tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19629865049601860062024-02-20T15:49:59.122-08:00Midnight MusingsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-48687301303803672462023-07-11T20:31:00.000-07:002023-07-11T20:31:06.138-07:00I Have OCD. No, for Real!I'm pretty open about my struggles with mental illness. I don't broadcast that I'm living with mental illness, but I do share it when it's appropriate. Most of the time when I share that I have bipolar disorder, people say "Oh". Some share that they have bipolar too or that they have someone in their family or circle of friends that has it. But it's a whole different experience when I share that I have obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD. When I share that, I get this response, almost 100% of the time: "(Laughter) Me too!" People then go on to describe how they have to have pictures hanging perfectly straight on the wall or tell me how everything on their dresser has it's own spot and it drives them crazy if something is moved. When I hear these kinds of things, my insides start churning and I feel the anxiety building. While I don't doubt that those things are true for my friends, I also can't help but wonder if they truly have OCD. I believe that most everyone has some things that they have to have "just so" or it drives them crazy. But not everyone has true, clinical OCD. <br>
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Obsessive compulsive disorder can be extremely debilitating. That is the case for me. I had "rules" about how things should be as early as five years old. In kindergarten, I refused to share my crayons. The teacher wanted all of us to dump our crayons in a big bowl for everyone to share. I couldn't do that. I needed mine to stay in the box, in a specific order, with the labels facing front. No one could touch my crayons. I had a very detailed way to sort my M&Ms before I could eat them. As a result, I couldn't eat my baggie of M&Ms in the car on the way to my grandparents house because there was nowhere to lay them all out to sort them. These might not seem like they should be a big deal, but my rules kept increasing in number and complexity and I began to develop rituals that were very demanding and unforgiving. I started counting - EVERYTHING. I started checking - EVERYTHING. Over and over and over again. My rituals began to take up more of my time. I can't not do them because if I don't do them, something bad might happen. I don't know what that might be, but the anxiety is there. <br>
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Fast forward to today. It takes me approximately five hours to dust one bookshelf. I have to dust each book and then place it back in it's spot (my books are alphabetized by author). I will put the book back on the shelf and then keep touching it and scanning the shelf to be sure that everything is still in alphabetical order. Then I have to dust the pictures, candles, etc. I actually measure where to put them back so that everything is centered and symmetrical on the shelf. It is a very exhausting process. So, I no longer dust. It is less anxiety inducing to have dusty shelves than to spend five hours dusting one bookshelf. And I still can't totally break free of making sure the books haven't moved. I check my books when I get up in the morning and I check them before I leave my house and when I get home. I know in my head that they probably haven't moved, but I can't break the compulsion to check them. Then there's the counting. My mind is almost always counting. I count my steps when I walk. I count when I'm anxious. My mind won't stop counting at night when I'm trying to go to sleep. I literally have dozens of notebooks that are nothing more than numbers that I've written. <br>
<br>Then there are the obsessive thoughts. I have 3 cats that I love dearly. I would never do anything to harm them and yet I have an intrusive thought that pops into my mind from time to time - I wonder what it would be like to tie a rope around their necks and hang them from the ceiling fan and watch them spin around and around? How sick is that? This is highly distressing for me and leaves me feeling full of guilt and shame for even having such a thought. <div><br></div><div>So, maybe you're thinking "Gosh, that would be tough." And you'd be right. But I want to share one more example of just how debilitating OCD can be. Shortly after I was raped, I developed a bathing ritual. At the time, I felt like I'd never feel "clean" again. Once I started that ritual I found that I couldn't stop it. I have been struggling with it for 30 years now. It takes me about 90 minutes to shower. I bathe and then I repeat the whole process four times. I always run out of hot water. By the end of my shower, the water is ice cold. My teeth are chattering. My fingers and toes and lips are blue. Yet I can't not stay in there. This past year, the pain in my knees has gotten so severe that I just cannot physically stand in the shower for 90 minutes anymore. I'm doing good to be able to stand for 10 minutes. I've taken a couple of 10 minutes showers. I end up sobbing as I get out of the tub because I haven't completed my ritual. I cry to the point of making myself physically sick. My mind starts racing and obsessing on the fact that I'm not "clean" enough. The anxiety is crushing. So, and I know most of you will find this hard to grasp, I have not taken a shower since January 23. Yes, it's been 5 months since I've showered. You see, I'd rather go without a shower than to take a shower without being able to complete my ritual. To me, it is the lesser of the two evils. I've been trying to find a shower chair to fit in my tub, hoping that that would allow me to perform my ritual with some minor adjustments but I have a narrow tub in my apartment and we haven't been able to find anything that works yet. So, I don't shower. I know that that is disgusting. And I've had several incidences of skin breakdown. I just treat that the best I can and deal with the itching and burning that comes along with it. I walk into my bathroom EVERY SINGLE DAY and stand in front of the bathtub trying to talk myself into getting in there to shower. Every time I end up crying. I feel this sort of tightening in my chest and it becomes harder and harder to breathe. I start to shake. My head is spinning. So, I turn around and go back into my bedroom and layer on the deodorant and body spray and lotion . THIS IS WHAT OCD CAN LOOK LIKE!<br>
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There are medications which can be used to treat OCD. However, since I also have bipolar disorder, my doctor is not willing to prescribe the recommended medications because of the risk of triggering a manic episode. Unfortunately, my OCD and PTSD must take a "back seat" to my bipolar disorder. I'm scared that my OCD is going to completely take over my life. I have so, so many more obsessions and compulsions that are a part of my daily life. Way too many to share. I wanted to share this as an example of what OCD can look like. I'm not saying that others don't have OCD. It can be present to varying degrees in a person's life. But the phrase "I'm so OCD" gets tossed around very casually and we joke about our "quirky" behaviors and laugh it off. But for some of us, OCD is no laughing matter. Never in my whole life did I ever think that I'd be unable to do something as basic as taking a shower. For me, OCD is real. It's effect on my life has been profound. At times, the need to perform my rituals is so strong that I can't resist it. There are times I have to cancel plans, or not even make them in the first place, because I can't get away from the compulsive behaviors to actually leave my house. I pray that, with the help of my therapist and case manager, I can learn to adapt. I pray my symptoms won't continue to get worse. I pray that when you say "I'm so OCD" you're not struggling the way I struggle. It's no way to live.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-33082520418765591152023-07-09T21:31:00.000-07:002023-07-09T21:31:51.926-07:00I Am Not My "Labels" - I Am Me!I'm sitting here reflecting on all of the "labels" that have been used over the past 53 years to describe me as a person. I remember being labeled "gifted and talented" as an early elementary student. Kids with this label were separated out from the "others", those not considered gifted and talented, and given extra attention, extra opportunities to participate in academic enrichment programs and extracurricular activities. (The "others" weren't given these same opportunities in the 1970s. Where's the common sense in that?) I was a part of a Saturday educational program which exposed me to algebra, trigonometry, geometry, Latin word roots, vocabulary words that were longer than my arms, and challenging essays to read, comprehend, and discuss intelligently. I was 10 years old. At the completion of this program, I was registered to take the SATs right along side the high school students. My feet didn't even touch the floor sitting in those desks. Interestingly enough, I achieved my highest score on the SAT that very first time I took it, even though I took it 4 more times before graduating high school. So...I was SMART. And that meant I would be going to medical school because that's what smart people do.<br>
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I moved through college and graduate school with an acceptable GPA, despite the new label I was given. I became known as "the girl who drank way too much", too many nights in a row, and had to, on more than one occasion, be literally dragged back to my dorm room by friends who watched out for my safety. By my mid twenties, that label was officially upgraded to "alcoholic". This should come as no surprise to those who attended school with me or those who would later come to be coworkers and friends of mine. That label is not nearly as desirable as being an academic overachiever although I do believe that I did a much better job of being an alcoholic than I ever did of being a student! Medical school was out. Graduate school was almost out. I struggled to be a dependable employee and citizen. I equated being an alcoholic with being a dismal failure. I relabeled myself as a LOSER, because that's what alcoholics are.<br>
