*(Imagine the strains of four decades-worth of rock hits -- Pat Benatar power ballads and Bob Seger bumping elbows with the Eagles and Melissa Etheridge -- thrumming in the background. Hear the mosquitoes diving in for a snack but halting at the door of my OFF! family-safe formula, spritzed as it is on every square inch of my body. Take note of the sullen postures of two bored teens, the sweet fruit of my womb, as they await the hope of heading homeward. See yours truly, new hair color hiding the mistake of last night and whisking me away from my erroneous 'Irish roots,' perched on the edge of a cushioned folding chair in my new clearance-at-Kohl's black party dress, moved so completely by the natural beauty all along the outskirts of this domestic scene that I am compelled to dig out the pink pen and mini-notebook for a few necessary scribbles. I am going for a ride and taking you with me.)
__________________________________________________________________________________
My eyes keep searching out the stand of oaks rising from the field just beyond the row of fenced-in suburban yards, including the one I now sit in. They are autonomous. Maybe planted in the wind or washed there by rain, perhaps, or dropped off by a bird. No landscaper's hand or architect's pen drew them into place; selected them from a congregation of 5-gallon black plastic buckets; or stuck them in at right angles to a 4,000 square foot house.
An unfinished home stands behind them, framed, roofed, papered. One of those aforementioned yards has a bright table umbrella, beach ball colors of primary red, blue, green, and yellow, open and rimmed in white lights. Further up, one of those ubiquitous neutral patio sets with tile-topped table and matchy-matchy chairs is an island unto itself. Even closer to my perch sits a wooden playground with mini-climbing wall, multiple varied swings, put together by somebody's daddy not too long ago, judging by the sheen of the timbers and the condition of the plastic pieces.
My immediate view encompasses an array of scattered tables covered in disposable tablecloths, flickering candles set dead center, folding chairs, Tiki torches, lawn tents with string stakes. A five-piece rock cover band comprised of forty-somethings, my husband included, set-up in the back with the sleek black DW drum set, performs their first public show. It's a "working out the kinks" debut: playing as they are, a mixture of polish and rough, for the surprise 40th birthday party of the female lead singer, who's gravelly soulful vocals hit almost all the right notes. Not a bad bit of entertainment.
But I've spotted a display infinitely more staggering than any fireworks bursting in my memory. "Hotel California" can't compete with this. An overgrown meadow, the length of two football fields, the width of one, is hosting a benefit of a thousand points of light, to borrow a coined phrase. Fireflies. En masse. Timing in . . . and out . . . and in-n . . . A blinking twinkling herald to the setting of this day's sun. They are a spectacular counterpoint to the copse of junior oaks.
I imagine everything else fading into the background. A scene rises in my mind. Five heads, side by side, chins cupped in tripod-folded hands. An entire family lying on their bellies in the haven of my suburban back yard, held spellbound by these living hovering lights flickering in the night air. They are barefoot, I recall, and merge effortlessly into my landscape, as if the spot of grass before my arbor purposed this moment.
This is a precious memory of the final trip my good friend and her husband took with their three young children as a married couple. They had planned it this way, coming here before their divorce. One more family trip together for the kids. They knew it then, her with resounding surety, him with reluctance and a touch of denial, but held the ending at bay for these few days at our family home, a world away from the arid New Mexico town of their residence. A place devoid of fireflies. I watched them, just as mesmerized as them by the sight they presented, a suspended interlude of solidarity held in abeyance up to the glow of Tennessee fireflies.
It is not often that one witnesses such a collision of ending and beginning within the space of a phosphorescent blink of an eye. "Hit me with your best shot! Fire away-y-y . . . " sings the intrepid birthday girl, bringing me back to the manicured fescue of this lovely but nondescript suburban oasis of a back yard.
I focus on the fireflies.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Why I Walk The Bridge Part Two
Inequality. It's where I ended in my last writing on this blog. It is where I begin with this entry.
There was a family of four children who lived a life until a point came in each of their lives when they left their mother. Before the time that such a separation is generally encouraged. The reasons were extreme. The results of their departures varied. When the smoke settled, two would find a measure of regularity with marriage, children, home, and the mundane of everyday, though they would battle their demons on inward planes. Two would struggle with their demons in a more public venue and find themselves institutionalized for their efforts.
All were exposed to the same stresses. Each entered the world via the same womb. But right down the middle ran an invisible line, with survivors to the left and thrivers to the right. Biochemical processes within the brain would determine the reactions and outcomes of these four individual lives. An organic inequality which would only be enhanced by the elasticized boundaries and experiences of an unusual childhood.
