13 Mar 2010 1:44 PM

I talked to Pooky this afternoon, and she wanted me to be sure to thank everyone for all their concern, kindness, and loving thoughts at this time.  She is exhausted, of course, but she is okay.  She especially wanted me to thank Oracle for her blog and she sends lots of love to everyone.  Let's hope she gets back soon.

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13 Jan 2010 8:41 AM

thanks so much for the encouragement guys. I want to let you all know that this is NOT where my head is- except in relation to what I'm writing.  I'm writing where I've been at times and where some other people have been at times.    Here goes....

"I went to see the psychiatrist, and she agreed with the other doctor.  She says she thinks I may have a thing called Major Depressive Disorder, and she started me on some pills for it.  I was afraid they might be addictive.  My mother took Valium for a long time, and I think she got hooked because she was a holy terror when she stopped taking them.  The psychiatrist told me that it wasn't like that... the medication for depression isn't addictive, it just helps your brain produce the right chemicals.  She said it's like taking insulin for diabetes, or hormones if you can't get pregnant.  I asked her about how long it took to cure the depression.  She looked at me so kindly then, took my hand and said, "Mary, this is not something you get over.  It's permanent.  It's what we call a managed illness.  We treat the symptoms, and, on the right medications, you'll be just fine.  But you'll probably have to be on some medication for the rest of your life.  Right now, we can't "fix" the way your brain works, but we can make you able to do everything that other people do."  I felt like I had been given a terminal cancer diagnosis.  The more I think about it, though, the more I realize that this is not going to kill me, and if the medications make me able to function normally, I can live with that.  She said it would take about six weeks for me to feel all the effects of the meds, and even then, if it's not the right one, I might not be as well as I can be.  That's really hard to take, too- I want it to be like taking aspirin for a headache- 30 minutes and everything is fine.  I just have to hang on I guess and try to remember how happy I was when I found out it was treatable.  The psychiatrist also gave me the number of a clinic that does counseling on a sliding fee- according to what I can pay.  I asked her why, if this was a physical illness, I needed therapy.  She said, "Mary, you have been living with this illness and all it's effects for thirty years.  I KNOW you have had trouble dealing with it.  I KNOW people have treated you differently because of it.  These things hurt.  They leave scars and even open wounds.  The therapy will help you heal- not in the way the medications do- but it will help you heal your heart."  What a sweet thing for her to say......

The doctor asked a bunch of questions about my family, too.  I didn't want to answer those questions.  My family has never been there for me, so what do they matter anyway?  She explained that mental illness quite often runs in families.  I had to laugh... my family wouldn't allow anyone to be mentally ill.. I'm laughing now as a matter of fact... just at the thought.  Then she said- ok- has there been anyone in your family who was cut off from the family for the way they acted or who you have seen act in a way you thought was a bit strange?  I chuckled at that... "you mean besides ME?"  Yeah,  there was my dad's father- he wasn't cut off from the family- I mean- how do you cut off a FATHER?  But he'd start ranting and make everyone listen for hours because he said God was telling him to say things.  He'd slap my dad and his brothers and sisters when they hadn't done anything, and then he'd say that God had told him his children were sinful and needed to be punished.  He was a pretty awful old man, but his brother was even worse.  He would disappear sometimes - and the family never knew where he was going, except he'd spend money he didn't have,  he would invest in plans to save the world and think he was the key to saving it.  Then he'd be back, not say a word to anyone, lock himself in his room and not come out for days.  One time I remember, we even wondered if he was coming out to use the bathroom... the smell from the room was so awful. Wait- I just remembered.. there was one other thing I didn't tell the doctor about, but I think.. it was my cousin.. he never was right.. always had behavior problems as a kid... some of the family thought he was retarded, but he seemed intelligent enough.. he just couldn't do school work.  He seemed mad all the time, and when the family got together, we kids didn't want to play with him.. as if our parents would have let us.... Everyone said he was lazy. I swear that kid got hit more than anyone I ever saw.  They thought punishment would snap him out of it at first I guess.  Then they decided he was just a BAD person.  It makes me want to cry.. thinking that maybe he had problems no one wanted to see... everyone was so mean to him.  Finally he just disappeared.  No one ever knew what happened to him.  His parents were devastated, but that doesn't make sense to me.  From the way they had treated him, you'd think they'd be relieved.