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Then in 1998, it became clear that there was something else going on besides active addiction. I found myself becoming increasingly more out of control, even during periods when I had been able to stop drinking for a while. Some days, I was so depressed that I couldn't even get out of bed. I wouldn't shower. I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't answer the phone. I wouldn't open my blinds. I simply layed in my bed for days on end. Sometimes I'd cry for hours, other times I couldn't cry at all. Then after several weeks of deep depression, my brain would get a surge of activity from what seemed like the middle of nowhere and I was on top of the world. I went shopping and bought lots of things, most of the time not even remembering what I bought. I maxed out all of my credit cards. I had ten of them at one point. I would go for drives with the windows down, music blaring, chasing down other cars and semis and blowing right by them. There were times when, out on the highway, my speed exceeded 100 mph. If you've ever driven a compact car at that speed, you know that as you whiz by a semi, the car vibrates and there is this tremendous draft or pull towards the truck. I was never scared. It never occurred to me that that was dangerous. I did not have a death wish, I was having fun. I finger painted my coffee tables. I went for days on end without sleep, not even feeling tired physically or emotionally. My creativity flowed easily and I came up with so many brilliant ideas! I drove to Utah and back, stopping only to go to the bathroom and buy another cup of coffee, with a dead rabbit that I had accidentally run over, gently wrapped in a light blue baby blanket on the front passenger's seat of my Mazda Protege, in a snowstorm one January about 18 years ago. When I finally saw a psychiatrist, he told me I had a mental illness. I was Bipolar. I took that to mean that I was CRAZY because I thought that is how mentally ill is defined.<br>
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It was around that same time when I was finally ready to be open about my sexuality, something I thought I'd never do. I was preparing myself to live a life alone, no intimate relationships, believing I was a sinner damned to hell for all of eternity. Once again, another label. This time LESBIAN. I have had a number of unfortunate consequences as a result of people finding out that I wasn't that "nice girl" boys could bring home to meet their mothers and I quit several jobs because I was being harassed and didn't have the inner strength and courage to stand up for myself and fight for my rights. I felt "less than" and so, believing that I somehow brought all of this upon myself, moved to another state and started over. But I soon discovered that no matter where I moved, there I was.<br>
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I am also a "PK" - the oldest daughter of a United Methodist minister. Many people assume that I know alot about the Bible. Surprise - I know very little about it. I never saw the point in learning anything about God because I knew that I was going to be going to hell. Isn't that where all "over achieving, alcoholic, crazy, lesbians" go?<br>
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Thank God I do not always see myself as the sum of my labels today. There are still some days where I wonder how or why I became such a misfit. Why couldn't I have been a "normal" middle class, mid western girl interested in starting a traditional nuclear family and joining the PTA or becoming a Girl Scout leader? If I had, my life would not be nearly as interesting as it is now. I would not have met some of the fabulous people I call my friends today. I would not be open to meeting new people. I don't even use the label "strangers" because I believe that all people are "strange" in their own ways. Today, I do not identify myself as an "overachieving, alcoholic, crazy, bipolar, lesbian" because those labels place a limit on how I am perceived and on who and what I have the potential to become. I'm still smart and I still love to learn. I am sober, for 8 years now. I <i>have</i> bipolar disorder but I <i>am</i> <i>not</i> my illness. That may seem like simple semantics but it is important for me to realize that my mental illness does not define me. Nor does my IQ, my alcoholism, or my sexuality. I refuse to continue to apologize for who I am. I am coming to know God in my own ways. I may not attend church regularly, but I have developed a very spiritual connection with God and pray and meditate daily. I keep a list of things I am grateful for. I volunteer my time to help others in need. I extend the hand of friendship to those who cross my path, no matter what labels they are carrying with them. And most importantly, I am MYSELF! And I kinda like ME today, labels and all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-50357897819194520912018-10-20T18:28:00.001-07:002018-10-20T18:28:54.385-07:00There's Nothing ThereSo, it's been a little while since I've posted anything. I'll think about siting down to write something and then I'll tell myself that there's nothing there. Nothing on my mind. Nothing to share. Just nothing there. Then I'll get an "itch", something that bubbles up to the surface in my mind. But lately I've been uncomfortable with what pops up and so I tell myself that there's nothing there. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!! I pull my super soft, Dennis Basso throw up around my shoulders and sit with my kitties while blaring music on my Amazon Echo until the feelings pass. I want to shove my feelings back down to my toes and I so desperately want for there to be nothing there. I need for there to be nothing there.<br />
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Recent events in politics and in the news have triggered memories of past trauma for me. I have been plagued by unrelenting nightmares that shake me to my core. I wake up feeling like I'm suffocating and my heart is pounding. I'm soaked with sweat to the point of needing to get up and put on dry pajamas. I've been sleeping with the lights on, hoping that will prevent me from going into the deeper stages of sleep where the nightmares reside. It's not working. I jolt awake and fight to regain my breath while telling myself there's nothing there. It was only a dream. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!! <br />
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I fight a battle with myself every time it's time to eat a meal. I'm torn between following a ketogenic diet recommended by my doctors or following a plant based, vegan diet that fits with my values. I want to do what's "right", but I go back and forth trying to decide what's most important to me. Today for lunch I had a chef salad. Good for the ketogenic diet, not so good for the vegan diet. I spent an hour agonizing over my decision to eat that and in the end, it made me vomit. Guilt got the best of me, again. I felt myself saying "there's nothing there" as the anxiety gripped my mind. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!!<br />
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My apartment is an absolute disaster. I'm not going to say how long it's been since I've run the vacuum. That should tell you something anyway. I have this path that goes from my bedroom to my chair and from my chair to my computer and from my computer to my kitchen. My cats are constantly knocking things over but I can't blame them. After all, my stuff is in their way. I currently have library books scattered all over the floor. Thirty-seven of them. I want to pick them up. I need to pick them up. I sit in my chair and stare at them and know that they do not belong on the floor. But there they lay. You see, I cannot decide where to put them or "how" to put them. My books on my bookshelves are all alphabetized by author. I do have one empty shelf available. Do I alphabetize the library books? Or do I shelve them according to their due dates? Neither way feels "right". If I put them on that empty shelf it throws off my whole shelving system. And I don't want to do it "wrong". So, I close my eyes and tell myself there's nothing there. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!! And I continue to step over the books.<br />
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The problem is, however, that there IS something there. Whether I'm talking about nightmares, memories, ethical dilemmas, or my messy apartment, there IS something there. I've been doing my damnedest to live in denial. But that's not working for me. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to keep trying to convince myself that there's nothing there when there is obviously something there. I am afraid that I won't be able to deal with what is there. If I keep pulling the wool over my eyes, I'll never see what is in front of me and then I'll fall flat on my face. Surely that will hurt more than facing the truth. Right? Maybe it's time to say "yes, there is something there" and start to heal the hurt. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-43520911593774656522018-08-25T17:08:00.001-07:002018-08-25T17:08:16.106-07:00Please Don't Call Me Crazy Yesterday afternoon I was privileged to speak to a group of individuals on what it is like to live with mental illness. I do this as a volunteer through NAMI, or the National Alliance on Mental Illness. The goal of these presentations is to educate the community on what it is like to deal with mental health issues and to decrease the stigma associated with having a mental illness. One definition of stigma is "a mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance or quality". Synonyms include shame, dishonor, or humiliation. Although there is more awareness concerning mental illnesses than there was twenty years ago, the stigma is still present. Here is an example:<br />
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After my presentation, I was scrolling through my messages on my phone and there was a message referring to a friend as "crazy". So, I looked up the definition of crazy. It means "not mentally sound; marked by thought or action that lacks reason; insane". Wow! That seems pretty harsh! This person is often identified in this manner. In fact, it appears to be socially acceptable to describe her that way. I saw that and my immediate reaction was "Ouch!" I hurt for her. I hurt for me. I hurt for those describing her that way. I sat back and thought about how very much alike this woman and I are. We both have similar mental illness diagnoses. We both struggle with addiction to alcohol and drugs. We both receive mental health services, including psychiatrists, therapists, and case managers, through the same providers' offices. We both have assistance with meeting our day to day responsibilities and managing our finances. Granted, she does have significant difficulty with social skills and interpersonal relationships, more so than I do. But everyone has their own struggles. Labeling her as "crazy" just perpetuates the stereotypes and the stigma. I began to wonder if others are labeling me as "Crazy Kris".<br />
