could be found, I reached out - to God and to my fellow human being. While the Prozac was failing I became very suicidal. Now, I sometimes feel despair, but I am relatively free of suicidal fantasies.

I doubt people who have survived the earthquake in Haiti will be killing themselves. They may die from thirst, hunger, and exposure, but they are trying their best to survive. Maybe some will be so grief stricken and traumatized that they will take their own life. I hope the help agencies that are raising money get aid to the nation to rebuild. I hope the UN can do something. I hope the people of Haiti continue to cooperate with one another, in brotherhood, and that the place does not descend into lawlessness. For those that live, I have a prayer, that may seem like a strange prayer. I hope that they feel as the priest does, that their life was spared for a purpose. That they are the agents of goodness and change. For those that live, I hope that they can value their lives and not give in to despair. If they must suffer, and they will suffer more, I hope that this does not make them turn away from life and God. God does not reward the good and punish the evil in obvious, self-evident ways. He is almost, but not quite,beyond our ability to understand.

Those that hate God do not understand God. God is not human. He is life, but he is also something which is beyond life and exists in the realm of death. There is the life that our senses observe; taste, touch, hear, see, smell - all in time that flows from past to future, all in a pattern that is comprehensible. But there is a curtain that separates the logical phenomena that we observe from something that is beyond logic, beyond rational, that is supernatural. Oh, I believe that the supernatural is real. I've had too many close encounters with it. I've heard stories from people who have had close encounters with it. And there are famous prophets from history whose consciousness expanded and touched the supernatural. Buddha was one, Christ was another. To me these people were not crazy, they were instead super sane. They felt God so keenly that they transcended their own humanness. They moved away from being human when they moved toward God.

If death has any meaning it is to love one another better, and closer, and with more passion. The meaning of the death in Haiti is not that God has turned his back on humanity, or that he is vindictive and punitive. Death in Haiti is not proof that God does not exist. Death and suffering is never proof that God does not exist. Those that think this way are merely hurt and angry. I've been there. I've been full of hurt and anger and outrage against God. It is merely a place to rest, a temporary attitude on a much longer path of evolving consciousness. I should know, I had my mind taken away from me. This is not quite as drastic as having your life taken away from you but it is close. Almost every day my mind fails me and I fall into symptoms of mental illness. I have reason to hate God. But I don't. And I am coming to believe, that the more I love God, the better I am able to weather the mental illness. I'm not crazy in love with God, my feelings are mixed and tepid, but there is a direction, slowly, I'm being pushed along toward.

Posted by dignifyme at 3:44 PM EST

Updated: Monday, 18 January 2010 11:42 AM EST

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Mood:  not sure

I recently read a short New York Times article about an artist living in New York City who has paranoid schizophrenia. He's been homeless. He's attempted suicide. He hears voices. The article ends in this way;

But Mr. Smith, who continues to receive counseling from FEGS, understands the future he faces.

“You have to come to the realization that this is the way you’re going to be for the rest of your life,” he said. “I never met one schizophrenic go back to their regular life. It doesn’t exist. That person is dead. This is a new person in there. I will never again be the person that I was.”

His voice grew softer. “That’s the sad reality that I live in,” he said, looking away. The voice became a whisper.

“That’s the way it is.”

One doctor predicted to my family that I would make a full recovery. I don't know if this was when they gave me the diagnosis of "depressive with psychotic traits" or after they changed the diagnosis to "schizoaffective". This is like going from mild to serious. The doctor who told my family the optimistic forecast liked me a lot. Did he think "she's got guts, she'll tough it out?" Idiot. As if my drive, my motivation, my character could compete with a brain disease. Many days the brain disease wins.

Yesterday was such a day. Consciousness simply wasn't that strong. I woke with a headache from sleeping over 12 hours. I do this if I don't set my alarm clock. My medication makes me sleep 10 to 12 hours every night, but some nights, this is too much and I wake with a headache. I try with my alarm clock to cut short my sleeping. Consciousness is groggy and doesn't feel good, but at least, I'm awake. Drugged consciousness is not fun or psychedelic or cool. Its horrible. To have a mind but to be unable to use it fully. Its like having a penis that is impotent. Its like having a car that will only drive 20 miles an hour. Its like having a pet dog that always growls at you. Its like visiting friends knowing that your hair is oily and your face is covered with pimples.