One sibling of this quartet would become the bridge over which they all could safely cross. Her role became that of comforter, friend, peacemaker, and confidant. She protected the commonality of their youth, realizing the unique nature of their tenuous bond, understanding they were connected whether or not they desired such because of their extraordinary history. No one else could comprehend their situation like they could, one to the other. She rose to the occasion without expecting an end or compensation or even relief. It was more than duty: it was empathy. Love without question, even in the midst of irritation or frustration. Sometimes, even anger.
The nature of these relationships and the circumstances behind them lead certain onlookers to conjecture without the benefit of true circumspection. There are those who believe the big sister 'does too much' for her siblings. There are those who opine that the two institutionalized siblings 'are reaping what they sowed.' There are those who feel she would be better served to 'focus on her family and her self' as if, quite possibly, she had neglected those areas in the process of funneling her valuable energies to lifeless appendages.
Who has the right to hand down such judgement calls? When does caring for others become too much? How is it determined that love and concern need to be bagged and tagged for the duration? What will this generation of children learn of their own sibling interactions through such uninformed proclamations?
As a society, we hero worship through the medium of television and movies and the written word. Condensed versions of lives lived out in selfless giving are presented in palatable sound bytes which make it all seem doable to the viewer/reader. The actual impact regarding the outpouring of time and energy cannot be truly felt. Thus, when it is witnessed in real time, many interpret it as a drain, a waste, an unnecessary sacrifice.
My life is rich in friends and family. Where is the drain in ensuring a fellow human being does not have to brave the harshness of life alone? As my children are fond of pointing out, there is a hefty amount of unfairness out there. Where is the waste of my energy in extending a small measure of fairness to counteract the ill effects? My Christian directives compel me to believe that even for the good of one, it is all of worth. In accordance with that, any sacrifice I make is necessary and
folllows on the heels of the greatest sacrifice ever made.
If the unaware could somehow catch on to the silent many who carry an extra load for a loved one, often even for strangers in great need, and hear the tangled stories. If the unaware could accept the heart willing to assist as opposed to enable. Then, perhaps they might feel they should extend themselves in the everyday extraordinary ways that mark the days of those they have deemed foolish.
The wonders we might accomplish.
There was a family of four children who lived a life until a point came in each of their lives when they left their mother. Before the time that such a separation is generally encouraged. The reasons were extreme. The results of their departures varied. When the smoke settled, two would find a measure of regularity with marriage, children, home, and the mundane of everyday, though they would battle their demons on inward planes. Two would struggle with their demons in a more public venue and find themselves institutionalized for their efforts.
All were exposed to the same stresses. Each entered the world via the same womb. But right down the middle ran an invisible line, with survivors to the left and thrivers to the right. Biochemical processes within the brain would determine the reactions and outcomes of these four individual lives. An organic inequality which would only be enhanced by the elasticized boundaries and experiences of an unusual childhood.
One sibling of this quartet would become the bridge over which they all could safely cross. Her role became that of comforter, friend, peacemaker, and confidant. She protected the commonality of their youth, realizing the unique nature of their tenuous bond, understanding they were connected whether or not they desired such because of their extraordinary history. No one else could comprehend their situation like they could, one to the other. She rose to the occasion without expecting an end or compensation or even relief. It was more than duty: it was empathy. Love without question, even in the midst of irritation or frustration. Sometimes, even anger.
The nature of these relationships and the circumstances behind them lead certain onlookers to conjecture without the benefit of true circumspection. There are those who believe the big sister 'does too much' for her siblings. There are those who opine that the two institutionalized siblings 'are reaping what they sowed.' There are those who feel she would be better served to 'focus on her family and her self' as if, quite possibly, she had neglected those areas in the process of funneling her valuable energies to lifeless appendages.
Who has the right to hand down such judgement calls? When does caring for others become too much? How is it determined that love and concern need to be bagged and tagged for the duration? What will this generation of children learn of their own sibling interactions through such uninformed proclamations?
As a society, we hero worship through the medium of television and movies and the written word. Condensed versions of lives lived out in selfless giving are presented in palatable sound bytes which make it all seem doable to the viewer/reader. The actual impact regarding the outpouring of time and energy cannot be truly felt. Thus, when it is witnessed in real time, many interpret it as a drain, a waste, an unnecessary sacrifice.