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For years, I was ashamed to admit that I have mental illness. I am no longer comfortable remaining hidden. I have Bipolar Disorder, OCD, and substance use disorders. If I don't acknowledge those, I cannot hope to get better and live well in recovery. Having a mental illness is not a reason to feel shame. It is not a reason to be labeled. It does hurt to be referred to as crazy. I don't think that my friends intended to hurt the person they were referring to as crazy. I am guessing that they were operating under the assumption that she wouldn't find out. But I've had several conversations with this friend and she IS acutely aware that people refer to her as crazy and that she often feels left out and unwelcome. I am not going to be a part of perpetuating stigma and stereotypes. I would ask that people think twice before calling someone crazy. It is no laughing matter.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-27528760824650814402018-07-31T19:45:00.001-07:002018-07-31T19:45:26.269-07:00Living with IntentionI have not been living well. I was going to add the word "lately" to that sentence, but the truth is that I have not been living well for quite some time now. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I've been dying well. My days have been filled with very little joy and no sense of purpose or direction to speak of. I've been sleeping 16-18 hours a day. I've been eating poorly and focusing on whatever I can do to make myself thin again, believing that if only I could get down to 135 pounds, I'd be happy. I've been avoiding doing things with my friends. My relationships are strained as I try my damnedest to be the "perfect" daughter. I'm barely giving my kitties any attention. I'm not engaging in any activities I enjoy. I'm worried about having enough money to be able to do some of the things I'd like to do. I'm crippled by fear and anxiety and depression. I struggle to accept my sexuality. I am plagued by chronic pain and worry about my physical health. I've been thinking about dying because living hurts right now. <br />
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I hadn't really given that much thought as to why living hurts so much right now until I was asked to consider what "living with intention" meant. So, I started by looking at what intention means. I found that the definition includes having an aim or plan. Synonyms included purpose, design, objective, goal, and what one has in mind to do or bring about. I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. I tried to picture in my mind what things I would want to do as a part of living with intention. I decided that these things had to bring me some sense of joy or peace or contentment. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to come up with anything. But, after a few minutes, ideas started popping into my mind. I came up with a list of ten things:<br />
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1. time spent in meditation and reflection<br />
2. listening to music<br />
3. learning something new each day<br />
4. reading<br />
5. keeping a gratitude journal<br />
6. connecting with other people<br />
7. making a difference in the world, helping others<br />
8. writing: poetry, blogs, journals, book<br />
9. spending time playing with my kitties<br />
10. working on creative projects: collages, crocheting, coloring.<br />
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Doing these things regularly could be a part of a pathway to wellness, which would move me in the direction of living with a sense of purpose. To me, living with intention means doing what I love, living with no judgments or regrets, living with enthusiasm and joy. It means laughter and loving others. It means truly listening and being open to learning new things. I always feel invigorated when I'm gathered with my friends or when I'm writing. So, why wouldn't I want to do these things daily? It's tempting to say that I don't do these things because I don't love myself enough to make living with intention a priority. Or that I'm held prey to fear. And although there is some degree of truth to those statements, I know that ultimately the choice lies with me. I know from my involvement in 12 step recovery that I can choose to "act as if". I can decide, one day at a time, to live with intention and do those things I've listed above, believing they will cultivate that sense of peace and joy that has been eluding me. Or, I can continue on the way I have been, and dread waking up each day. Which pathway do I want to choose? <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-87007115306330035782018-05-27T15:37:00.001-07:002018-05-27T15:37:19.375-07:00There Will Be No CasseroleI'm not doing so well right now. Once again, I've only gotten about 10 hours of sleep total in the past two weeks. This is after going with only 25 hours of sleep in a month about six weeks ago. It seems like my body has forgotten how to sleep. Difficulty sleeping has always been one of my issues. Bipolar disorder and OCD play a role in that. And there are some physical health problems, like severe chronic pain, that contribute to my inability to sleep as well. We have been unable to find a medication that works for this. I saw a new psychiatrist last Tuesday. He told me he didn't know what to do for me. We can try one more medication, but there is no guarantee that it will help. He believes that the one medication that I am currently on (and I'm only on one medication for bipolar disorder right now) is my best shot at sleeping and stabilizing my moods. I've already been taking it for two months now. He said that I could go into the hospital to get my body "reset", that they can give me something that I wouldn't be able to take as an outpatient, just to get some sleep. I've already gone down that road, too many times to count. True, they can knock me out, so much so that I usually end up wetting the bed, which means that they will prop me up on a shower chair and bathe me in the middle of the night because I am too sedated to do so myself, and then tuck me back into bed. After three days of this, I will be sent home to continue on medications which aren't working for me and within a week, I'm right back where I started. That is if they will even admit me to the hospital in the first place. It is almost impossible to be admitted if you are not suicidal, with a definite plan for taking your own life. When you're manic and unable to sleep or eat, dealing with racing thoughts and physical restlessness to the point where you can't even sit still, you're more often than not told that you just have to ride it out because those symptoms are not severe enough to require hospitalization. This has been my life since this past September.<br />
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I have also been hospitalized for numerous physical health problems in the last 20 years. I've been in for a severe flare-up of ulcerative colitis, pneumonia, hemorrhaging, a TIA, and more. I've had 17 surgeries in the past 20 years. So, why am I telling you all of this? Not to whine or complain. I know that there are others out there who have experienced this, or worse. But I want to shed light on yet another difference between how mental health and physical health are viewed differently still to this day. <br />
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I was reflecting back on all of the times I've been hospitalized for a physical health condition. Let's take the time I had pneumonia and was in the hospital for five days for example. I think that I received three or four "Get Well Soon" cards. I had several friends come to visit me. Others called to check up on me. When I was discharged home, the ladies from my church arranged for people to bring me meals for the first week I was home. Usually casseroles! But they were wonderful, and greatly appreciated. I still had very little energy when I initially got home from the hospital. Even something as simple as getting dressed wore me out. So the meals were a tremendous help. I also had someone volunteer to come over and help me with the laundry and cleaning when I first got home. These same things happened when I was hospitalized for my surgeries. Lots of people were there to step up and help.<br />
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But, that never happened following a psychiatric hospitalization. Now, before I go on, I will say that I have not always notified friends and family when I'm admitted to the psychiatric unit. I typically notify four or five close friends, and my family, but give them the permission to share with others where I am. That is in part due to the fact that the use of a phone (you cannot have your own cell phone with you) is more restricted and the number of phone calls and the length of your phone calls is monitored by the staff. Also, visiting hours are more limited than those for the medical units. And, as much as I hate to admit this, part of it is due to shame. There are times that I still feel "less than" due to my mental illnesses. Now, back to my point. I get the feeling that a lot of people still look at psychiatric hospitalizations as kind of a "retreat", for lack of a better word. I mean, you get fed. They help you sleep and encourage rest. Your day to day responsibilities are temporarily put on hold. You are encouraged not to worry about your job, your family, or any other potential stressor while you are inpatient. You are there to focus on you, your needs, and to as I mentioned earlier, "reset" yourself. That's all well and good. And that is what I need when I'm there. But I don't leave the hospital ready to conquer the world. If there has been a change in my medication, it takes about 4-6 weeks for the new medication to fully take effect. The fatigue lingers. The ability to complete even the most basic of daily tasks like brushing my teeth still challenges me. I don't always have it in me to jump right back into my daily life and do my own cooking and cleaning. I have <em>never</em> had someone offer to bring me a meal following a psychiatric hospitalization. I have <em>never</em> had someone offer to help me with my housecleaning, or volunteer to run errands for me. I have only ever received <em>two</em> "Get Well Cards" from friends, over a period of 22 years of dealing with my bipolar disorder, OCD, and PTSD.<br />
<br />