I called my mother to tell her what the doctors had said.  She wanted to be kind, I could tell, she wanted to hear what I was saying, but I might as well have been speaking Swahili.  She didn't understand, she said, did I have a brain tumor?  Oh, mental illness.. well that just couldn't be... I was too normal for that.  I was too normal?  This is the same mother who had, all my life, defined me as different, or odd, or "artistic" for Christ's sake.  She tried, but we just didn't connect.  I should have known.. it had never happened before.. why should it happen now?  That wasn't the worst, though.  The "family meeting" was the worst.  Mom, Dad, my siblings, all having a meeting about ME.. with me in the middle of it ... not being allowed to try to explain anything.  It was like I wasn't even there.. they were making decisions about me, but I had no input.  I was SO angry.  Finally, their last word, in no uncertain terms, was that if I wanted to be mentally ill, that was fine, but I wasn't to tell anyone- oh, Christ, Mary, especially not anyone we KNEW, and that if I got hooked on some drug, I would be out of THIS family for good.  They all knew it was just another one of my excuses for not wanting to take care of myself, and they were having no part of it.  Want to be mentally ill.... what a concept...out of the family I understood, I had been out of the family for all practical purposes for years.  I'll be sure and talk to my therapist about this when I see him or her next week.  How can I do this by myself, without any support from my family?  Ok, no pity parties, Mary.  We do what we can do and see how it turns out.

A FEW YEARS LATER....

I quit writing for a while.  Things have been hard.  And easy... My illness has been under control for a long time.  They found the right medication for me, when I can afford it.  There wasn't a generic, and then there was, and then the FDA didn't recognize it as a generic, so I had to pay the same amount either way.  I'm basically unemployable now.. not because I can't do the work now, but because I couldn't do it then.  One look at my medical records, and I'm an instant leper.. I get benefits.  I'm SO ashamed of having to do that, but the docs say I can't help my illness- would I deny benefits to someone with any other disease?  Of course I wouldn't, but the only other disease I can see that carries this stigma is AIDS which is just sooo wrong, but there are more support resources for AIDS out there than there are for mental illness, too.  I don't feel too good right now... I'm tired of lying.... once the infamous "family meeting" was over, I realized one thing.. that I could never talk to my family about how I really am.  I can't tell them I'm out of medications, out of money, and hanging on to every bit of control I have just to get through until I can get the medications.  Wow, if I told them that... that sounds like an addict... funny....  Every time I talk to them I'm fine... everything is fine.. just hunky dory- they don't ask the important questions like "How are you living?"  "Do you have warm winter clothes?"  "Can you afford gas to leave your apartment sometimes just to SEE people?"  And I don't volunteer the information, even though I might, on an off chance, get a little help.  It would be given with sighs and complaints about how little Johnny's retainers were so expensive, and how my mother's rent went up even though she spends more on her apartment than I MAKE in a month, or that the Lexus was in the shop AGAIN... oh, no- nothing wrong with it- just the maintenance schedule, you know, and how the neighborhood association insists that we rebuild our fence to match the next door neighbors, and you know Mz. Gotrocks lives next door and had her damn fence built out of diamond dust and.. ok I'm getting ridiculous, but it's not far off.  Strange that I can still have a sense of humor... as a matter of fact.. here's the Mary version of what I would say. 

Well, I DON'T have to deal with retainers because the first medications I was on ruined my teeth, and I now wear dentures.  Oh, and add to that, people think dentures mean you just didn't take care of yourself, and you KNOW that NO ONE who IS anyone wears dentures.  I'd get dental implants, but you know, they look so false anyway.  My rent just went up too, and law, you know, it's difficult when you're spending 1/3 of your total income so you can have the privilege of living in the hood, and it's going up to almost 1/2.  Yes, the 8 year old Pontiac with almost 200,000 miles on it is in the shop AGAIN because it is falling apart daily, and the engine fell out just yesterday.  You don't even KNOW from neighborhood associations... mine suggests I carry mace on a daily basis and especially if I go out in the evenings, which they don't recommend because every weekend at least three people in our neighborhood decide they don't want to come back.. puzzling problem.  Thank you, Mary, thank your healthy self for being able to make yourself laugh.....

Actually, I'm grateful to have a place to live and a car.  There are so many people out there with mental illness who have neither....

