Dream
Posted on February 7, 2013 in Dreams
My mother has fallen on bad times ((Shut up, Lynn.)) — she is very sick and leaves my brother and me to look after her business. When she comes back, she thanks us for getting most of it done, but there is still the matter of the electricity bills. She kneels on the floor and goes through them with a man from the utility, stacking them neatly in little piles on the floor.
Dreams
Posted on January 20, 2013 in Dreams
One theme that has appeared in my dreams lately is reconciliation. Specifically, people who have wronged me in the past — parents, bosses, etc. — come to me as I am sitting reading a large illuminated book and tell me that they are sorry for having underestimated me or for having bullied me.
Another dream: I realize that I have been skipping physical education and English. School officials take me to my Advanced Placement English class and tell me that I am being removed to a lower course with another fellow.
Gun Addiction
Posted on January 17, 2013 in Addictions Mania Violence
The nation’s mental health experts are hard at work trying to explain yet another mass shooting. In some cases, they have been able to find a root psychiatric cause such as bipolar disorder, but usually they confront a mystery. People with mental illnesses are more often the victims of bullying and more violent crime than they are the perpetrators. So what can we do to better understand these slaughters and the obsession on the parts of some which lead them to hold out against any meaningful gun reform.
Think about cocaine. Most people take a snort and are satisfied with the experience of having tried it. A few, however, can never get enough once they have tried it. Thousands of dollars go up their nose as they try to satisfy the intense craving for the sense of power that cocaine enthralls its users in. They ruin their lives, the lives of their family as they become more and more convinced that life is impossible without the processed powder of the coca plant.
Guns act in a similar way. Some of us fire a gun once or twice for the experience and that is enough. Others can never have enough firepower. They buy gun after gun, bullet after bullet. The idea that the government may come to take their guns away becomes an obsession: they can’t imagine life without it and they become consumed with paranoia about separation from their addiction.
For this reason, I don’t call people “gun nuts” because, frankly, that insults the overwhelming majority of us who have mental disorders who have no interest in violence. Because the addiction model fits ever so snugly, I speak of gun addicts, instead, because there is nothing so pathetic as a guy who thinks that his arsenal is going to protect him from anyone who really wants to kill him — an illusion that cost one Internet gun personality his life.
Gun addiction is expensive and dangerous — not so much to others as to one’s self. As the diagram at the end of this article shows, your average gun is more often used to kill others or kill oneself than it is to protect one’s property. In fact, guns tend to attract burglaries rather than deter them.
Most gun owners retain sane relationships with their property, but there are those — the Alex Joneses of the world — who certainly could stand an intervention. The most disturbing thing is that the same frat house ethos that eggs people on to drink also works with guns. And with the #NRA playing interference with sane and reasonable gun laws that even its members — if not its national board — support, the party goes on and on.
There needs to be a new classification in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual. 55 guns is beyond sanity. Alex Jones and others like him require some time in rehab.
Guns and Crazies
Posted on January 13, 2013 in Stigma Suicide Violence
The so-called sane frighten me. Again. This time it is the NRA which, after the incident at Newtown last month, believes that the problem is threefold: not enough guns, video games, and a lack of tracking of those of us with mental disorders.
If you want to hear my opinions on the first two, you will have to follow my Twitter account. The matter of the mentally ill is a bullet fired very close to home. The simple-minded think that marking us with our own special yellow stars solves the problem of Newtown. But it is based on misconceptions and wrong-headed. Let me explain why.
First, only 3% of the mentally ill actually commit violent crimes Only 3% of the sane do the same. So why single out people like me? I offer that the reason is the same as that which leads them to buy guns: they are afraid. I have to say that in all my years running support groups that I have only one person with a mental illness go off on me. He told me to fuck myself and gave me the finger as he walked out the door. I don’t find that that behavior merits stricter controls over the mentally ill, though I have wondered about some of the people who have appeared on television and Youtube videos.
The making of such a list implies that this fellow — and myself — are as dangerous as sex offenders. Just the level of stigma that I need, right? The last time I went on a killing spree — say, wait. I’ve never gone on a killing spree or even threatened one. Why is it that I have to be registered and Alex Jones doesn’t? Oh, I know. I have gone to a psychiatrist and sought help for my illness, something that Alex Jones has patently declared he will never do because he sees psychiatrists as just another kind of policeman.