I'm not writing this with the intention of making anyone feel guilty. I'm writing this to say that even in 2018, mental health and mental illness are still more often than not, "awkward" and uncomfortable to talk about. We worry that we won't know the "right" thing to say to someone who is anxious or depressed, or someone who has attempted to take their own life. We may want to help, but hold back out of the fear of insulting the individual or making them feel like they are incapable of taking care of themselves. Some of us may think that the best thing for someone who has just been released from an inpatient unit is to jump back into life and their responsibilities; we don't want to see them just sitting around, doing nothing. Mental illnesses are still not handled the way that physical illnesses are. And that needs to change. Fortunately, there are organizations out there, like NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), and MHA (Mental Health America), and others that are working hard to increase awareness of mental health issues and to fight the powerful stigma against having a mental illness. I have to do my part too, by not being ashamed or apologize for my mental illness. I have to be willing to ask for help. But, sometimes, a casserole would be nice. Or help with daily tasks. At least initially, when I get home from the hospital. I guess what I'm trying to say to you is don't be afraid to reach out and ask if it's okay to provide a meal. Or even just come over and sit and talk for an hour. It's not an insult. It's not doing something for someone that they should be doing for themselves, any more than it is when I have ankle surgery and am non-weight bearing for six weeks. It's okay to talk about it. No, it's <em>imperative </em>that we talk about it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-19818968578050257822018-05-13T20:56:00.003-07:002018-05-13T20:56:34.192-07:00Happy Mother's Day?Well, here we are. Sunday, May 13, 2018. Mother's Day. My Facebook page was flooded with Mother's Day tributes. Friends honoring their own mothers and grandmothers. Friends being celebrated by their children. Everyone seemed to be happy. The stores have been stocked with greeting cards, flowers, candy, and jewelry for the past month. There are cards for first time mothers, mothers-to-be, husbands honoring their wives for doing an amazing job raising their children, mothers and grandmothers in heaven, silly cards for little ones to give to their moms...and just plain old generic "I love you" cards, and a few other miscellaneous cards mixed in. <br />
<br />
I found myself thinking tonight about all of those women for whom Mother's Day is a bittersweet holiday. And I found myself wondering where all of the cards for them are kept. I personally know two women whose children were murdered within the past two years. Where is the card for that? Where is the card for the mother whose child has committed suicide? Where is the card for the woman whose child is miscarried or stillborn? Where is the card for the mothers whose children are in NICU clinging to their lives? Or for the mothers whose children are being abused by their fathers, uncles, grandfathers, babysitters, strangers? The mothers who are watching their children struggle with addiction? The mothers whose children have run away from home? What about all of the single moms, trying to balance work, childcare, school, and home? What about the mothers whose husbands are deployed to Afghanistan? I've never seen a card for the woman who deeply longs to be a mother but for any number of reasons, can't. What about the woman who felt that there was no way she could be a "good" mother and made the difficult decision to terminate the pregnancy? Or those women who, after giving birth, knew the best thing for their child was to give them up for adoption in the hopes that their child would have a much better life than they themselves could provide? There are no cards for the thousands and thousands of women who are foster mothers or temporary guardians. I couldn't find any cards for those who have strained relationships with their mothers and for whom those "You are the best mother in the world!" cards don't reflect their reality. There are no cards for the mothers whose children have been removed from the home by DCS. Or the mothers who lose custody of their children in a bitter divorce. And then there are those women who make a conscious choice not to have children and not to be mothers - not to not take on what is "expected" of them. And...I know that I'm still leaving some out.<br />
<br />
To all of those women out there who are rocking it as moms, my hat is off to you! Raising children takes a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. I'm not trying to take anything away from that or to imply that mothers don't deserve to be recognized and honored for the millions of things they do for their children every day. I'm simply wanting to acknowledge that for some, this day is one of longing for, remembering, second guessing, and wondering what if things had been different. Today, in the midst of celebrating my mother, grandmothers, aunts, cousins, sisters-in-law, and siblings, I set aside some time to honor those women for whom Mother's Day is one of the hardest days of the year.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-234480492487184592018-02-01T19:01:00.003-08:002018-02-01T19:01:46.405-08:00Why I Don't Love Myself - A Treatise on Self-loathingI don't love myself. I don't know that I ever have. Why, my therapist asked? Hmmm. That's not an easy question to answer. Not because I don't know, but because I know that I should love myself. I hate it that the sexual abuse I experienced as a child and the rape at age 18 turned me into an eating machine. First my body was violated by others and then it is violated by myself as I continue to store fat to protect me from being hurt again. I'm in a constant battle with my body, losing 20 pounds and then regaining it when someone comments on my weight loss. My fat forms a shield around me but that leaves me feeling horribly alone. I fail to appreciate all that my body does for me because I'm caught up in how ugly I look in the mirror. There is nothing pretty about 402 pounds. And I'm tired of hearing that I have such a pretty face because that "but" packs a real punch. So I eat a whole box of Girl Scout cookies while pretending that I'm eating celery and hating the fact that I am so weak willed.<br />
<br />
I feel like I'm failing as an adult. I am embarrassed by my mental illnesses that prevent me from working. The OCD and bipolar disorder leave me fighting just to be okay. I hate that I have to write numbers in a frenzy in order to calm myself down. I hate that I have to have everything lined up just so on my bookshelf and that I can't leave my apartment without checking my books to see if they are still in alphabetical order. I hate that I see bugs crawling everywhere when I haven't been able to sleep. I hate that my racing thoughts prevent me from reading a book most days. I feel like my mind is controlled by outside forces that I can't stop. I used to be a successful Occupational Therapist. Now I'm barely able to do my own ADLs. I'm afraid to meet new people because inevitably the question "So, what do you do?" is asked and my answer is sadly "I exist". I often feel like I have nothing to live for. That makes my existence almost unbearable. <br />
<br />
I struggle with accepting my sexuality. I feel like God made a mistake. I feel guilty and ashamed that I am gay. I don't like believing that my attraction to women is wrong but what if it is? Do I want to take that chance? And so I try to ignore my feelings and pretend that I am "normal". I'm angry that I'm not married to a man and the mother of three children. My feelings prevent me from having a family because I so rigidly define what constitutes a family. My life would be so much easier if I could just accept the truth about myself and stop second guessing my Creator. I so desperately want to be loved by someone but I am afraid.<br />
<br />
I'm angry that I think so much. I spend way too much time in my own head. When will I get tired of living this way? Is it too late to learn to love myself? I hope not because I am the one who is hurting.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-21475768746824244162018-01-13T00:21:00.002-08:002018-01-13T00:21:56.049-08:00In OrderThe books haven't moved.<br />
They haven't moved.<br />
Each one is in it's proper place<br />
just like they were<br />
two minutes ago,<br />
just like they will be<br />
two minutes from now,<br />
and yet I cannot walk away from them.<br />
What if?<br />
Just what if<br />
<u>Lit</u> by Mary Karr<br />
tumbles from the top shelf<br />
where it is the 19th <br />
book from the left<br />
and lands between<br />
<u>Naked</u> by David Sedaris<br />
and <u>like the red panda</u> by Andrea Seigel?<br />
I mean, it could happen<br />
and then they wouldn't<br />
be in alphabetical order by author<br />
and the book police<br />
would come knocking on my door<br />
and I would lose custody <br />
of the books forever!<br />
So I check them again.<br />
They still haven't moved.<br />
But they might.<br />
So I will stay home again today<br />
and stand guard,<br />
a sergeant at the tomb of the unknown soldier,<br />
lest I dare forget to check.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-17405083251059408442018-01-13T00:08:00.001-08:002018-01-13T00:08:15.897-08:00Me TooMe too. Those are two words that I wish I didn't have to say. But they are a part of my story. Its been thirty years now since I was raped. Sometimes it seems like yesterday. I still have nightmares on occasions and they are so real and so vivid that it actually feels like I'm being raped all over again. I struggled for a long time with blaming myself for what happened. I played "if only". If only I hadn't been drunk. If only I'd left the party with my friends. If only I hadn't worn makeup and perfume. Yes, I had too much to drink that night. Yes, I stayed behind. Yes, I wore makeup and perfume. But I didn't ask to be raped. I said "No!"<br />
<br />
No!<br />
He's calling me a bitch.<br />
No!<br />
He's pulling my hair.<br />
No!<br />
He's sticking his dick in my mouth.<br />
No!<br />
He's ripping off my jeans.<br />
No!<br />
He's forcing his way in.<br />
No!<br />
He's thrusting hard.<br />
No!<br />
He's hurting me.<br />
No!<br />
Why did I wear makeup?<br />
No!<br />
Why did I get drunk?<br />
No!<br />
Why didn't I leave with my friends?<br />
No!<br />
Why didn't I fight back?<br />
No!<br />
Why didn't I scream?<br />
No!<br />
Why didn't I report him?<br />
No!<br />
Why didn't I die?<br />
No!<br />
I said "No!"<br />
No!<br />
No!<br />
No!<br />
No!<br />
No!<br />
No!<br />
NO!<br />
<br />