Let me make myself clear. I love the power of the mind. I love books that have been written and art that has been painted by people with glorious minds. I think that the power of the mind is the most fascinating, enchanting, sparkling power in the universe. Sometimes I feel I have it. Sometimes I don't. And when I don't, I mourn. Oh, how sad I am when I am symptomatic. Sad and angry.

Yesterday I woke but I woke from sleeping too long and I couldn't attain clear consciousness. I think maybe I did too much the day before. I had a good day Friday, was proud of what I wrote. Had fun visiting my therapist. Had fun going grocery shopping with my husband. Watched a movie and then watched old episodes of "The Office". The show made me laugh. I suppose that in many ways on Friday I did not rest, I did not pace myself - I just flat out lived. Used my mind up living. Normal people don't use their mind up living. They simply get tired. Me, if I use my mind up living I get symptomatic.

Yesterday I "coped" with my altered and abnormal consciousness by eating chocolate and other foods. I sedated myself with food. Bad strategy. I'm supposed to be on a diet. But large amounts of food takes the strain off the brain. Excess food floods your brain with feel good chemicals. I've never seen a paper written about coping with a schizophrenic illness by eating too much. I've seen research that drugs for schizophrenia will cause out-of-control hunger and craving for poorly nutritious foods. But what about the schizophrenic that uses eating as a drug? Bulimics use eating as a drug. Some morbidly obese people must use eating as a drug.

Went to see a movie in the movie theaters "Sherlock Holmes" - the new movie with Robert Downey Jr. directed by Guy Ritchie. Kept on closing my eyes near the end of the movie. Was I bored because of the movie or because I was symptomatic? Don't know.

Came home and tried to read. Kept putting the book down and closing my eyes. Reading Jane Austen, "Sense and Sensibility". Not her best book. Written in an old english style of prose, what I suppose most people would find boring. Was I bored? I don't know. I know that I had trouble concentrating. Nearly finished with the book, so I guess my tolerance for boring old literature is high. Sleep found me early, before my evening medication hit.

The day only had one bright spot, wrote several pages of rough draft for my book. I suppose the only real moments during the day that I had clear, clean consciousness. It was a character study. What did the character of Sue Gerber look like, talk like, act like. Will continue over the next several days doing character studies. This is all leading up to a scene in the book where there is group therapy going on in a psychiatric ward in a hospital. Writing group therapy is a bit like writing a party scene - many people taking turns talking. Want to know about each patient in group therapy, want to know their looks, their diagnosis, their peculiarities, their back story, before I put them together in a room and have them interact. Must not forget the nurse and the social worker. The "sane" people in the group who steer the conversation.

Oh yes, speaking of sane people. Talked to my paranoid schizophrenic friend R. yesterday. She doesn't think that sane people exist. She thinks that all people are in emotional pain and they are desperately trying to hide it. Most people, in her opinion, are wearing masks, pretending to be happy and sane. I told her that I have met sane people. That most people are sane. She didn't believe me. For some reason she likes believing that all people are flawed and mentally in pain. It seems to be one step away from describing a world view where most people are mentally ill yet somehow superior to her in hiding it. She is like a fish in a fish bowl that thinks the whole universe exists of other fish. She can't think outside her water. The water of a paranoid schizophrenic.

Posted by dignifyme at 2:48 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, 10 January 2010 3:18 PM EST

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Mood:  irritated

Yesterday I bugged Mike about his daughter's mail.  I said to him, "Are you trying to teach her a lesson?  Do you want her to experience bills unpaid or perhaps go into debt?"

Mike said no, and he got the phone and called her that very minute.  The phone call did not go well.  Sometimes while she ranted and raved Mike held the phone away from his head, not wanting to hear what she had to say.  After the phone call he said, "See, this is why I don't call her."

Apparently this semester in school there is a repeat of an incident that happened last semester.  A teacher pulls Mike's daughter out of the classroom to have a private chat.  The teacher tells the daughter that she is not doing the classwork the way that the teacher wants or that she is not participating enough in class.  The daughter tells the teacher that the class is boring, she already knows everything, and that the teacher is wasting the money she paid to take the class.  Recently she also told the teacher that the teacher is teaching the class the wrong way.