My life is rich in friends and family. Where is the drain in ensuring a fellow human being does not have to brave the harshness of life alone? As my children are fond of pointing out, there is a hefty amount of unfairness out there. Where is the waste of my energy in extending a small measure of fairness to counteract the ill effects? My Christian directives compel me to believe that even for the good of one, it is all of worth. In accordance with that, any sacrifice I make is necessary and
folllows on the heels of the greatest sacrifice ever made.
If the unaware could somehow catch on to the silent many who carry an extra load for a loved one, often even for strangers in great need, and hear the tangled stories. If the unaware could accept the heart willing to assist as opposed to enable. Then, perhaps they might feel they should extend themselves in the everyday extraordinary ways that mark the days of those they have deemed foolish.
The wonders we might accomplish.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Why I Walk The Bridge Part 1
There's this bridge in Nanjing, China. The Yangtze River Bridge. 4-miles long. And, it is famous for the number of people who jump off of it each year to commit suicide.
There's also this man in Nanjing, China. His name is Chen Sah. This family man chooses to spend his weekends on Yangtze River Bridge, after a full work-week, because he once heard a story about how many people die on the bridge each year. With the help of his faltering moped, he scouts amidst the multitudes of visitors along the bridge for the individuals who will make that fateful choice to take his or her own life. And then, Chen Sah tries to rescue them. Sometimes he meets with success and learns the story and needs of the person; other times he is too late and can only try, try again. He keeps a simple blog (click here for translated excerpts) of what happens each day in a 'hobby' some would find macabre. His reasons for taking on this enormous chore do not include having someone close to him kill themselves. Many of the desperate are from poor farming regions where life is hardscrabble and existence itself is depressing. Coming from this background, he understands the inner struggles which result. From this simple wellspring of commonality evolved a need within Chen Sah to expose himself to tremendous emotional and mental stress on a weekly basis, and to spend a portion of his valuable family time, pooling his limited resources together for the sake of total strangers.
I heard about Chen Sah on "This American Life", a podcast of an NPR radio show out of Chicago. Though it is in Chinese, his blog is now one I follow, even if only to view the pictures he takes of the rescued. I understand the origin of his drive.
Compassion. Empathy. Concern for matters outside of one's self, one's life sphere, one's personal universe of people, places, and things. Personally, I believe these are elements which should make the world go 'round. Personally, I believe there are a great many others who feels the same and live out those feelings with actions grounded in purpose. Personally, I believe some folks give voice to such feelings but are immediately distracted by the immediacy of their own wants and needs. Personally, I believe a larger pool of people don't think it's any of their concern if someone outside of their immediate family is suffering, for any number of reasons, including, 1) they brought it on themselves; 2) they are the concern of someone else; and, 3) "I don't have enough time/resources/energy to help others."
Anyone who knows me well knows that I care for my husband and my children with as much energy, time, and resources as I can muster in a day and beyond. I'm a stay-at-home parent which means though there are countless duties at my rather dry and pruned fingertips to be had, I'm often not at home to do them. Cooking, cleaning, laundering, gardening, shopping, organizing, paperwork-ing, and errand-running, Listening, learning, lecturing, and lamenting. Everything is not a glittering success. I still make mistakes. I must confess to forgetting the kids a time or two at school for pick-up. My husband could always use more 'wifely minstrations' than he gets on a good week . . . but from what I hear, what husband couldn't?! Every now and again, when the moon is full and my hormones are fluctuating, I have been known to lose my cool with any -- all right, ALL! -- of the residents within our household. Still, my reason-for-being is them. The good, bad, and the downright u-u-gly.
But there is another purpose-driven side of me which springs from a concern for others in this human condition who are hurting, who have unmet needs, who are not as blessed as am I. While I am unable to venture out into the wide world on my own and bring care to these countless, my heart and mind often travel to them and with them. I think and pray for, and sometimes fight worry over, the many who are cut off from the world at large and have no one to fight for them in their tiny corner of this existence. I grew up watching our mother reach out, often with mixed results but the best of intentions, to the homeless, the wartorn, the depressed, the lonely, and the sick. At different times in my childhood, I was one of the homeless, the depressed, the lonely, and the fearful. There really is nothing quite like living a thing, or directly witnessing a thing, to pound it firmly home.
What I lived and what I saw has never left me. The residue is a film on my heart. The memories are a stain in my mind. My beliefs and my perceptions are permanently colored by these recollections. And, in a bittersweet way, I am glad for it. I never want to forget how good I have it in relation to roughly 98% of the entire world's population. It would be unwise to fool myself into believing that within the borders of our very own wonderful country there are not those who go without shelter, food, employment, clothing, and love on a daily basis. People are sick in body and spirit and mind without benefit of insurance or a neighborhood or a family or a church. When I look at the excess just within the confines of my own life, from home to family and friends to health, I wish there was a way to balance the inequalities.