I’m not too keen about putting my medical records in the hands of people who have no business knowing it. I take my meds, I attend support group meetings, and I see a therapist. My neighbors have never had a problem with me. The police have never paid me a visit to impose the infamous Five One Five Oh. Though I have gone public, I stand for the right of everyone with my condition to choose who gets to know what they live with. Gun dealers have no business knowing these facts of our lives when there is no clear danger to self or others.
And who can say that it will stop there? What will keep employers from scrying these files like they do for criminal records and sex offender statuses? Once you attach stigma to mental illness with a database, it will be misused to destroy lives.
Stigma has another grave effect. People who have a mental illness often don’t seek help because they don’t want a diagnosis that will brand them against good jobs, financial security, and simple social acceptance. Some with violent inclinations will go completely unnoticed by the system because they won’t seek help. A lot has been said about the Newtown shooter, but if he had a psychotic disorder, no one has come forward to confirm it. In the absence of this, how could we possibly track such people? And how will we get those influenced by Alex Jones — those with genuine psychiatric conditions — to get treatment?
As the statistics I have cited before indicate, having a mental illness is a poor predictor of violence. Drinking alcohol has a higher correlation with violence but when Tennessee legislators tried to bar gun stores in bars, the NRA cried “slippery slope” and talked them out of it. As I said, the so-called sane are making a mess of this by removing the focus from the real problem to an imaginary one.
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Accountability and Loss of Memory
Posted on January 3, 2013 in Accountability Mania
I’ve seen many people in bipolar support groups counsel the newly diagnosed not to feel shame for things they did while they were in episode: it was the disease that did it, not them is the reasoning. This cleaving of the self, I think, does not help us get a handle on the illness and its effects on others in our life. In fact, it strikes me as downright irresponsible: you never have to make amends ((I have heard from some that making amends has nothing to do with apologizing. By some warped logic, it means for some trying to avoid the full impact of our illness nothing more than admitting to yourself what you did without making restitution or apology to those we harmed while addicted or in the throes of mental illness. I find this cheap recovery and I am suspicious of anyone who flaunts it.)) for anything you did.
Too often, I have seen people who say this to themselves relapse repeatedly. Perhaps it is due to the fact that they do not understand the seriousness of their disorder. Or maybe they desire license to act on impulses that they would reject on moral grounds if they were in their better minds ((Families might find it better for their sanity to forgive things done in episode for the sake of their sanity while expecting the patient who now knows better to take proper steps to minimize further recurrences.))
I take a different approach: I am responsible for my actions even when I do not remember them. Because of my denial of my illness, I harmed others. Therefore I either make peace with them or avoid them so they are not disturbed or shocked by my return to their lives.
But there is a bonus: because I am accountable, I get to own the good things I did with more resolve. I get to own the steps I have taken towards resilience ((I believe that one cannot recover from mental illness. What one can do is do a number of things such as taking one’s meds, exercise, cognitive reform, etc. to lessen the frequency of my episodes and decrease their intensity.)).
Here is the grim truth: if I do not take ownership of the bad things I did while in episode, I cannot own the good things I accomplished. To claim otherwise invokes a socipathy that case workers and other mental health practitioners best not encourage.
The Brain is a Dark Country
Posted on November 28, 2012 in Depression Disappointment
The brain is a dark country. I travel there alone, lurching over its high roads and through its scourging vales. I believe that what happens to us is only a small part of our moods. The rest is a geology set down when we were in the womb, shaped by the fidgetings of life.
At times, I don’t like my own mind. I tell my therapist that this came from this and that caused this other thing. I despair because blame for my condition does not incite cure.
Mountain Lions in Whiting Again
Posted on July 17, 2012 in Mountain Lions Neighborhood
Rangers blocked the gates at Whiting Ranch Wilderness. I knew something was up. When I passed Concourse Park in my truck, I saw three trucks and a small crowd of rangers at the entrance gate. So I stopped. “Please tell me that there hasn’t been another mountain lion attack.