Teachers don't like to be insulted.  The last time she did this the teacher gave her a "C" despite her perfect attendence and having done all the classwork.  Mike suggested that his daughter do the classwork the way the teacher asks and take an easy "A".  That advice made his daughter very angry.  She said it was bad advice.

Mike said that it is a mistake to view a relationship with his daughter as anything more than the process of "cutting the apron strings".  He said that his Dad gave him good advise that he didn't want to listen to either.  Mike sees conversations like the one he had with his daughter as important to her becoming a separate, independent adult.  "She isn't an adversary" he says.   

Her behavior with the teacher is puzzling.  I think something more than immaturity is at work here.  I see an over inflated ego probably compensating for low self esteem.  Is that what immaturity is?  Or is this behavior genetic?  Does Mike's daughter have no choice but to act this way given the personalities of her parents at her own age?  Is the drive to disagree with authority built in?  Ah.  I know.  Both these teachers that she is picking fights with are females and she had a very poor relationship with a former step mother when she was young.  She is transfering her aggression toward the step mother onto an older female with authority.  It is rebellion 10 years too late.

I'm curious what her grade in this class will be.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:58 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, 11 March 2007 4:51 AM EST

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Mood:  quizzical

It is sometimes hard to be a stepmother.

Mike's daughter has not been over to our house to pick up her mail in a long time.  She temporarily went to live with her boyfriend.  I certainly haven't opened up any of her mail but there are bills and what looks like official state business.

I told Mike last weekend that he needed to call his daughter and tell her that it looks like she has some important mail waiting for her.  Mike told me then that he wants a divorce from his daughter.  He wants them to part ways and that she go live her life separate from him living his life.  It was his decision as a parent not to call her and to let her suffer the consequences of not picking up her mail.  I have to abide by his decision and not call her myself, it wouldn't be my place to do that.

So I worry that she isn't getting her mail and what might be the consequence of that.  I am worrying far more than her father is worrying.  I wish I could quit worrying.  Obviously her father isn't worrying.  The reluctance to calling my own flesh n' blood isn't the kind of relationship I would want to have with my own daughter.  But her father makes up the rules of how we are going to interact with her.  Apparently at this time he feels the need for distance more than I do.

We joke that we will hear from her when her car breaks down and she needs money to fix it.  It isn't a funny joke, it is a sad joke. 

This spring Mike and I are going to fix up a car that was given to us by my sister.  It has sat in a garage for over eight years.  It has very low mileage and we are going to offer it to his daughter for her to buy.  We had an episode where she owed us money and was paying it back bit by bit when suddenly she stopped paying.  She was expecting a baby and wanted to save her money instead of paying back Mike and I what she owed.  The decision was never discussed, we just stopped getting money.  Eventually we dismissed her debt, losing $800.  Now, because of that experience we will request that she get a car loan from the bank if she wants the car.  The irony is that because she is young and earns little probably Mike will have to co-sign the loan.  But the important thing is that she will be obligated to the bank and not us.  Mike is betting that she won't want the car because it doesn't have four wheel drive and isn't cool looking enough.  I think that having his daughter come live with us has damaged his opinion of her.  I don't know about Mike, but I certainly had a better relationship with his daughter before we became close.  The closeness ended up in her saying hurtful things to me that I can't forget.  Does the past sometimes keep me up at night?  Yes.  I get a shot of adrenalin re-living memories of the last fight.  I don't doubt that the daughter has moved on and spares little thought about me.  I hope time heals wounds.

Posted by dignifyme at 1:13 PM EST

Updated: Thursday, 8 March 2007 1:43 PM EST

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Mood:  chillin'

This last weekend with great joy Mike and I walked to the post office to mail a packet of information to a literary agent concerning his book, "Memories of Ghenna".  We chose a literary agency in New York City out of the Writer's Market and then investigated the individual people within the agency on the internet.  Mike addressed his query letter to a specific person, he even talked about a past book that she had help get published.  The literary agency wanted a query letter, an outline or synopsis of the book, and one sample chapter.  This was the packet we mailed.

Currently I have suspended work on my book to finish a short story that I want to try to get published in the literary magazine called "Creative Nonfiction".  My story is true, it is about several days when I was psychotic right before I went into a mental institution.  When, one day, I send out a query letter for my book I want to be able to list magazines that my work has been accepted and published in.  I'm building up a resume.