Because I am intimately acquainted with that inequality.
(To Be Continued . . . )
There's also this man in Nanjing, China. His name is Chen Sah. This family man chooses to spend his weekends on Yangtze River Bridge, after a full work-week, because he once heard a story about how many people die on the bridge each year. With the help of his faltering moped, he scouts amidst the multitudes of visitors along the bridge for the individuals who will make that fateful choice to take his or her own life. And then, Chen Sah tries to rescue them. Sometimes he meets with success and learns the story and needs of the person; other times he is too late and can only try, try again. He keeps a simple blog (click here for translated excerpts) of what happens each day in a 'hobby' some would find macabre. His reasons for taking on this enormous chore do not include having someone close to him kill themselves. Many of the desperate are from poor farming regions where life is hardscrabble and existence itself is depressing. Coming from this background, he understands the inner struggles which result. From this simple wellspring of commonality evolved a need within Chen Sah to expose himself to tremendous emotional and mental stress on a weekly basis, and to spend a portion of his valuable family time, pooling his limited resources together for the sake of total strangers.
I heard about Chen Sah on "This American Life", a podcast of an NPR radio show out of Chicago. Though it is in Chinese, his blog is now one I follow, even if only to view the pictures he takes of the rescued. I understand the origin of his drive.
Compassion. Empathy. Concern for matters outside of one's self, one's life sphere, one's personal universe of people, places, and things. Personally, I believe these are elements which should make the world go 'round. Personally, I believe there are a great many others who feels the same and live out those feelings with actions grounded in purpose. Personally, I believe some folks give voice to such feelings but are immediately distracted by the immediacy of their own wants and needs. Personally, I believe a larger pool of people don't think it's any of their concern if someone outside of their immediate family is suffering, for any number of reasons, including, 1) they brought it on themselves; 2) they are the concern of someone else; and, 3) "I don't have enough time/resources/energy to help others."
Anyone who knows me well knows that I care for my husband and my children with as much energy, time, and resources as I can muster in a day and beyond. I'm a stay-at-home parent which means though there are countless duties at my rather dry and pruned fingertips to be had, I'm often not at home to do them. Cooking, cleaning, laundering, gardening, shopping, organizing, paperwork-ing, and errand-running, Listening, learning, lecturing, and lamenting. Everything is not a glittering success. I still make mistakes. I must confess to forgetting the kids a time or two at school for pick-up. My husband could always use more 'wifely minstrations' than he gets on a good week . . . but from what I hear, what husband couldn't?! Every now and again, when the moon is full and my hormones are fluctuating, I have been known to lose my cool with any -- all right, ALL! -- of the residents within our household. Still, my reason-for-being is them. The good, bad, and the downright u-u-gly.
But there is another purpose-driven side of me which springs from a concern for others in this human condition who are hurting, who have unmet needs, who are not as blessed as am I. While I am unable to venture out into the wide world on my own and bring care to these countless, my heart and mind often travel to them and with them. I think and pray for, and sometimes fight worry over, the many who are cut off from the world at large and have no one to fight for them in their tiny corner of this existence. I grew up watching our mother reach out, often with mixed results but the best of intentions, to the homeless, the wartorn, the depressed, the lonely, and the sick. At different times in my childhood, I was one of the homeless, the depressed, the lonely, and the fearful. There really is nothing quite like living a thing, or directly witnessing a thing, to pound it firmly home.
What I lived and what I saw has never left me. The residue is a film on my heart. The memories are a stain in my mind. My beliefs and my perceptions are permanently colored by these recollections. And, in a bittersweet way, I am glad for it. I never want to forget how good I have it in relation to roughly 98% of the entire world's population. It would be unwise to fool myself into believing that within the borders of our very own wonderful country there are not those who go without shelter, food, employment, clothing, and love on a daily basis. People are sick in body and spirit and mind without benefit of insurance or a neighborhood or a family or a church. When I look at the excess just within the confines of my own life, from home to family and friends to health, I wish there was a way to balance the inequalities.
Because I am intimately acquainted with that inequality.