My "Nos" should have been enough. They weren't. I now know that it wasn't my fault. I did not deserve for that to happen. No one does. I wish that I hadn't been afraid to speak up at the time. I wish that I hadn't run straight for the shower and stayed in there for hours, douching and scrubbing my insides with a tile and grout brush. All I could think about was getting him off of me. Showering has never been the same since that night. I have obsessive compulsive disorder and that event triggered a bathing ritual that I still can't break today. It's as if I'm trying to wash away a sin that isn't mine. I now understand that I did the best I could at the time to survive. I pray that one day I will get past surviving and learn to thrive.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-50256781034526224652018-01-09T22:59:00.001-08:002018-01-09T22:59:15.969-08:00MelancholyMelancholy sounds like such a pretty word. It's much too pretty to describe my depression. No, my depression is like being strangled by a boa constrictor. A squeezing that I can feel deep inside my bones, that sucks the life right out of me and leaves me wiping sweat and blood from my brow. My heart bleeds blue blood that bypasses the lungs, failing to pick up the oxygen molecules needed to sustain me. I sit in my overstuffed recliner, leaning to the left, lacking the strength to hold my head up. I'm wrapped tightly in a blanket. A cocoon of sorts. Maybe I'll emerge a butterfly one day. Until then, I'll continue to watch the shadows dancing on the walls in the light of the moon coming through the living room window.<br />
<br />
My cats are adjusting to my new normal and go about their business despite me. I don't shower. I don't get dressed. I don't brush my teeth. I don't eat. I don't talk. I don't watch TV. I don't read. Sometimes I don't even breathe. One day of doing nothing turns into four days of doing nothing and eventually the week passes. The longer I go without doing anything, the harder it is to do something. Terrible thoughts race through my mind and I think about murdering them with whiskey or brownies but I know that won't help. I dream of breaking out of this prison cell but fear that I'd only be buying a first class ticket to hell. My mattress has a permanent dent in the middle of it and I lay in bed until my body aches so bad that I can't stand it. Then I cry. My tears stream down my hot cheeks and are dry before they reach my lips, leaving me thirsty and confused. I miss myself. I don't even remember what I was like before. Will the sun rise when this is over?<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-58492170828714138762017-12-30T20:10:00.003-08:002017-12-30T20:10:29.091-08:00October 2, 2005I mixed a cocktail.<br />
Lamictal, 200 mg, 60 pills.<br />
Trileptal, 300 mg, 30 pills.<br />
Trazodone, 300 mg, 60 pills.<br />
Remeron, 30 mg, 30 pills.<br />
Seroquel, 300 mg, 60 pills.<br />
All taken together, at once<br />
with 64 ounces of milk<br />
to coat my stomach.<br />
I thought I could make it<br />
to the park bench by the courthouse fountain<br />
but I collapsed 200 yards into my journey.<br />
My legs just buckled,<br />
my body ignoring the commands<br />
to get up out of the middle of the road.<br />
I vomited.<br />
Retching, spewing pill fragments and milk<br />
all over my face, all through my hair,<br />
and I remember thinking<br />
"Oh my God, I've really done it this time!"<br />
It.<br />
Suicide.<br />
Death.<br />
The end of my life.<br />
I was instantly gripped by panic.<br />
It's not supposed to feel like this!<br />
Where is my sense of peace,<br />
that amazing white light to welcome me home?<br />
Then everything went black<br />
and there was nothing.<br />
I was intubated in the street<br />
and wheeled into the ER<br />
as a Jane Doe, suspected drug overdose.<br />
No ID.<br />
Just a cryptic note crumpled up in my<br />
right front pocket of my jeans.<br />
I awoke days later<br />
to the hiss of the ventilator<br />
ringing in my ears,<br />
my eyelids fluttering in time<br />
to the rhythm of the heart monitor.<br />
Five bags of fluid on the IV pole.<br />
Wires everywhere.<br />
I tried to move<br />
but my wrists were in restraints.<br />
I began to cough,<br />
choking on the tube down my throat<br />
and I heard my mother's voice saying<br />
"Get the nurse! She's waking up!"<br />
Who? Me?<br />
But that can't be!<br />
I did it.<br />
I really did it this time.<br />
It.<br />
Suicide.<br />
Death.<br />
Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?<br />
Am I okay<br />
or am I going to be a vegetable?<br />
Why is Days of our Lives<br />
on my hospital room TV?<br />
My days were supposed be over<br />
but now there is a social worker in my room<br />
talking to my parents<br />
about the number of days<br />
I'll need to be under inpatient psychiatric care!<br />
Again.<br />
Dammit, again.<br />
I want to say "I'm sorry", but I can't.<br />
What am I sorry for?<br />
For putting my family through this?<br />
For asking them to love me anyway?<br />
For not dying?<br />
It,<br />
suicide,<br />
death<br />
is such a mess.<br />
I already sent out invitations to my funeral<br />
because I wanted to be sure<br />
someone would be there<br />
to remember me for me<br />
because I sure as hell<br />
don't remember me.<br />
My mind's long term memory<br />
is racked with guilt and shame and pain<br />
and my short term memory<br />
is, well, what were we talking about?<br />
It.<br />
Suicide.<br />
Death.<br />
And the day I almost, almost died.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-81137862665705366692017-12-30T19:34:00.002-08:002017-12-30T19:34:43.172-08:00A Glimpse of ManiaMy depression is a whisper.<br />
My mania is a scream,<br />
no, it's a shrill, high pitched shriek.<br />
The kind that hurts a dog's ears<br />
and fractures the stained glass windows<br />
at Pine Village United Methodist Church<br />
early on a Sunday morning<br />
because when I'm manic<br />
I'm up early, <br />
because when I'm manic<br />
I never go to bed.<br />
No, I go to Utah.<br />
Driving on I-70<br />
through Illinois,<br />
Missouri,<br />
Kansas,<br />
Colorado,<br />
stopping briefly in Denver<br />
to call my boss at 5:30 a.m.<br />
and tell her that I quit my job,<br />
effective immediately,<br />
and oh, yes, have a nice day.<br />
The heavy snowfall in Vail<br />
doesn't deter me, <br />
sleet pinging off my windshield<br />
as I belt out Pink's "Family Portrait"<br />
for the 57th time.<br />
It's the only CD I brought<br />
for I packed light.<br />
A wad of cash.<br />
Two cases of bottled water.<br />
Eight bags of marshmallows,<br />
the jumbo ones so I could play chubby bunnies.<br />
And a blanket.<br />
I have no idea where I'm going<br />
but I'll stop when I get there,<br />
have a burger and fries<br />
at a local dive in the middle of the desert,<br />
eating only three bites<br />
and leaving a $50 tip.<br />
I suddenly remember that I have cats.<br />
That's right, my cats, not my family<br />
get me to turn around.<br />
The roads in Kansas<br />
are a solid sheet of ice.<br />
The bunny.<br />
Dammit, the bunny!<br />
SHIT! I ran over him,<br />
so I put my car in park,<br />
grab my blanket,<br />
and crawl across the ice to the bunny.<br />
It never occurred to me that I could be that bunny,<br />
run over by a semi unable to stop on the ice<br />
and when I reach it<br />
I see that it's dead <br />
and I weep.<br />
"Oh God, what have I done?"<br />
I wrap the bunny gently in the blanket<br />
and slide him across the ice<br />
over to my car<br />
and delicately place him on the front seat,<br />
not knowing that when I get back to Indiana<br />
my therapist would reject my offering<br />
and my dad would<br />
throw the rabbit in the dumpster.<br />
For five days and five nights I was gone.<br />
Gone from home.<br />
Gone out of my mind,<br />
spinning wildly, uncontrollably,<br />
jacked up on gas station coffee and menthols.<br />
Wait, why am I buying those?<br />
I don't even smoke.<br />
But, oh, today I do<br />
cuz I am cool!<br />
I am queen of the world!<br />
The weeping over the rabbit<br />
is replaced by maniacal laughter,<br />
raucous laughter<br />
exploding from my lungs and I crank up the bass.<br />
Yes, today I am the obnoxious one,<br />
the one with the bass so loud<br />
that it vibrates the car<br />
and pushes everyone else away.<br />
I am the one.<br />
The savior.<br />
The messiah.<br />
The alpha and the omega.<br />
Nothing can stop me now!<br />
No, it will go on like this<br />
until the crash,<br />
ripped from heaven<br />
and plunged into the depths of hell.<br />
Sleeping for ten hours.<br />
Twelve hours.<br />
Eighteen hours.<br />
Praying the flames will incinerate me<br />
so that my family can go ahead<br />
and have my goddamned funeral,<br />
buy a pretty urn,<br />
place it on the mantle<br />
and stop worrying <br />
about when the next time<br />
I'm going to lose my shit will be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-60552545379008039762017-12-30T18:53:00.001-08:002017-12-30T18:53:49.156-08:00Do You Sleep?Do you sleep?<br />
I mean at night when you're supposed to,<br />
not during the middle of the afternoon<br />
when you're not supposed to be<br />
hiding from the world,<br />
curled up in the fetal position,<br />
covers pulled up over your head,<br />
cursing your cats<br />
who are walking around the apartment meowing,<br />
looking for you<br />
because it's the middle of the day<br />
when you're supposed to be up<br />
doing chores,<br />
crocheting,<br />
reading,<br />
petting them,<br />
singing to songs on your Echo,<br />
writing shitty poems no one wants to read.<br />
Do you sleep?<br />
I mean the mirtazapine is supposed to help<br />
but mostly it makes me hungry<br />
so I get up and eat Fruity Pebbles at 1:00 a.m.<br />
No, I devour them<br />
like it's the first food<br />
I've had since Monday and today is Friday, I think.<br />
I'm not sure because my days all run together now,<br />
an awful run-on sentence,<br />
my life sentence without the possibility of parole.<br />
Do you sleep?<br />
Soundly?<br />
I'm jealous.<br />
The prazosin is supposed to help keep the nightmares away<br />
but I still see elephants<br />
with pink stripes on their trunks<br />
and daisies on their ears,<br />
which is kind of like a nightmare<br />
if they are stampeding right over you<br />
while you're pushing<br />
a little old lady in a wheelchair<br />
through the plains of Africa at dusk.<br />
Why won't my mind rest?<br />
Is it punishment for something I've done<br />
or haven't done that I should have?<br />
Should.<br />
I know, I know, <br />
should is a forbidden word,<br />
a no-no.<br />
My therapist will gently remind me of that<br />
every time it leaps from my lips.<br />
But sometimes I disagree.<br />
I should be able to get a god night's sleep.<br />
Do you sleep?<br />
Be thankful.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-12530706166581872902016-05-31T20:29:00.001-07:002016-05-31T20:29:14.539-07:00"I Love You Too"I have been sitting in front of my computer for over five hours now, trying to decide what to write. There is a lump in my throat and there are tears welling up in the corners of my eyes as I reflect back on my visit to Pennsylvania four weeks ago. I went back with my parents to see my two grandmothers and my aunt and uncle and some cousins. I was looking forward to the trip and thoroughly enjoyed playing games and spending time with everyone.<br />