Other than these projects Mike and I have been watching movies and taking walks.  The weather is going to turn bitterly cold over the next few days with a strong wind.  Instead of going for walks in this weather I am going to stay at home and dance to some music.  I can work up a sweat dancing.  I'll time myself to dance for exactly 1/2 of an hour.  The room I'm dancing in has no heat, so that alone is motivation to get my body moving. 

I have a favorite skirt that I've never worn in public before.  It looks like a denim ball gown.  It is Ralph Lauren and was bought in Lord N' Taylors back when I had money from my divorce settlement.  I want to wear my denim ball gown this spring once the snows have melted but it is exactly one size smaller than what I currently am.  So I am being careful what I eat and trying to exercize every day.

Posted by dignifyme at 1:04 PM EST

Updated: Monday, 5 March 2007 1:05 PM EST

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Mood:  chillin'

I take a glass measuring cup and put a small amount of red wine in it.  I break open a 40mg Prozac capsule and pour white powder into the wine.  At first the white powder wants to clump together.  But as I swirl the measuring cup the white powder begins to dissolve into the red wine until the red wine turns from clear to cloudy because of the suspended particles of Prozac.  Sometimes a bit of alcholol is added to over the counter medication syrups to keep the medication dissolved in the syrup.  Alchohol is a dissolver.

I heat water in a tea kettle.  In a coffee mug I pour the boiling water over a tea bag.  I dunk the tea bag several times, watching for the brown tea to stain the water.  Once the hot water has colored I pour exactly 1 cup worth of tea into the glass measuring cup.  Stir with a spoon to mix the Prozac laden wine evenly into the tea.  Then over a sink I pour off 1/4 of the liquid, leaving 3/4 cup in the measuring cup.  I pour the 3/4 cup of tea measurment into an empty coffee mug and drink it.  After the mug is empty I pour some water in it, swirl, and then drink the water, to wash away any residue of the Prozac tea that has been left in the mug. 

This is the way to reduce a 40mg capsule dose of prozac to a 30mg dose.  My therapist is reducing my prozac prescription but I recently bought a 90 day supply of 40mg capsules.  I don't want that medication to go to waste.  The capsules can't be cut into quarters the way a tablet can.  You have to find a way of separating 10mg of the powerder away from 30mg.  The answer is my Prozac tea.

Prozac tea tastes bitter.  The tea is bitter, the wine is tart, and the Prozac powder is bitter.  However the flavor of the tea and the wine over powers the Prozac powder.  I like to drink my tea bitter anyway.  Once the measurement of Prozac tea is perfect I could add sugar or milk but I don't.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:40 PM EST

Updated: Monday, 5 March 2007 1:06 PM EST

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Mood:  cool

I am waiting for warmer weather.  Yesterday it was bitterly cold but today's high is 40 degrees.

The big thing to accomplish today is taking a walk with Plum Pudding.  I have typed up several pages of my book and eaten breakfast.  I have to keep my objective clear in my mind's eye, try to psych myself into the behavior.  Taking a walk is never an impulsive thing, it is planned behavior.  The natural tendency because of my illness and isolation is to just lie in bed.

Yesterday I helped Mike prepare part of his book proposal for an agent.  The agent he is submitting to wants a synopsis of his book.  Mike went through his entire manuscript chapter by chapter and created this long list of events.  The trouble he ran into is that some information that seemed self evident to the author never made it into the synopsis, and other information that was trivial was added to the synopsis.  In the author's eyes no part of their book is trivial.  What I did was take his chapter breakdown and create a three page story.  A synopsis should read like an easy flowing story I think.  Now Mike saw his book through my eyes.  He is going to take my synopsis and re-write it.  But the fat has been trimmed and the holes in the plot are glaringly self evident.

Today work on my own book continued.  Now I have a game plan for how to continue.  First I finish typing the manuscript into the computer.  Then I finish the manuscript, add an ending on to it.  I should be ready to start writing new material in about a month's time.  Probably it will take me six months to nine months to finish the book.  Then I take the book manuscript and start a re-write at the beginning.  So far I am telling the story as if it were my story, with all the correct details and honest facts and honest reactions.  But when I re-write it I want the narrator to become a character who is not me.  It will become Isabelle's story, a work of fiction, and stop being Karen's story, a work of non-fiction.  I want to take at least a year re-writing the book into a work of fiction.