AND AT LAST

My brother Tim called tonight.  He told me my mother was sick and it was all my fault.  He said all she does is think of me and worry about whether I'm okay and why I don't call more often.  I wonder why she didn't call ME and ask, but I just took it... like I always take it and make it mine and own it and file it where it can be brought up every day to beat myself with.  I can't do this anymore.. although the docs say- yes you can- you've been doing it for years... look at how well you do with your illness.  Yes, I've been doing it for years.  I've been doing it and doing it and doing it and it is like having 100 lb. stones tied to my ankles, and every phone call, every little comment, every little nuance adds another pound to how hard it is for me to keep just f'ing DOING it.  Here I sit with the .45 my neighbor Mr. Gotzeveryonehooked van Gotzeveryonesmoney sold me.  I'm hoping against hope that my last act will be the ONE I've done right.  I'm scared.  I don't believe in anything coming after death anymore- and I'm scared that I won't exist anymore on some level.  But if I don't, I'll never know will I?  That's a comfort.  I wish my mother could hold me right now...."

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12 Jan 2010 3:50 AM

Jack was a good kid.  He really wanted to please his parents because somewhere, deep inside, he knew how much he needed and depended on them.  His teacher at school had made them start keeping journals every day, and he decided that keeping one at home might be cool. too.  Besides, it would help him remember all the things Mom and Dad wanted him to do- the things that were really important to remember.  Some days it just seemed like everything went out of his head when he was having fun.  The night after finding out about his Aunt Mary, Jack decided to start his journal.

" I am not going to start this by saying "dear dairy" like they do in the movies- that's for girls, and sounds sissie.  Maybe this will help me rememer everything Mom and Dad want me to do.  I have to take out the trash on Monday Wesneday and Friday every week.  I know that - I oubt to erase it.  Maybe it will be better if I write down what I learned today.  Yah- think so. 

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY- SATURDY

Don't tell Mom and Dad when I don't feel so good- like crying and stuff. (Jack's thought:  Is it ok to tell them when I throw up or get a rash or something?  I don't know.  If I ask them will they think I'm not taking care of my own self?  How about if I'm bleeding? This is harder than I thought it would be.)

Don't ask for more attenshun then I should get. (Jack's thought:  How much is that?  How do I know if I'm asking for too much?  I guess they'll tell me like they told Aunt Mary.)

Don't ever act like stupid old Aunt Mary.

MOST IMPORTANT!!!!!  Take care of my own problems my own self. (Jack's thought:  How do I do that?  I'm nine years old.....)"

Jack looked over his entries.  He wondered why he had put in the one about acting like Aunt Mary.  She didn't look stupid from her pictures.  He wasn't sure why he had said not to act like her, or even why he WOULD ever act like her, but it made him afraid in a way he didn't understand.  Children sometimes don't realize that they are putting together very difficult concepts on a subconscious level.  Acting like Aunt Mary might make his family leave him, and, although he couldn't express that fear in so many words, his gut told him it was there.  Jack went to sleep and dreamed.  At first his dreams were filled with a pretty young woman with a lap full of laughing babies and smiling dogs.  Later in the night, Jack dreamed he was running.  He was hurt, and he couldn't see what was chasing him, but he was scared like he had never been scared in his life.  He saw his mother and father up ahead and felt so relieved.  The closer he got, the farther away his parents got, until he could no longer see them.  Knowing that they wouldn't save him jolted him awake.  He couldn't remember his dream... he only remembered that he woke up feeling more alone than he had ever been.

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11 Jan 2010 6:23 AM

Thank you all for your kind comments on "Jack's Story".  Here is a bit more, and please, when it gets to be too much, let me know.  I'll try to keep these as short as possible.  I also want you to know that while these are, in a way, MY stories, mostly they're a compilation of my own experience and the things I've seen.  Not all will be about mental illness.. I promise.. lol.

"Mary's Journal"

This new doctor I'm seeing has told me that sometimes writing down my thoughts might help me.  I don't know.  I don't like to write down my thoughts or feelings.  If someone finds them, what will happen?  It's almost as unsafe as talking about them.  I said I'd try.  I was so excited three weeks ago when I found this doctor.  I had been having my same old problems, some nights not being able to sleep at all, some days not being able to get out of bed at all.  I hurt in different places it seemed like almost every day.  I would be okay for a while, be able to work and paint, even though my energy was always low, but then I'd just crash and not be able to do anything.  During those times, I couldn't read, I couldn't concentrate on things, couldn't work a crossword, couldn't do any of the things that I relied on to keep my mind occupied so I wouldn't have all the wrong thoughts I have.  If I could afford it, I'd go to doctors, and they'd want to run expensive tests, so I didn't go often.  I found out my thyroid was under-active, so I'm taking pills for that, but they only help a bit.  Finally it got so bad that I had to go to a doctor again to see if they could find something to help me.  He asked if I had ever been to a psychiatrist or had any therapy.  My stomach dropped.  Oh, God, how many people are going to tell me this is all just in my head and I need to just get a grip?  I've heard that every day for most of my thirty years- from family, from my ex-husband, from "friends".  I didn't even answer- I just got up and got ready to leave. 

