Daily Archives: January 19, 2015

Today’s Blogging 101 assignment was to answer a writing prompt. The one I selected was “Origins: Why did you start your blog? Is that still why you blog, or has your site gone in a different____________?”

Hmmm.

Well, okay.

Since I have been diagnosed with mental illness, whether that be depression, bipolar, or whatever, the advice has been to journal. Whenever I have read any self-help books trying to drag myself out of a bad situation or improve my lot in life, the advice has been to journal. As a matter of fact, when I was a teenager, the advice for anything was to journal. “Let it out on paper, you’ll feel so much better!”

When I was young, this literally meant letting it out on paper. We had no computers and not great access to typewriters. But we did have cool journals. We had all sorts. We even had diaries that had little locks and keys so your brother couldn’t get into them. (As if that flimsy little lock would stop anyone from anything.)

I tried several times to keep a diary. It wasn’t too meaningful. Mostly something like “I got an A in Science today. Rachel said hi to me. I want a red sweater.” I would write this kind of serious prose for a few days and then give up. I always envied girls that kept a REAL diary…the kind that had their feelings and their history and everything in there.

I was never much of a writer until I turned about 40 or so. Then I became manic and launched myself into a frenzy of writing a couple of long novels. If I do say so myself, they weren’t bad. The plots might have been a little formulaic, but hey. And one was autobiographical which seriously is still a tear jerker, to me anyhow.

Anyway, I came down from the mania and stopped writing.

I got seriously depressed again for a good two years and could barely move. I tried to drag myself back into recovery. My psychiatrist constantly said to me….”you need to write a book!” I said “no, already did that…have no desire.” Then my psychologist said “you need to journal”.

Now I like my doctors and trust them so I thought about what they said. But I knew a book wouldn’t work and I did not want to just keep a journal. For what? So I could read it? So my kids could find it and read it? So I had to worry about someone getting on my computer?

During my recovery I got involved on a psych website and I “met” another bipolar person. She had a blog. I loved her blog. (I still do.) I loved following what was happening in her life. I loved the way it seemed like she had some “friends” on her blog…people who were on there commenting to her about what she had said. I contacted her and asked her about blogging. One hurdle was the fact that I am not in the least bit able to handle technology. She assured me it wasn’t that bad.

So I set up a blog. It was about as basic as they get. And I started blogging. Of course, no one out there was reading it and it felt sort of funny writing into outer space. But I didn’t care. It was a new way to journal. I could say I was writing and keep everybody off of my back.

Of course my doctors wanted to read it. They weren’t insistent about it, but I said no. I tried to keep my blog fairly anonymous, except for my best friend. I bounce stuff off of her. But I like to be brutally honest about what is happening in my life and it is hard to do that when people you know are watching over your shoulder. So no Facebook or Twitter advertising for me.

I started picking up followers and views. I started getting comments, although that was slow going. (Still is, some days).

Although I started my blog basically to hear myself talk, I have gotten gratification from people who say it has helped them. I’d like to think it is making a difference somewhere but I don’t know that. There are days I wish I was one of those “fancy” blogs out there killing stigma about mental illness left and right. But I don’t have the energy to keep up with all the latest news and info. And there are already so many good blogs like that out there.

I haven’t gotten on my soapbox much about the way the mentally ill are treated in this country, although I probably should. But others just seem to do it so much better. I really am just talented at telling my own story, boring some days, humorous others.

One things I LOVE about this blog has been the varied audience. I NEVER thought I would have teenagers reading this this or frankly, men. I just can’t imagine we would have much in common. But I know now that mental illness transcends a lot of things. A LOT of things.

So have I gone in a different direction since I started? I would say no. I have told more of my personal history than I had planned to. I had no idea people would care about my Aunt Dorothy or my Thanksgiving dinner but those have been some of the most popular posts.