<br />
But there were some difficult moments too. A year ago it became necessary to place my grandma in a care facility. She has advanced Alzheimer's as well as a number of physical health issues that made it unsafe for her to remain at home with my aunt and her family. It was a difficult decision for everyone, but grandma's condition was really declining rapidly. I had not seen my grandma since <br />
July 4, 2014. When I last saw her, she was able to go to a picnic with us in her wheelchair, and sit and visit with me. She did not remember what we were talking about, but she was able to participate in the conversation and laugh and smile. Grandma has changed so much.<br />
<br />
The first time I went to see her she was lying in her bed on her back, sound asleep. When I had come around the corner and first laid eyes on her, I stopped suddenly, as the sight of her frail body took my breath away. Her mouth had fallen open and her eyes were fluttering behind her paper
thin eyelids. She was breathing deeply and evenly. Her skin was cool
and clammy to the touch. I took the back of my hand and gently brushed a wisp of snow white hair away from her brow and bent down to give her a kiss on the forehead. I'm not even sure if she knew I was there.<br />
<br />
I went back to see her the next afternoon, as they called from the care facility and said that she was awake and up in her chair. When we got there, we found her up in her recliner, leaning over to the right, and yelling. I pulled up a chair in front of her and said hello. The only response that I got from my grandma was yelling "Ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh". I tried asking if she was hurting. I tried propping a pillow behind her back. I tried rubbing her arm. My cousin tried singing to her. It was just tearing me apart. Finally, it was time for us to leave. I got up from my chair and went over and knelt in front of grandma and took her hands in mine one last time and said to her "It's Kristen. I came from Indiana to see you. I love you very much!" And in a quiet voice, my grandma said "I love you too." Maybe there was a brief connection there with her, maybe not. Whether she remembers it or not is not what matters. I remember it, and I remember her. And that's why I was there, hard as it was for me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-17201958478724181572015-05-05T11:58:00.000-07:002015-05-05T11:59:09.555-07:00I am A Okay!This past weekend, I had the privilege to be present at the wedding of my brother Jason to his partner Calvin. It was a beautiful ceremony and I was touched by the love these two men have for each other. I was inspired by their ability to be true to themselves and to each other, without apologies and without shame. They both have an amazing group of friends who were there to support them and celebrate in their happiness.<br />
<br />
After the reception, on the way home, my sister and my mom said that I would be next to find someone to share my life with. Several times, I said that I was not interested. I am truly okay being single. It seemed like that was hard for them to understand. Back in 1996 I came out to my family as a lesbian. On the rare occasion that I have found myself attracted to someone, it was always a woman. So I believed that that was who I was. However, over the years, my understanding of myself has deepened and I have come to accept that my truth is that I am asexual. I mentioned that to a therapist about 8 years ago only to be told that there was no such thing. So, I doubted myself and questioned myself about whether I really knew anything about who I was as a person and where I would fit in, needlessly, for several years. Asexuality is misunderstood by many but it is a sexual orientation just as much as anything else that falls along the spectrum of human sexuality. I am not a deviant. I am not lacking. I am not less than. I am not afraid of sex. I am simply not interested. And that is okay.<br />
<br />
I have decided to be open about my sexuality so that others may know that they are not alone. I do not k now very many people who identify as asexual, which at times has left me feeling very alone. But, no more. I am no longer going to deny who I am out of the fear of being misunderstood, out of the fear of being judged. I have always admired my brother for being able to be himself and I am choosing now to follow his example and to stand in my own truth. My life is rich and full and I enjoy my own company. I have a lot of friends who share in my life and whom I love dearly. I do not have to be partnered up to feel fulfilled. I am single and I live with my two kitties and I am A okay just the way I am!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-85488928606182428932014-06-14T15:07:00.000-07:002014-06-14T15:07:34.854-07:00The Sweetest SoundIf you were to ask my father, he would readily admit that he cannot carry a tune in a bucket. Throughout his career as a United Methodist minister, he would cut the mic when it was time to sing the hymns. But that never stopped him from singing. Because he was always up in front of the sanctuary, I never really got to hear the sound of his voice. I only knew the sound of my daddy singing "Happy Birthday" to me, or making up some silly lullaby or song when we were traveling from Indiana to Pennsylvania to visit my grandparents when I was growing up. And, well, that sound was, how can I put this, unusual! His rhymes didn't always rhyme and his words were usually made up as he went along, but he always seemed to be able to make me smile.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago, I was standing beside my father in church and I could hear him singing the words to "Amazing Grace" and I was moved to tears. My dad did not have an angelic voice. He did not sing in key. It was pitchy and off rhythm. But it was perhaps the sweetest sound that I have ever heard. I heard a faith that is unwavering. I heard acceptance and surrender. I heard hope. I heard love. I could not have loved my father any more than I did at that very moment. I only wish that I had had the courage to tell him so. <br />
<br />
I have been truly blessed to have a father who is loving, compassionate, understanding, accepting, and forgiving. I have been through some pretty significant struggles over the past 25 years and never have I felt alone or abandoned by my father. He has given when he may not have felt like he had much to give without hesitation. And he has never stopped believing in me. I could not have asked for a better man to call my dad!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-26640240673059607752013-12-02T12:30:00.001-08:002013-12-02T12:30:51.384-08:00Breakfast With My GrandmaOver the Thanksgiving holiday, I traveled back to Seneca, Pennsylvania with my parents to visit family. After a harrowing drive in the snow "over the river and through the woods", we arrived on Tuesday evening to my aunt's house where my aunt, uncle, cousins, and grandmother live. By Thanksgiving morning, there was 34 inches of snow nestled there in the foothills of the Allegheny mountains.<br />
<br />
On Wednesday, I offered to sit and have breakfast with my grandma while my aunt went upstairs to get ready for the day. You see, grandma has Alzheimer's. My job was to make sure that she finished her breakfast and took her pills. As we sat there looking out at the snow, my grandma would drift off and say "I'm so lost". I would gently remind her that she was home and suggested that maybe she felt a little lost since she had just recently spent nearly three weeks in the hospital. She would nod and say that maybe I was right and then once again, she'd say "I'm so lost".<br />
<br />
I kept prodding her to finish her Raisin Bran so that she could take her pills. We sat at the table together, looking out the bay window in the kitchen at the beautiful snow outside. She asked me when I had arrived and what day it was, and I told her that it was Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. I told her that I had come with my parents from Indiana to visit and spend the holiday with her. We repeated that conversation about a dozen times over a ten minute period. Occasionally grandma would remark that her memory was not as good as it used to be. And then she said it. She reached out and put her hand on mine and said "Sometimes I just close my eyes and say 'Bring Audine back'". I placed my right hand on top of hers and felt tears welling up in the corner of my eyes as I turned toward the window and thought "Me too." In that moment, I realized that my grandma has some awareness, albeit limited, that she is not the same as she used to be. Her memory continues to slip away. Grandma may feel lost. But people do not consist of memory alone. She cannot follow directions very well anymore. She cannot sit and play cards with us, as she always loved to do. But she is still my grandma. Her smile still warms my heart. Her hugs still embrace me with love. She still remembers my name. She could still recognize the beauty of a doe emerging from the woods, looking for a bite to eat on a cold, wintry morning. I can't "bring Audine back". But I can meet her where she is with open arms and loving acceptance, and help to keep her memory alive with her help, hand in hand.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-12005502420715646272013-07-06T16:27:00.000-07:002013-07-06T16:27:21.449-07:00At a Loss for WordsThis past week has been very difficult for my family. My sister-in-law's mother died unexpectedly on July 1, after just being diagnosed with cancer a couple of weeks ago. I found myself at a loss for words to convey how I was feeling when I heard the news. Almost immediately, I began to worry that I would say the "wrong" thing, that I would not be able to express myself in a way that would show compassion in the midst of my sister-in-law's loss. I knew that I could not imagine what she was going through. I am blessed to have both of my parents healthy and still living.<br />
<br />
I have always been better able to deal with facts than with feelings. I'd much rather stick to intellectual knowledge, logic, proof, anything concrete that I can touch, see and hear. I am much more equipped to deal with physical pain rather than emotional pain. That viewpoint was at times helpful when I was still working in the health care field, but I have since learned that that viewpoint does not serve me well when it comes to my day to day interactions with others.<br />
<br />