Meanwhile I have a new policy about reading books.  I went to the library last Saturday.  I got one fiction book by a dead author and one fiction book by a living author.  From now on there will always be that ratio, my natural tendency is only to read dead authors.  I guess I don't feel threatened by them.  They aren't the competition and they are removed from my experience of contemporary society.  But if I'm going to become a contemporary author I need to immerse myself in contemporary literature.  I need to know as many ways as possible of what can be, instead of what was.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:05 PM EST

Updated: Tuesday, 20 February 2007 12:08 PM EST

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Mood:  crushed out

The card Michael gave to me was addressed, "Beloved".  I can't be quite as mushy so I addressed my valentine card to "Mike".  Both cards said similar things although Mike's was longer and far more sentimental.  I am very lucky that I have married a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.  My heart is more hidden.  Along with the card came a package of eight large strawberries dipped in chocolate.  I have never eatten a strawberry dipped in chocolate before.  The crunch of the coating (the chocolate was hard from being refridgerated) and the cold mush of the strawberry inside is a very strange combination.  It was a bit painful eatting the strawberries because my teeth on one side are sensitive to hot and cold and the gums around the teeth on the other side had been burned by eating a hot cheese sandwich.  They looked beautiful, all had a long stem attached and green leaves.  The dark chocolate had been drizzled with swirls of white chocolate.  I bought Mike two bags of his favorite candy but now that I think about it I wish I had bought a traditional red valentine box of chocolates for him, it would have been more romantic.

I get taken care of so well that there is the danger of becoming lazy.  Mike cooks me dinner every night.  Last night he served it to me in bed.  For the last month he has been doing the dishes as well.  He never ever complains.  I think I married a caretaker.  Sometimes I think about what would happen to me if Mike died.  I would be lost.  It isn't just what he does for me, it is the spirit of the fact, that I am being nurtured by someone who loves me.  The loss of his nurturing would turn the world into a very cold, hard place to live.  I could do my own dishes and cook my own meals.  I've lived alone before.  What I've come to be dependent on is a man who loves me.  That love is manifested in all sorts of ways, caring comforting words, companionship, and sex.  But put these things together and you have the one fact that you are not alone.  In my marriage I never feel alone.  If Mike died I would feel horribly alone.

Right before I go to sleep is a strange time for me and some nights I get feeling waves of fear.  I tell Mike, "I am afraid" and snuggle close and clutch him.  Last time I did this Mike told me that the worst thing that could happen is that I die, and death in his eyes is not an ending.  He believes that you die and become part of Gaea, the Mother Earth Goddess.  The afterlife is a union with a much greater power that is big and beautiful and peaceful.  It is something that he is certain of, a true believer.  It is hard to remember my fear now, this morning, because I only feel it late at night.  It could be because I an tired and vulnerable after a long day or it could be because my medication is wearing thin and it is too soon to feel the affects of my evening dose taken with dinner.  All the things I fear, and it is hard to assign objects to this vague feeling, are listed below.

1. My teeth going bad.  I have expensive caps on my front teeth.  The teeth under these caps have been whittled down to tiny pieces of bone.  I fear that we won't be able to afford future dental work and I will have to have my teeth pulled and wear false dentures.  Right now a back tooth is rotten and I have to find a dentist and make an appointment.  This task weighs on my mind every day.  I am afraid to go to the dentist.

2. That I will accomplish nothing exceptional during my lifetime.  I will be a part-time artist and part-time writer and never have a steady career as one or the other.  I will spend years writing my book but after all that effort it won't be good enough to be published.  I will live my entire life never knowing what it feels like to make money and to be recognized as doing something good.

3. The illness has reduced me to something less than a half person.  I am a quarter person, a fifth or sixth of a person and no matter how hard I try I cannot compete any artistic field against people who have gone to school for their craft or who can work for hours upon hours every day.  My little efforts can never achieve greatness because greatness comes only after long hours of work.  I can do my bit every day and hope that the bits add up to something important but perhaps this is not the way it works.

4. I will lose Michael and in the process of going mad from grief all my creativity will dry up.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:56 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, 14 February 2007 1:05 PM EST

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