(To Be Continued . . . )
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Eating Fear
It’s 2AM. I’m sitting up in my bed, laptop perched on my – what else – lap, racing against my own mind. A four-hundred calorie lump of vanilla yogurt, whole grain pretzels, a Clementine, and two smoked chicken wings sits in my belly. This lump, a mass with yet recognizable parts in this early stage of digestion if I were to chuck it all up (I have experience in these things, so trust me on this), holds me hostage. It’s rather pitiful. I’m afraid of food. Ironically, the chicken had more to fear at one time in its sacrificial life than I ever will if comparisons are to be drawn.
But it’s not the food. We all know that. Eating disorders are about control. Or, truthfully, the lack thereof. Yes, I said ‘eating disorder.’ Because my fear of this post-midnight snack has very little to do with believing it might come alive inside me and rip me open, spilling bile and stomach acid mixed with the blood of my wounds. (Though, now that I put it that way, it is rather gruesome to imagine.) My fear is all about my perceived inability to turn down food at the appropriate times of day or night; my fear is about whether or not that snack I just wolfed down was nutritionally dense and calorically balanced; my fear is whether or not I will manufacture enough time in the following day to exercise it off before I feel the need to eat again. Those are only a few points on a very long list that I try to downplay each and every day. The list began when I was roughly 10 years-old. I quite adding to it a few years back but I have not ceased to run ragged circles around myself in a vain attempt to achieve the unrealistic goals set forth in my very own Declaration of Dependence.
You see, us grown-ups out there living in the real world with its real problems and that real baggage that we often tote around from our real childhoods, we can’t always make sense of it all. Even with our family. Even with our friendships. Even with our hobbies and pleasures. Most assuredly even with our faith. We still struggle. We yet waver though we stand.
For some folks, that baggage is just a light carry-on and it remains so through the course of marriage, kids, school, career, and the myriad milestones which pepper the winding route of this life. For others, however, the baggage begins as an oversized piece with pockets inside and out, bulging at the seams even with the extra-space zipper in the unzipped position. Through marriage and children and the endless stream of challenges they encounter, these bearers of said large baggage tend to add other pieces to the ensemble of varying shapes and sizes and storage capacities. Sometimes, the baggage isn’t even theirs to carry but they can’t bear to see it left on the side of the road as they come upon it.
As the weight of this burden increases, the need for a crutch also increases. At first glance, the crutch appears to be useful, even helpful, but a second look reveals otherwise. The crutch props up the burden and imparts a false sense of ‘you-can-handle-all-of-this-indeterminately.’ Why? Because the crutch allows the illusion of control in a situation where there is absolutely no control.
I’m a 40 year-old woman. I have a 20 year-old daughter; a daughter of 17 years in high school; and a perpetually-in-motion son who hits 15 in August. My dog is a well-kept healthy 14 enjoying her senior status. Our feline, the unexpected Thanksgiving guest of 2007 who never left, has yet to waste one of his nine lives in the roughly 3 years of his prowling and purring. For the past 21 years, I’ve been married to man who has stood beside me through all manner of baggage-building episodes, many of which had nothing to do with our relationship as husband and wife. My septuagenarian mother resides in a neighboring hamlet just a mere half-hour drive away. My prized collection of loved ones, including siblings, relatives, friends, and neighbors, from the past and the present, situated both near and far on the map, sustains me on the best and the worst of days. It’s a two-truck, nice home, treed-and-flowered-yard of a comfortable existence for me these days.
My faith empowers me. I am generally grateful. I am handily helpful.
But I am also falteringly fearful.
I’m no longer sure who I am. I am no longer sure who I once was. I no longer believe it is important to know these things about myself in order to move forward. What I know is this: I need to kick the crutch away from me. I need to trust what my two legs say about the proper load-bearing weight upon my back. I need to open my bags and lighten the contents and give back what was never mine to bear from the beginning.
As for the food? It will digest. I extend my thanks to the chicken. It is ungrateful to regret partaking of it when I’m alive and it died to sustain my life.
But it’s not the food. We all know that. Eating disorders are about control. Or, truthfully, the lack thereof. Yes, I said ‘eating disorder.’ Because my fear of this post-midnight snack has very little to do with believing it might come alive inside me and rip me open, spilling bile and stomach acid mixed with the blood of my wounds. (Though, now that I put it that way, it is rather gruesome to imagine.) My fear is all about my perceived inability to turn down food at the appropriate times of day or night; my fear is about whether or not that snack I just wolfed down was nutritionally dense and calorically balanced; my fear is whether or not I will manufacture enough time in the following day to exercise it off before I feel the need to eat again. Those are only a few points on a very long list that I try to downplay each and every day. The list began when I was roughly 10 years-old. I quite adding to it a few years back but I have not ceased to run ragged circles around myself in a vain attempt to achieve the unrealistic goals set forth in my very own Declaration of Dependence.