Now, I can see that my ability to identify my feelings, and to allow myself to experience my emotions without trying to run away from them, has changed. I am learning to sit within the silence and stillness, in God's presence, even if it feels uncomfortable. After the family viewing time passed, I went out into the lobby of the funeral home and watched people as they came in to pay their respects. I was still trying to figure out what I should say to "make it all better" because that is what I tend to want to do. I wanted to fix something that cannot be fixed and I felt helpless as I sat with my two nephews, ages 5 and 7, trying my best to answer their questions in a way they might be able to understand. It broke me heart to see them crying, knowing that they will not have Grammy here to laugh and play with them anymore. As the visitation period was ending and I took my seat in the funeral parlor for the service, I was still racking my brain for what to say. I sat there, listening and praying for God's guidance and about halfway through the service it came to me. In my mind, I could hear my good friends gently reminding me to "keep it simple" and "put it in God's hands". The service came to a close and as I went up to the casket one last time to pay my final respects, I looked over at my sister-in-law, my brother and my two nephews, I wrapped my arms around them and simply said "I love you". I don't believe that any big, fancy words could have expressed my emotions or the compassion that I felt for them any better than uttering those three simple words, words which came from my heart rather than from my mind. If I continue to seek out God's guidance in whatever I am facing, I will not find myself at a loss for words.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-4757083172573278022013-01-16T13:36:00.002-08:002013-01-16T13:36:39.912-08:00God is ready to listen. Am I?I met with a friend the other day for a cup of coffee and some conversation and an interesting topic came up. We were wondering why we seem to wait until we are in great pain before seeking out God's guidance in life circumstances rather than turning to God <i>before</i> we reach the breaking point. I know that I've thought about that before. I have even made "pledges" with God that I will do better, be more faithful and trusting, and spend more time listening for His guidance rather than telling Him what I think I need or want to be done in a particular circumstance. I have discovered that my ways never seem to work. And yet I keep practicing the same old behavior, expecting different results each and every time I turn to God. Knowing that in my head did not lead me to understanding that in my heart, even though on those rare occasions in which I did turn to God first, I got some peace of mind that allowed me to deal with my life circumstances.<br />
<br />
It has only been within the last six months or so that I have made some changes in the way I put my faith into practice. I have developed the habit of spending some time alone with God in prayer and meditation in the morning before I leave for the day. I share with God whatever is on my mind. I ask for Him to guide my thoughts and actions throughout the day and to show me how to be compassionate and helpful to others. And then I do something that is not usually in my general nature - I take time to <i>listen</i> for God's voice. I slow down my mind and open my heart and simply sit in God's presence. I have discovered that when I make the time to do this, my days are happier. I enjoy being in the company of others. My problems do not weigh me down and render me immobile or leave me paralyzed by fear. I see and take advantage of opportunities to help others. I feel a sense of contentment and peace within myself. I take better care of myself physically, emotionally and spiritually. It makes me a better person. At the end of the day I take the time to thank God for the gift of another day and for all of the blessings in my life. I keep a handwritten gratitude journal to record the many things that bring me a sense of joy because I find that having tangible evidence in front of me allows me to look back and see all that I have been given, and it reminds me that life is indeed good, even on those days where I can hardly think of a single thing to write down.<br />
<br />
Do I do this perfectly? Do I do this every single day? No, I don't. There are mornings where I oversleep and have to go running out the door for an appointment. There are days where I am sick and barely have the energy to get up and go to the bathroom. There are days where I am simply being stubborn and do not take the time to be with God. There are days that I am angry or sad or afraid that God will see something in me that I do not want Him to see. That being said, I have found that with just a little bit of effort on my part, I <i>can</i> and <i>do</i> have time for God, and each time I sit down in quiet prayer and meditation, I feel a sense of inner strength that allows me to continue to learn and grow in faith. For me, it is a matter of priority - spending 15 minutes of quiet time or laying in bed for an extra 15 minutes? I think I'll stick with what helps me along my spiritual path rather than skipping out on God and waiting until my pain is so great that I am grasping at straws and looking for anything and everything to bring me some sort of immediate relief, regardless if that is helpful or harmful to me. I believe that God is there to help me in my times of need. I also believe that He wants to share in my times of joy. He is always there to listen. Am I willing to let Him?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-20068617386825716902012-11-12T12:55:00.000-08:002012-11-12T12:55:14.634-08:00Celebrating ChristmasIt seems like as I've grown older, the time to start celebrating Christmas has come earlier each year. Santa Claus arrived at our local mall on November 10 so I guess it must be time to start celebrating Christmas, yes? The past couple of days have gifted us with milder weather and temperatures in the low 60s. As I drive across town from my parent's house to my apartment, I have noticed that many people have their Christmas decorations out already. The lights, the wreaths, inflatable Santas and reindeer and snowmen, penguins wearing colorful hats and scarves, and an occasional manger scene adorn the front yards of many homes. Perhaps people were taking advantage of the warmer weather to get their decorations out. It makes sense. It's pretty hard to drive a plastic candy cane into the ground after it has frozen without using a sledgehammer and then you risk shattering the candy cane!<br />
<br />
But it's only November 12! As Halloween was preparing to end, the Christmas stock was being rolled out onto the shelves at the stores. Even the Thanksgiving decorations are already on clearance sale! The commercials for the chocolate diamond jewelry from Jared's and the newest Lexus models are on, showing us the "perfect" gifts to give to the ones we love. I hate those ads because I allow them to make me feel inferior for not having the money to buy a new Lexus for my father (even if he doesn't want one). I'm much more comfortable with the Old Navy ads for $5.00 sweaters. I find that for myself, all of this "preseason commercial push" seems to distract me from what I believe is the true meaning of Christmas, a product of my lifelong faith, the birth of Christ. The more I allow myself to get swept up in the ribbons and bows, bright lights and sparkles, the greater the chance that I will miss the the meaning of the manger celebrated with the dim glow of a candle being raised above my head during the final verse of Silent Night in church on Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
Now don't get me wrong. I like to give and receive gifts at Christmas. Even though I am 42 years old, I am still the first one to the tree on Christmas morning. (In fact, last year I drove over to my parent's house before the sunrise, let myself in through the garage using my assigned security code, and sat in a chair, next to the tree, for 2 hours waiting for someone else to get up. You should have seen the surprised look on my father's face when he came out of his bedroom to find me already in his house, ready to open presents!) But in the midst of all of that excitement and celebration, laughter and fun, I will pause to give thanks to God for the greatest gift of all. And however you celebrate and recognize the holiday, I wish you joy and peace and love.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-32847956037681458782012-10-27T11:31:00.000-07:002012-10-27T11:31:34.949-07:00ChangesI just finished reading a book called <u>Tricks</u> written by Ellen Hopkins. The book follows the stories of several teenagers who end up in the sex industry through different pathways in their lives. One sentence that really stuck out to me was "Why reach for a dream when you're at ease within your nightmares?" This thought has come to me many times throughout my lifetime, especially when I am going through some type of change and searching for some sense of direction in my life. Things are better for me now. Better than they have been in several years. But now a change is about to occur - a change I don't want.<br />
<br />
I've written before about how I'm an "all-or-none" kind of person. If one thing is going to change, why not change everything else as well? For the good or bad, what the hell, it doesn't matter, just do it. Well I'm finding myself in that position again. Last week I found out that my therapist is retiring. I am used to starting over with new therapists. There is a lot of turn over in that field. And I knew that would be coming soon because she is at a "retirement age". But that doesn't make it any easier. This is especially difficult because she has been the one I have had the strongest connection with and really felt safe and supported by her. She has also been the first therapist that I have had who has asked about and encouraged me to think about my dreams. The problem is that I have been allowing this one little change to throw my whole life into a state of chaos. My mind screams out "CHANGE DOCTORS TOO! STOP TAKING YOUR MEDS! GO BACK OUT AND DRINK! PACK UP THE KITTIES AND RUN AWAY, FAR, FAR, AWAY! LEAVE YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY BEHIND! GIVE UP ON TRYING TO FIGURE OUT YOUR PURPOSE IN LIFE! GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS!" That's just a sampling of what is running through my head right now. I am tempted to return to, or maybe more accurately feel pulled towards, returning to my "nightmares" rather than move forward with my dreams. I have been so comfortable being "sick" for so many years that "healthy" is scary for me. Physical health would be nice, but mental health seems out of reach much of the time and I flee when I feel it coming on.<br />