No, this time it was only “an incident”. And when I pieced together the details, a most amusing incident it proved to be though the bikers involved probably did not find it so. A mountain lion had spooked some park-users along the short but tenuous Serrano Cow Trail, not once, but twice.
According to a local news site:
A video of a mountain lion in the park was posted online over the weekend prompted state Department of Fish and Game officials to search for the big cat ((Isn’t the Internet powerful?)), which did not leave the area even after it was fired upon with beanbag-type rounds in an attempt to scare it off, O’Neil told the Orange County Register.
“During the investigation, they spotted the mountain lion very close to the trail and unwilling to move,” said O’Neil. “Park rangers closed the park as a precaution while DFG officers continued the investigation.”
Fish and Game managed to capture the beast using a massive “Have-A-Heart” trap baited with a piece of beef. Though I told my Facebook users that I feared the worst for the lion, Fish and Game seems to be following a So-you-wanna-be-around-humans-we’ll-let-you-live-around-humans” policy and sending it to a zoo.
For my own experiences with mountain lions, check here.
Here’s the video that precipitated the Fish and Game search of the wilderness. Most people around here would rather that they removed the coyote — those eat our cats and dogs:
Bipolar Cancer Husband No. 2
Posted on June 26, 2012 in Anxiety Cancer Diary Cats Dogs Uncertainty
Dr. Rettenmaier had told us that he was waiting for the pathologist’s report. We had forgotten this fact during the two days between the initial discovery of the malignant growth on Lynn’s ovary and the diagnostic paperwork. Lynn had awakened from her surgery to discover that she wasn’t going home, that her doctor had had to remove her whole uterus. After I fetched her computer from home, she pored over all the information she could find on ovarian cancer. The outlook did not look good. I made a point of holding back the grim photo of her excised body parts. She had enough on her plate and everyone was telling me that I had to support her with all my spirit and body.
The exceptions were the husbands and wives of cancer patients, as well as cancer survivors. They told me that I had to take care of myself. One neighbor whose wife had had breast cancer told me that the most important thing I had to do was tell my wife that I loved her every day. But he also empathized with the pressure I was under.
I must confess that I still feel a little selfish when I remind people that I am under stress — perhaps more stress than Lynn. The cancer patient has to go through the motions of treatment, but everyone rallies around her or him. People expect the spouse to take the lead in this. The fact remains that my wife has been living with a potentially fatal illness. How can the squeezing you feel in your chest measure up against the palpable tumors that appear on sonograms and post-operative photos? Where’s the drama in a headache? You feel terrifically alone. The party — if you dare call it that — isn’t going to be about you. You tell people, but most of them give you the glass eye.
To survive, I made time for myself to take photos and take walks. I made sure to get home every night to look after the animals. This task made me feel of some use. When someone ((One of those nonmedical professionals who though s/he read that pets were dangerous to people undergoing chemo)) suggested that the filthiness of our condo required that we get rid of the cats, I felt sick and started to cry. Lynn had a massive support system of which I was an important part. But the cats and the dog were going to be my support system. Lynn’s oncologist scoffed at the idea of ridding ourselves of the animals — “You’re not brittle!” he told her — and our vet provided us with information about living with chemotherapy and keeping your pets. Armed with this, I simply told the people who were telling us that we had to do this “The pets are off-limits.”
On the backs of this resolve came better news: Lynn had endometrial cancer. It would be a few days before we got an idea of how bad, but even with a 10 to 15% depreciation of her survival chances ((Uterine cancers usually have a 90% or more survival rate with treatment)), it was certainly a more sanguine prospect than the 46% assigned to ovarian cancer. I felt that we were going to make it. But there were major projects to undertake before Lynn could move back into the condo.
Dream
Posted on June 24, 2012 in Dreams
I have some obnoxious neighbors who are into obliterating things of mine. I go over to talk to them and explain to them that I am no threat. But they continue to harass me. Finally, just before I wake up, I discover one of them riding his motorcycle in circles around my back lawn.
My therapist suggested that this was a commentary on the recent stresses in my life, the one thing after another.
Bipolar Cancer Husband No. 1
Posted on June 14, 2012 in Anxiety Cancer Diary
I’ve been trying to write this story for months, but the time and the motivation have not been there.