You see, us grown-ups out there living in the real world with its real problems and that real baggage that we often tote around from our real childhoods, we can’t always make sense of it all. Even with our family. Even with our friendships. Even with our hobbies and pleasures. Most assuredly even with our faith. We still struggle. We yet waver though we stand.
For some folks, that baggage is just a light carry-on and it remains so through the course of marriage, kids, school, career, and the myriad milestones which pepper the winding route of this life. For others, however, the baggage begins as an oversized piece with pockets inside and out, bulging at the seams even with the extra-space zipper in the unzipped position. Through marriage and children and the endless stream of challenges they encounter, these bearers of said large baggage tend to add other pieces to the ensemble of varying shapes and sizes and storage capacities. Sometimes, the baggage isn’t even theirs to carry but they can’t bear to see it left on the side of the road as they come upon it.
As the weight of this burden increases, the need for a crutch also increases. At first glance, the crutch appears to be useful, even helpful, but a second look reveals otherwise. The crutch props up the burden and imparts a false sense of ‘you-can-handle-all-of-this-indeterminately.’ Why? Because the crutch allows the illusion of control in a situation where there is absolutely no control.
I’m a 40 year-old woman. I have a 20 year-old daughter; a daughter of 17 years in high school; and a perpetually-in-motion son who hits 15 in August. My dog is a well-kept healthy 14 enjoying her senior status. Our feline, the unexpected Thanksgiving guest of 2007 who never left, has yet to waste one of his nine lives in the roughly 3 years of his prowling and purring. For the past 21 years, I’ve been married to man who has stood beside me through all manner of baggage-building episodes, many of which had nothing to do with our relationship as husband and wife. My septuagenarian mother resides in a neighboring hamlet just a mere half-hour drive away. My prized collection of loved ones, including siblings, relatives, friends, and neighbors, from the past and the present, situated both near and far on the map, sustains me on the best and the worst of days. It’s a two-truck, nice home, treed-and-flowered-yard of a comfortable existence for me these days.
My faith empowers me. I am generally grateful. I am handily helpful.
But I am also falteringly fearful.
I’m no longer sure who I am. I am no longer sure who I once was. I no longer believe it is important to know these things about myself in order to move forward. What I know is this: I need to kick the crutch away from me. I need to trust what my two legs say about the proper load-bearing weight upon my back. I need to open my bags and lighten the contents and give back what was never mine to bear from the beginning.
As for the food? It will digest. I extend my thanks to the chicken. It is ungrateful to regret partaking of it when I’m alive and it died to sustain my life.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Turquoise Trust
A patient in a mental hospital has a team. Some combination of psychiatrist, psychologist, social worker, and nurse. Together they make decisions for the patient based on what they see and hear and their cumulative training and work experiences. The ideal situation calls for a willing patient in the treatment process. But I imagine that if one is entering a mental health state institution under duress, initial trust and cooperation are hard to come by.
Actually, I don't have to imagine. For wildly divergent reasons, I have two close siblings in separate state hospitals. Neither experienced a smooth initial induction. Their specific issues required a necessary medication protocol. One is practically a graduate in her treatment and is working toward release; the other is yet an unruly infant unable to latch on. Under the best of circumstances, concocting the perfect drug cocktail for a given medical condition is tough. It takes time and patience and an understanding that there will be at least a few failures before the success hits. Often, the side effects which affect the body right out of the gate break down the will and endurance necessary to wait them out until the real work of the drug or drugs takes hold.
It is in this foggy area that my brother, Gary, has wandered in a rapidly decompressing state for a good ten days or so. Consequently, those of us in close daily contact with him are also feeling our way around, hands waving in front of our faces, trying to make out the shadowy figures in the haze of his mind. Though we all recognize the benefits of the hospital over prison, life in a mental institution is still highly stressful. In fact, the shock of leaving a rigid system and its combative social structure after roughly 18 years and being totally immersed in a less structured system with radically different social behaviors adds an entirely new dimension to the experience.