I still feel badly that my grammar and writing style isn’t up to snuff or manic in a good sense. My drugs do dull me, but I grind it out as best I can. Look at it this way, I never use any giant words that you can’t understand.

So there you have it, my prompt assignment from Blogging 101. Hope you enjoyed it. Especially you teens and men:)

I’ve recently taken a sabbatical from writing, but I want to let you know the reason.  In the fall, my younger brother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  He had made an amazing recovery from pancreatitis over the last two years, after the removal of several organs (pancreas, gall bladder, spleen, and part of his duodenum). […]

We (society) trivialise and disrespect the history of asylums and their patients horribly, by turning them into a freak show for cheap thrills. Happily there are organisations like Asylum Projects that so stuff that do stuff that is both cool and compassionate.

The Reverend Hiram Chase did not enjoy his time at the New York State Asylum in Utica.

But after leaving that place, and mingling again with the world and with my friends, the very thought of the subject sickened me, for I desired to think and talk as little about the matter as possible.

The book was published in 1868, three years after the septuagenarian was an inpatient. Inmate. Basically, he was sent there by the church, because stress broke him.

My mind became more and more excited; friends came from a distance to comfort me, but all was in vain ; little things were magnified to mountains; I knew that I was unmanned, and could not tell why ; I imagined things took place that never existed ; my mind took a strange turn; I imagined I was the worst of beings, and that thousands must suffer on my account.

Delusional psychosis? He retained insight though.

I soon became exceedingly restless; wanted to be constantly on the go; wanted to be constantly doing something, and hardly knew what. I felt in a great hurry to have something done. It is true that I knew at the time what I wanted to do, but when I attempted to do it, I would either find opposition by some one or a strange inability to do what I wanted done.

Mania?

I groaned much; my appetite now entirely failed; I did not want to eat for days. Sleep entirely left me, and a night seemed an eternity.

Unsurprisingly, he wore out his wife’s patience. He was committed bye two doctors whom he never forgave.

I was torn from home without my consent; was to be shut up with raving maniacs, and probably to die with them. I saw how cold and unfeeling men could be when a little power was given them.

The Utica crib, used to confine patients.

An intelligent and logical man, he knew his mind was beyond his control, but that his awareness and memory were intact. Nonetheless, he went peacefully, much as he disagreed with the committal. He explained admissions, patients, treatment, legalities etc with full lucidity. He also showed enormous compassion for his fellow man, no matter what their social status was. His book was largely intended to protest on behalf of the voiceless. He saw that too many people were committed with inadequate reasons, and then mistreated even if their health improved. Unlike the peevish author of the last book in this genre, Rev Chase was empathetic (within the context of the time) (no revisionist crap here tyvm).

Could the beams of these prison houses speak out, and could the stones cry out of the walls of some of those upper back halls in the asylum at Utica, the revelations of the woes and sufferings of humanity would so shock and astonish the outward world, that instead of classing this institution with the humane and benevolent institutions of the country, it would be classed with those ancient bastiles which have furnished a history of the most cruel and bloody tragedies ever acted under the sun!

He didn’t see a familiar face for ten months. In the same vein as Nelly Bly (though for much longer), he approached things with stoicIsm, resolving to do whatever was necessary in order to survive. Mostly this meant staying out of trouble, giving in to bullies when he couldn’t avoid them.

Moments of unintended levy occur throughout:

Chess, checkers, backgammon and dominoes, were the principal games played in the asylum, but in none of these did I take any interest; indeed, I never learned to play them. I think if all these games could be confined to lunatic asylums it would be just as well for the world.

His ideas for reform start with a more rigorous admissions procedure, to ensure that only ‘raving maniacs’ went in, thus reducing overcrowding and poor care. He remarked upon the fact that people of all ages with epilepsy shouldn’t have been there.

Another freebie (Gutenberg, Internet Archive etc), the book is an engaging read and another sad portrayal of the history of lunatic asylums. All in all, a good read and recommended (especially at that price).