"Wait," he said, "I think I may know what's wrong, but if you won't talk to me, I won't be able to help you."

I sat back down, but kept my "fight or flight" going full blast in case I needed to run.

"I think you are depressed," he continued, "but I need to ask a few questions."  Well, duh, so what else is new?

"I KNOW I'm depressed," I said, "how could I not be depressed when I feel so bad all the time and can't function like I'm supposed to?"

The doctor chuckled softly, but not unkindly.  "You've got your cart and your horse switched, I think.  There is an illness- a physical illness- not some out there twilight zone "mental" thing- that causes the symptoms you've been having.  It could be that your brain is causing these symptoms, but not in the way that you think.  It's an abnormality in the way your brain functions, and it's treatable."

IT'S TREATABLE!!!!!!!  I think for the rest of my life those are the most beautiful words I will ever hear.

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10 Jan 2010 3:24 AM

"Jack's Story"

Jack came in from his martial arts lesson and plopped down on the couch in the living room. 

"How was the lesson, son?", his dad Tim asked.  "Did you kick butt today?"

"Naw", Jack replied, "we didn't do any fighting today.  The whole lesson was about respect and controlling our tempers and stuff.  Really boring."

"Dammit!", Tim said, "That's not what I'm paying good money for.  All this Chi stuff or whatever, Fung Schwe or whatever they call it- not paying for my son to learn to arrange flowers- we're paying for lessons to teach you to fight.  Guess we'll have to find another gym."

"It's called a Dojo, Dad," said Jack, rolling his eyes.  "Hey, what're those?"

Jack had just noticed that his parents were rifling through a huge pile of old pictures, and they looked really weird.  None of them were in color, and he didn't know any of the people in the pictures.

"When dad's Grandma June died a few months ago, we found these among her things," replied his mother, Ashley.  "We're trying to keep the family photos and throw out the ones of people we don't recognize."

Jack dug some of the pictures out of the waste basket, laughed at a few because they were so strange to him, tossed the rest back, missing the can a few times.  Suddenly he said, "Wait, Mom.  Are you sure you're getting all the family photos?  Here's one with a young lady in it who looks an awful lot like Grandma - you know, Dad's mom.  Oh, here's another one of her.  You don't know who she is?"

Tim and Ashley glanced at the pictures Jack was holding.  "Oh", said Tim.  He and Ashley looked at each other and grimaced.

"You know, Tim, we really are going to have to tell him sometime.  He's going to hear if from someone else in the family eventually- you know how your mother gets- feeling all regretful and stuff.  Old people can be so unreasonable."

" I guess so", said Tim in an irritated tone.  "Jack, that is my youngest sister, Mary.  She's been dead for years."

Jack was all ears.  "Wow, Dad, I didn't know you had a sister named Mary.  What was she like, how did she die, why don't you talk about her.... and why are you throwing away her pictures?  She's family after all."

"There are things you will understand when you're older, Jack.  Dad's sister Mary... well... she just was different... sort of the black sheep of the family.  Do you know what that means?"  Ashley was obviously uncomfortable with the whole subject, and went off into one of her favorite speeches to Tim.  "Actually, Dad's family had a lot of black sheep... remember, Tim, how your grandfather Frank used to do things that were really strange and then tell everyone that God told him to do them?  Oh, and his BROTHER James- what a weirdo- he'd be fine one day, then go off on some hair-brained scheme thinking he could cure all the world's ills... and then there was..."

"Yeah, but I want to know about Aunt Mary", interrupted Jack.  His parents almost jumped at his use of the term "aunt".  Tim sighed, and Ashley remembered in that instant that there was something vital she needed to do in another room.

"This one's all yours, Tim", she said as she conveniently escaped the room.

"Why do you want to know, Jack?" Tim almost yelled at his son.  "It's ancient history, and the woman is DEAD, for God's sake."

"I dunno", Jack answered, "I guess because she looks so much like grandma and she has a nice face.  She looks like a really nice person.  Look at this one, Dad, the picture of her with the dog.. she's having such fun, and the dog looks like he thinks she's great.  Please tell me."