<br />
I do not want to continue to go down that path anymore. I do not want to remain comfortable in my nightmares and quash my dreams. I want to go out on the limbs and taste the fruit before it falls to the ground and rots. I was at a support group meeting a week ago and one of the gentleman looked over at me and asked "What is your dream? What gives you a sense of meaning?" and my immediate response was writing. I didn't have to think twice. It is what I am feeling pulled to do. And that is one thing that I owe in part to my therapist. I have always journaled. Lots of therapists like clients to do that because it's "therapeutic". But my therapist has encouraged me to expand my writing and reach beyond what has been holding me back and to go for it. After all, what have I got to lose?<br />
<br />
So, there will be some changing going on. I will be meeting a new therapist. And I will not throw the baby out with the bathwater and yell "screw it all" as I run away, flipping the bird behind me as I go. I will stick it out and see what I can learn from these changes. Who knows, maybe that will help me to move forward with my dreams as well. We shall see. I still don't think that I can say that I am fond of change with a straight face but at least I'm willing to try today.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-83666069810984130092012-10-27T11:28:00.000-07:002012-10-27T11:28:11.805-07:00ChangesI just finished reading a book <u>Tricks</u> by Ellen Hopkins. The story follows the lives of several teenagers who end up working in the sex industry. One of the lines in that book that really stuck out to me was "Why reach for a dream when you're at ease within your nightmares?" Well, that kind of describes where my mind has been over the past week or so. Or if I am to be truly honest, over most of my life.<br />
<br />
I do not like change and yet I seem to throw myself into a whole tornado of change if one little thing is out of order. I take one change and create an environment of chaos where I feel more at ease. Last week I found out that my therapist is retiring in a month. I was not totally surprised by this but that doesn't make it any easier. After I left her office that afternoon and drove the 3 blocks to my apartment I had decided that I was going to change everything. "I'M GOING TO GET A NEW DOCTOR! I'M GOING TO QUIT TAKING MY MEDS! I'M GOING TO GO BACK TO DRINKING! I'M GOING TO PACK UP MY KITTIES AND RUN FAR, FAR AWAY! I'M GOING TO LEAVE ALL OF MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY BEHIND! I'M GOING TO GIVE UP ON FINDING A PURPOSE IN MY LIFE!" You get the picture. That has always been my immediate response. And for the record, it has never worked out well for me.<br />
<br />
I know that I am in a better place this time though. Those thoughts came and went several times but did not linger or send me running off to Utah (that is a whole other story!). I think this shows some progress on my part. I know that my physical health is starting to improve again but perhaps my mental health is as well. I am going to miss seeing my therapist. I felt she was a good "fit" with me and I always felt safe and supported with her. But beyond that, she has given me a little extra "gift" of encouragement to seek out and follow my dreams. I don't remember how it came about, but at one of our sessions I shared some of my writing with her and she has been encouraging me to write ever since. Now I know that a lot of therapists encourage clients to journal as it can be very therapeutic. But she has encouraged me to go a little deeper and explore writing in many new directions. The night after I learned that she was retiring I attended a support group and one of the gentleman asked me what my dream was, what gave me a sense of meaning and purpose. My response was immediate - writing. It felt good to say that out loud and not feel that that was a wasted dream because I didn't major in English in college or haven't published anything. For me, that's not what the writing is about. It is about expressing and sharing some of my thoughts and ideas and experiences with others without fear of being judged. That is what my therapist has encouraged me to do. She has never told me to think of a "better" or "more realistic" dream. She simply has encouraged me to write whatever is on my heart.<br />
<br />
So, I will be meeting a new therapist soon. I will do my best to approach this change with an open mind. And I will not throw the baby out with the bathwater and change everything about me. I think that just maybe I'm ready to reach for that dream and step away from the uncomfortable yet familiar nightmares I stroll around in. Perhaps I am changing as well, little by little.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-41275523224889320992012-10-10T13:20:00.002-07:002012-10-10T13:20:40.358-07:00When Darkness Fills the HeartToday is a beautiful fall day in Lafayette, Indiana. The sky is blue, the clouds are white and fluffy, the yellow, orange, and red leaves brilliant against the mid-afternoon sky. The air is crisp and there is a breeze blowing through the trees. But right outside my backdoor is a black cloud of sadness and despair.<br />
<br />
Yesterday afternoon I returned home after having lunch with several good friends to find my apartment house surrounded by police cars and two large utility vans with "Aftermath" written on the sides. They were from a hazardous materials clean-up service. My neighbor from apartment 1 was standing on the sidewalk and came over to me and asked if I had heard what had happened in apartment 3. She then told me that the 26 year old college student who was living in the apartment above mine had put a shotgun to his head and pulled the trigger, killing himself early Saturday morning. I didn't know what to say. I had just spoken to him earlier that day and now she's telling me he is gone. All that came out of my mouth was "How sad". But thoughts were racing around in my head faster than I could process them.<br />
<br />
I wondered why, what had led him to make the decision to end his life. And then I realized that all it really boiled down to was that he had to have been in a pain deeper than he thought he could bear. I know this because I too have been to that place. I have attempted suicide on more than one occasion. One particular attempt landed me in a coma on a ventilator for several days. When I reflect back on those times in my life, all that comes to mind was that I was hurting and wanted the pain to stop. Nothing else mattered. A pain that deep is hard to describe to someone who has not felt it.<br />
<br />
I did not know him well but he always spoke to me on the way to the mailbox. He offered to carry my 35 pound tubs of cat litter up the steps and into my apartment. He was kind and considerate, frequently checking with me to make sure that his music was not too loud. He talked about his cats and listened to me talk about mine. He always had a smile on his face. When we spoke on Friday afternoon we wondered whether or not Purdue would beat Michigan on Saturday. I wonder if he was thinking about what he was going to do 12 hours later that night. Was he having second thoughts or was he relieved at having made the decision to end his life? I do not know if he struggled with depression or drugs or alcohol or strained family relationships or financial difficulties. I do believe that he felt alone in his pain and that he must have felt there was no other option to ease whatever was tormenting his soul. This was true for me and it is what I have heard from many others who have attempted to take their own lives. No one makes this decision lightly and without great despair.<br />
<br />
I am grateful that I am not in that place today. It is a very lonely, sad place to be. I am grateful that I have been given another chance at life and that I had friends, family, doctors, and therapists to help me get through those times when I felt I could not go on and when I did not want to go on. I think about all I would have missed out on and what my family has gone through watching me struggle. I don't want to visit that place again. And so I will pray for all those who loved C. and who will miss him greatly. As I am writing this I have a copy of his obituary with his picture next to me and looking at the picture with his big smile would not have guessed his heart was filled with darkness. I'm saddened to think that he was hurting so deeply inside. There is so much joy to be experienced in living. I know that now. I wish he could have seen that too. I'm going to miss him.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1962986504960186006.post-65379686770931960132012-06-03T13:03:00.002-07:002012-06-03T13:03:41.137-07:00At the Fire HydrantFrom where I am sitting<br />
I can see her.<br />
She has set up camp right on the corner<br />
of 10th and Ferry on the sidewalk<br />
by the fire hydrant.<br />
Her backpack is stuffed so full<br />
it stands on its own<br />
and doesn't tip over<br />
under her weight as she sits down<br />
on the ground and leans back against it,<br />
stretching her legs out in front of her<br />
as if she were sitting in a Lazy Boy recliner.<br />
Her two trash bags of what<br />
I assume to be her other belongings<br />
sit off to her side.<br />
Through the open window<br />
I hear her talking<br />
to no one around<br />
in what sounds like nonsense to me.<br />
Passers by step out into the street<br />
to get around her,<br />
avoiding looking her in the eye.<br />
Although it is 93 degrees outside<br />
she is wearing a long sleeved<br />
green and blue plaid shirt<br />
over a tattered black t-shirt.<br />
Blue running shorts and brown work boots<br />
complete her outfit.<br />
At the end of May she is already sporting<br />
an August tan on her legs and her face.<br />
A blue baseball cap covers up<br />
her dirty blond hair.<br />
As I leave to walk out to my car<br />
I think I understand why no one<br />
is getting close enough<br />
to say hello to her.<br />
She is surrounded by a pungent cloud<br />
of body odor, dirt,<br />
and the smell of stale cigarettes.<br />
It's hard not to acknowledge homelessness<br />
exists in my neighborhood<br />
when the stench hits me in the face.<br />
Stereotypes and my own biases<br />
stop me from offering her a couple of dollars.<br />
She'd probably just buy a<br />
40 ouncer or more cigarettes.<br />
I reassure myself that she can get a hot meal<br />
at the day shelter in just three more hours if she wants it.<br />
And I too walk on by,<br />
not looking her in the eye.<br />
After all, she's not my responsibility, is she?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14297696725664759917noreply@blogger.com0