Besides the Bipolar II and PTSD diagnosis Gary was given back in late 2008, early 2009, there are behaviors he adopted that come with living in the streets and surviving in a jail and prison setting for more than half of his life. Doctors who treated him in spurts in prison considered adult ADHD; his psychiatrist at Napa has broached the subject with him this past week. There is a considerable amount of physical pain on his docket, too, and medications he was allowed in prison and jail are not used in the hospital setting; those were instantly removed from his treatment plan. Since he was a boy, Gary has struggled to sleep with any kind of regularity. Most likely this is connected to his bipolar disorder. Insomnia over long periods of time further affects brain chemistry. Three full days of lack of sleep is said to put people into full-blown psychosis.
Taking all of that into consideration, Gary and his doctor are locked in a back and forth discussion, often heated and frustrated on Gary's side, over what he should take and what it may or may not accomplish in the face of his multiple issues. His mounting anxiety coupled with his fear that they may drug him into a slobbering idiot have led to several behavioral stand-offs on his part. Head-bangings against the wall; aggressive door kickings; yelling and screaming; refusing to listen or respect other parties. He wanted a different doctor, a brand new team, thinking they might lift the restrictions he felt were being levied against him because he was only a scumbag, drug-using ex-convict not worthy of rehabilitation. Their chess move involved calling in the police to let Gary know if he couldn't settle down he would have to cool his heels in a jail cell for awhile until he was prepared to be cooperative. This only served to piss him off further and deepen his mistrust of those in authority.
Now, I've been calming him as best I can for years through letters and monthly 15-minute phone calls. The precious but rare in-person visits. His new life status allows us freedom of phone contact at just about any time of day. I listen. I talk. All without that precise female mechanized voice informing us of the time we don't have left to wrap up our brief discourse. I'm hearing him out and balancing his skewed perspective with a possible interpretation of why his team did what they did or why others do what they do. But even with thrice daily sessions and no time restrictions on 'Girlfriend,' my trusty iPhone, I could not break through to his common sense. It appeared to be lost in the thick fog of his overwhelmed brain. His ramblings were worse with every call. So much anger. So much distrust. So much fear. With each passing day, I surrendered myself to the reality of a suicide attempt or attack on a particular patient whose been pushing his buttons. I had done everything I could do to get him to this point, to this place. There was, and is, work that is simply his to fulfill.
On Thursday or Friday of this past week, he called me, asking if I would assist him in writing a positive incentive contract. It seems his psychiatrist caught on to the importance of drawing in Gary's life and the calming effect it could potentially have on his behavior while we all await the steadying of his psyche via lithium and other elements in his drug arsenal. (Perhaps the entire team pow-wowed over what they knew of him and came up with this plan.) She purchased art supplies through Office Depot and proposed a deal: if he would adhere to the points set out in his contract, he could have full access to the art supplies. Act up, and those items will be gathered up and out of there.
Since that day, there has been a marked improvement in his mood. He is trying to be patient with the long process of adapting to his medicinal protocol, realizing every body and brain is different and will react in varying ways to the same prescriptions. During our two phone calls today, he waxed poetic over the high quality of the Prismacolor Turquoise Pencils of various hardnesses which allow outstanding shading and outlining for his collage-like creations. I Googled Prismacolor as he described the Premier Illustrating Markers and woodless graphite pencils; I felt close to him, picturing him in his room, hunched over his manila envelope palette, as my eyes wandered over the various items on the website.
He was moved, and regretfully apologetic about his previous actions, because he realized that his doctor bought him the good stuff. That one action, insightful and astute in my book, bridged the roiling river of mistrust which has been coursing between Gary and the lifeline being offered to him for the past two weeks plus. In this case, the value of the purchase directly correlated to the value of his humanity in the eyes of this person who holds his life almost literally in her hands.
It is a significant step. Really, a giant first step. I'm hip to the fact that there will continue to be backtracking, but at least an inroad has been made. If I could mark it in the brightest Prismacolor Premier Illustrating Marker color available, I would do it, thus ensuring that Gary could make out its outline in those moments when the fog parts and visibility is possible.
At least I know where it is.
Actually, I don't have to imagine. For wildly divergent reasons, I have two close siblings in separate state hospitals. Neither experienced a smooth initial induction. Their specific issues required a necessary medication protocol. One is practically a graduate in her treatment and is working toward release; the other is yet an unruly infant unable to latch on. Under the best of circumstances, concocting the perfect drug cocktail for a given medical condition is tough. It takes time and patience and an understanding that there will be at least a few failures before the success hits. Often, the side effects which affect the body right out of the gate break down the will and endurance necessary to wait them out until the real work of the drug or drugs takes hold.