Two things tipped me off that something was wrong. First, I looked at my cell phone and realized that too much time had passed. Dr. Rettenmaier had promised a quick surgery — twenty five minutes — and now an hour and fifteen minutes had passed. Laparascopic hysterectomies were his specialties. The grin on his face had been confident and true. It was just a cyst. He did this all the time.
The disappearance of that grin when he came out to see me was the second clue. He led me into a small consultation room. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but the gist of it was that there was a malignant mass on Lynn’s ovary. He’d cut her open and removed the entire uterus including the cervix. He showed me a picture of a pile of bloody organs that he said was what he had removed. They looked like meat from a butcher.
His tone was grave. He made an effort to underscore that he hadn’t photo-shopped anything, that he had followed procedure, and that we were dealing with cancer. I’m sure the fact that I was bipolar danced in the back of his mind. I understand. He had probably dealt with plenty of husbands who, on hearing the news, wanted to shake him and tell him that he had made a mistake. My calm must have surprised him. I accepted fate and asked what questions my shaken consciousness allowed.
He let me call my mother-in-law so she could ask her questions of him. I don’t think she was any more thorough and coherent than I was. “How could this happen to Lynn,” her mother said to me after he returned the phone to me. Who had an answer for great matters of the universe as trivial in the greater scheme of things as this was. Dr. Rettenmaier told me to wait for the pathology report. He couldn’t tell me what kind of cancer it was without it.
Kay Redfield Jamison says that there is a big difference between bipolar depression and grief. I was feeling the latter now. I could walk, talk, see colors. Most distinctly, I could cry.
People in the waiting area who heard my news told me that this was the worst day, the day where you found out the fact and didn’t know the reality. The receptionist took pity on me and told me I could visit Lynn in the recovery room.
I stood by Lynn’s gurney. Her eyes flickered open. Had she heard the news. “What happened?” she asked. “You have cancer,” I whimpered.
“I have cancer?” she said, groggily.
“Yes,” I replied.
The nurse did not let me stay very long. They sent me up to the sixth floor of Hoag Hospital where I waited until they told me that I could go in. I used the time to call friends and family to tell them the news. Ovarian cancer, I kept murmuring to myself. The prognosis would not be good.
Shopping at Moods-R-Us
Posted on June 11, 2012 in Insurance Stigma
This is a peeve I’ve had for a long time. I can understand the reasoning, but I don’t like the additional implications. Due to the media, folklore, and other cancers of popular culture, the phrase “mental patient” acquired some bad connotations. Some people didn’t want to be labeled with it because they had been wrongly committed back in the days when psychiatrists called anything that moved “schizophrenic”. Others didn’t want to be painted with an ax in their hands.
But the phrase we replaced it with was “mental health consumers”. I am all for mental health — isn’t that the reason why I am on so many medications? — but the notion of me being a “consumer” irritates me. It suggests that I am in Psychiatry Land because I am looking for a high or because I am looking for the latest brain fashion accessory. Out there, there must be a mental health superstore — a “Moods-R-Us” where I can pick and choose from the latest manias, depressions and mixed states, each colored to match my attire ((I have a friend who showed up to her psychiatrist wearing ultra-bright clothing. The shrink said “Are we feeling a bit manic today?” “No,” my friend said. “We are feeling depressed and the only clothes we have to wear are the ones we bought when we were manic.”)) .
There’s a worse implication here: consumer suggests whim. It suggests that our syndromes are less devastating than other physical conditions. Do we hear talk of diabetes consumers or cancer consumers? “Oh, yes, I would like some Taxol to go with my new uterine tumor.” People would rise in anger and cry out in rebellion.
If we are just consumers, then our illnesses aren’t serious and don’t deserve insurance coverage. That’s the bottom line here. It’s a door to disenfranchise us from decent health care. And no one who suffers from genuine psychiatric conditions should just stand by and allow that to happen.
No Fire Like Greed
Posted on June 8, 2012 in Class Hatred Liberty Morals & Ethics Spirituality and Being
Greed and hate are not signs of freedom, but of slavery. Free yourself.