"All right, all RIGHT.  Maybe it will teach you a few lessons about living in the real world.  Mary was my youngest sister.  My parents spoiled her totally, but she was always wanting more.  She'd cry all the time, and you know how I feel about cry-babies.  People would ask her why she was sad, and all she could say was 'I don't know'.  She had trouble making and keeping friends because she was so moody.  My mother and father, well, all of us really, told her that that sort of behavior was reserved for babies, not for big girls like her.  Dad especially would punish her for her moods, yelling and screaming at her to just snap out of it, that her life was wonderful- look at all we had- there was no reason on earth for her to be unhappy and make other people miserable all the time.  Emotions were totally controllable, and she just didn't WANT to control hers.  You know, Jack, she was SO smart- almost genius the schools told my parents- and talented- she could paint, and her voice was like heaven when she sang.  There was just this THING about her.  She went to college, got a good degree, but she could never keep a job- that's about being spoiled- she just didn't want to work.  She'd always say, ' I DO want to work, I just CAN'T sometimes.'  She'd call different members of the family, always wanting to talk about her problems- like we didn't have any of our own.  Finally, we all got together and decided that listening to her was just coddling her.  Most of us stopped talking to her altogether.  She always had money problems, and, God knows, we weren't going to send her lazy butt any money. "

Tim stopped at this point, obviously thinking, with a black scowl on his face.  He was thinking about the little sister who always seemed to get all the attention, even though he and the rest of his siblings were successful, took care of themselves and their families, believed in the American Way. Mom and dad really did a lousy job with HER. 

Jack interrupted his dad's reverie.  "So, what- did she starve to death or something?"

"Of course not!" snapped Tim.  "I told you she was smart.  She managed to keep herself fed - managed to work SOME- lord, toward the end of her life she was CLEANING HOUSES she was so lazy.  Worked just enough to keep herself alive.  Then she called my mother, telling her some quack doctor had told her she had something wrong with her- depression I think.  He wanted to put her on medicines for it- boy was that looking for more problems than Carter has liver pills.  Everyone know those drugs don't do anything but get a person hooked on drugs- something she definitely couldn't afford.  I could just see her taking tranquilizers by the handful as another excuse not to work. We got together with her and told her- you get hooked on those, and we will cut you off forever from the family- every one of us- even our mother, and we MEANT it!  No one heard from her for a while."  At this, Tim became pensive again, then said with a grim smile," It worked too- until she died, every time we saw or talked to her she was fine, just fine.  She didn't ask for help with anything, she didn't discuss her woes, thank God.  She was always cheery around us- I figured she had finally grown up and developed some guts.  Everything was good for a few years......" Tim just trailed off.

"Wasn't there anything good about her?" Jack asked.

"I suppose." Tim replied.  "Nothing that was really important.  Nothing that was expected of her.  As I said, she was talented and smart, and when she quit thinking about herself, she was a lot of fun to be around.  Had a great sense of humor.  She adored kids and was so loving to all the babies in the family. You're too young to remember that.  Some people would have said she was generous, too.  I just think she was stupid.  She'd complain and b***h about all her woes, then give what little money she had to homeless people.  She couldn't work, but if a friend asked her to help out, she go to any length to help them- for free.  Stupid."

Tim stopped, and Jack knew his dad was finished, but he had one more question that he just HAD to ask.

"How did she die, Dad?"

Tim took so long to answer that question that Jack thought maybe it was a horrible accident, or cancer where she had pain for a long time.  He knew about those things.  Finally his dad answered with something much worse than Jack had imagined.

"She killed herself.  Our little gutless wonder killed herself- just at the time when her life seemed to be going well- just when we had let her back in the family- conditionally of course.. I'll never understand it... but people don't change, and I think it was her final act to make SURE she had all the attention again."

Jack couldn't say anything.  He was overcome with emotion. He didn't understand what his dad had said- oh he heard the words- and knew what they meant- but he felt sick to his stomach, and that's what he didn't understand. He kept going over and over in his mind that sometimes- not often, but sometimes- he felt really sad and didn't know why.  He went to his room... to cry... because he knew how his dad felt about cry-babies......


OK FOLKS- that's all to this story- please give opinions- I can take it.. lol- However, let me know if you'd like more, because I've got more Jack stories in my head, and Aunt Mary's story too... love ya'll

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