It is in this foggy area that my brother, Gary, has wandered in a rapidly decompressing state for a good ten days or so. Consequently, those of us in close daily contact with him are also feeling our way around, hands waving in front of our faces, trying to make out the shadowy figures in the haze of his mind. Though we all recognize the benefits of the hospital over prison, life in a mental institution is still highly stressful. In fact, the shock of leaving a rigid system and its combative social structure after roughly 18 years and being totally immersed in a less structured system with radically different social behaviors adds an entirely new dimension to the experience.
Besides the Bipolar II and PTSD diagnosis Gary was given back in late 2008, early 2009, there are behaviors he adopted that come with living in the streets and surviving in a jail and prison setting for more than half of his life. Doctors who treated him in spurts in prison considered adult ADHD; his psychiatrist at Napa has broached the subject with him this past week. There is a considerable amount of physical pain on his docket, too, and medications he was allowed in prison and jail are not used in the hospital setting; those were instantly removed from his treatment plan. Since he was a boy, Gary has struggled to sleep with any kind of regularity. Most likely this is connected to his bipolar disorder. Insomnia over long periods of time further affects brain chemistry. Three full days of lack of sleep is said to put people into full-blown psychosis.
Taking all of that into consideration, Gary and his doctor are locked in a back and forth discussion, often heated and frustrated on Gary's side, over what he should take and what it may or may not accomplish in the face of his multiple issues. His mounting anxiety coupled with his fear that they may drug him into a slobbering idiot have led to several behavioral stand-offs on his part. Head-bangings against the wall; aggressive door kickings; yelling and screaming; refusing to listen or respect other parties. He wanted a different doctor, a brand new team, thinking they might lift the restrictions he felt were being levied against him because he was only a scumbag, drug-using ex-convict not worthy of rehabilitation. Their chess move involved calling in the police to let Gary know if he couldn't settle down he would have to cool his heels in a jail cell for awhile until he was prepared to be cooperative. This only served to piss him off further and deepen his mistrust of those in authority.
Now, I've been calming him as best I can for years through letters and monthly 15-minute phone calls. The precious but rare in-person visits. His new life status allows us freedom of phone contact at just about any time of day. I listen. I talk. All without that precise female mechanized voice informing us of the time we don't have left to wrap up our brief discourse. I'm hearing him out and balancing his skewed perspective with a possible interpretation of why his team did what they did or why others do what they do. But even with thrice daily sessions and no time restrictions on 'Girlfriend,' my trusty iPhone, I could not break through to his common sense. It appeared to be lost in the thick fog of his overwhelmed brain. His ramblings were worse with every call. So much anger. So much distrust. So much fear. With each passing day, I surrendered myself to the reality of a suicide attempt or attack on a particular patient whose been pushing his buttons. I had done everything I could do to get him to this point, to this place. There was, and is, work that is simply his to fulfill.
On Thursday or Friday of this past week, he called me, asking if I would assist him in writing a positive incentive contract. It seems his psychiatrist caught on to the importance of drawing in Gary's life and the calming effect it could potentially have on his behavior while we all await the steadying of his psyche via lithium and other elements in his drug arsenal. (Perhaps the entire team pow-wowed over what they knew of him and came up with this plan.) She purchased art supplies through Office Depot and proposed a deal: if he would adhere to the points set out in his contract, he could have full access to the art supplies. Act up, and those items will be gathered up and out of there.
Since that day, there has been a marked improvement in his mood. He is trying to be patient with the long process of adapting to his medicinal protocol, realizing every body and brain is different and will react in varying ways to the same prescriptions. During our two phone calls today, he waxed poetic over the high quality of the Prismacolor Turquoise Pencils of various hardnesses which allow outstanding shading and outlining for his collage-like creations. I Googled Prismacolor as he described the Premier Illustrating Markers and woodless graphite pencils; I felt close to him, picturing him in his room, hunched over his manila envelope palette, as my eyes wandered over the various items on the website.
He was moved, and regretfully apologetic about his previous actions, because he realized that his doctor bought him the good stuff. That one action, insightful and astute in my book, bridged the roiling river of mistrust which has been coursing between Gary and the lifeline being offered to him for the past two weeks plus. In this case, the value of the purchase directly correlated to the value of his humanity in the eyes of this person who holds his life almost literally in her hands.
It is a significant step. Really, a giant first step. I'm hip to the fact that there will continue to be backtracking, but at least an inroad has been made. If I could mark it in the brightest Prismacolor Premier Illustrating Marker color available, I would do it, thus ensuring that Gary could make out its outline in those moments when the fog parts and visibility is possible.
At least I know where it is.
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