… though it may be humiliating to spread abroad the knowledge that I have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, yet, if by publishing this sketch, the people in general shall become better informed of the true character of asylum life, and thereby prevent the suffering of some poor, unfortunate victim to mental disease, I shall be amply compensated for all my humiliation.

Heard a powerful sermon in church yesterday about bringing blessings to your family.  But something I’ve had a hazy awareness of for quite some time finally crystalized in my mind yesterday, and I had to repent of it and resolve to start doing something about it.

I realized I was tired of being a mom. I know that the job never ends, but I’m ready to move on to the next phase in life–but I’m eight years too early.

Since the birth of my third child is what kicked off my most severe mixed state ever, I’ve been impaired by bipolar disorder for her whole life.  We finally had to put her in daycare even though I was not working because I was too impaired to take care of her  full-time once she reached toddlerhood.   I thought I had gotten better, but recent events have shown me that I am in a lot of ways ready for her to be as grown as my other two.

I don’t like arranging playdates.  I used to love planning birthday parties. I’m even getting over watching kids’ movies and animated films, which I have always loved.  I feel helpless in the face of helping her with her homework.  I don’t spend the time with her that I should. I especially don’t like field trips but feel obligated to go because I am in a position where I can.  I’m content to let her play by herself instead of joining in  with her like I did my other two.

I feel like I’m neglecting her in some ways.   And that hurts to admit.

SO I went down front at the altar call and prayed with one of the pastors about it, and he prayed I’d find the strength and joy in motherhood that God intended for me to have.  So today is a brand-new day, and I hope and pray it’s a brand-new start.

Given I did not have anything Earth pressing planned for today when my kid would be having a sleepover at grandma’s.
I also did not plan on being a coughing,sneezing dripping bruised rib trainwreck.

It’s like, any chance I get time to myself to catch up on whatever…something comes up and I am left only to wallow in discomfort and misery.

Oh, you ask how did I bruise a rib?
I tripped over a rug, landed against a doorframe with all my weight. I thought my boob took the brunt of it. Apparently my upper rib took it instead. Now I breathe, cough, sneeze, stretch…It all hurts in a blinding way.
I am the luckiest person alive. (If you missed the sarcasm there, you are braindead.)

I finally get a day where my mind is fairly quiet…But only because my body is trumping the mental demons with physical pain.
I actually dropped my daughter off and came home and napped. It took four pillows and painful shifting to find a not painful position for the rib but…I napped. I don’t nap.
I survive the worst shark week in months.
Now all this.
And I can’t be certain but I think it’s because I dared to think, “Oh, I can use this night to get caught up on housework and organization and work in some writing…”
Fate is laughing its ass off at me.
I am unamused.

So due to extreme discomfort I have vegetated for the last seven hours, asleep, semi asleep, or just sitting stone still while watching “The Good Wife.”
A show that is what, six seasons in, and I just started season one yesterday because I have exhausted all other shows…
Thing is, this is a well written, well acted show. It irks me. I wanted to hate it.
Kinda like I wanted to hate 30 Seconds To Mars.
Nothing like going against your own grain to heighten your own self loathing repeatedly.

Point is…I wanted a break.
What I do is more discomfort and again, no productivity because I can’t even reach for my cigarette without crying out in pain.
And it’s my own fault for being so clumsy.
If I had a Native American name, it would literally be “walksintowalls”.
If you’re one of the lucky people who are graceful and not accident prone…
You can thank klutzes like me who took on our own lack of grace as well as yours.

And in the future…I am gonna stop making plans even in my own mind. Because the fates have wiretaps in there and will destroy a plan just to clean out the closet.
Anything to keep you from feeling you’ve accomplished something you can take pride in.

I am now gonna go sneeze myself into harsh cries of rib pain and lucky wench that I am, I know I can scream bloody murder and my neighbors won’t call the police.
Usually cos the police are already at their house.