chemical pressure

"What did you do over the holiday?" asked Barden D. Arnette, MD. Even his name was an SNL parody of a psychiatrist's name.
I opened my mouth to answer,"...." and was interrupted.
"What I mean is what did you do to pass the time? Did you do anything enjoyable?" He was doing Joaquin doing Cash again.
I opened my mouth to answer, "...." and was interrupted again.
"Visit with friends or family, things of that nature?"His head was turned to his left. His chin was tilted upward. He was looking at me from the side, although his body was facing me. I wonder if he has Tourette's?
I waited. He looked up from his legal pad. He was dressed a little better today. Still a little strange for our town of Palookaville, home of the Fighting Chickens (Go you Chickens! Bawk! Bawk!), but better, nonetheless. He raised his eyebrows as if waiting for me to answer.
I opened my mouth, "....Well, I..." and he cut me off again.
"I understand you don't have many friends or family, so if you didn't visit with anyone, that's ok, but what did you do instead?"
I jumped at my chance, "Itookmydogtothedogpark!" and then I teared up.
Taking my dog to the Bark Park was the best experience of my holiday. A medical professional had just reminded me that I don't have many friends or family. I was tired of sitting in badly furnished rooms with strange people, telling them things I don't tell the few people I hold close to me. I was tired of trying to figure out why I can't seem to function like a regular person. I was tired of having no meaningful connections. I want a family. I just don't want the one I've got. I can't find anybody to love me. I have revised(translated; lowered) my standards. I have made accommodations. I have tried not to be judgmental or picky. Still; nothing, nobody. I am aging fast and soon it may be too late. I have lived with this mood/ neurological issue/mental illness for my entire life. I have been trying to find some relief for eight years. Besides, I found his communication style to be really freakin' irritating.
"MmmmHmmmm," he was writing on the legal pad,"What else?" now he turned his head abruptly to the right, tilted the chin up toward the ceiling and looked at me from the opposite side of his head.
"Nothing else. That was the enjoyable part. That's it." I was wiping my nose with my hand. A psychiatrist's office with no visible box of tissues, go figure.
"I see you brought back the mood chart." he extended his hand for it. He had given me a mood chart at the last appointment. It was a table made up of 3 main sections; Treatments, Daily Notes and Mood. Within the Treatment section, there were 8 columns with different psychotropics listed along with a "verbal therapy" column and some blank columns to fill in meds not listed. The Daily Notes section was just blank horizontal lines.The Mood section was disected into three subsections; "Depressed", "WNL" and "Elevated". Under "Depressed", there were six columns, headed Irritability, Anxiety, Hours Slept Last Night, Severe, Mod, Mild. Under the mysterious "WNL" column, it says "Mood Not Definitely Elevated or Depressed. No Symptoms." Underneath in smaller print it says, "Circle date to indicate menses." Each row in this column had a subsequent number. The "Elevated" section was made up of four columns titled, Mild, Mod, Severe and my personal favorite, Psychotic Symptoms, and below it in smaller print, Strange Ideas, Hallucinations. I handed it to him and he looked it over.
"You've done a very good job with this." he stated. "Did you read the information I gave to you?"
At the last appointment, he also gave me some reading materials about anxiety disorders and bipolar disorder. I had read them and highlighted the information that applied to me.
"Yes." I started to hand the materials back to him.
"No, no, no!" he made a waving gesture with his right hand, "Those are for you! I don't want them back!" You would have thought I was trying to return borrowed underwear.
"I thought you may want to look at them..." I started to explain.
He cut me off, "Oh, no..no, I don't need them. Those are for you. They contain very valuable information. If you want to throw them away, you certainly may, but they are a good resource for you."
"I understand, but I read them and made note of what symptoms seem to apply to me, I thought you may want to see them." I was able to complete the sentence because he had picked up a pen from his desk and was studying it intently while nodding.
"So...tell me...what you thought." He was making a "round and round" gesture with his right hand, a "keep it coming" sort of gesture that I have seen people use to help drivers back into tight spaces.
"...About...?" I was staring at him.
"The reading, the information, what did you think about it?" his head was tilted far to the left and with his right hand, he was placing the pen against his lips. He is such a freak.
"Well, as I said, I read it and highlighted the parts that seemed relevant to me." I opened the first page of the anxiety booklet. "Would you like for me to read those parts to you?"
"No! No! Why don't you tell me what you think, based on the reading, I mean what do you think...sticks?" His head was turned to the right and he was still swiping the pen across his lips with his right hand while holding the legal pad in his left.
"...Sticks...?" I was so irritated at his point, I wasn't hiding my facial expression, which must have been a cross between, What? and What the hell?
"Uh, meaning, which description do you think best describes what's happening with you?"Pen to lips. Swipe Across. Pen to lips. Swipe Across.
Ah, I see. Ol' Barden wanted me to diagnose myself. Nope. He was going to have to work for this one. "I don't think I fall neatly into one category. Many of the symptoms in both booklets seemed to apply to me. I have some of the symptoms of OCD. I have some of the symptoms of generalized anxiety disorder. Some of the elevated mood symptoms of bipolar disorder apply at times, most of the depressive symptoms apply all the time..."
He pointed the pen toward me. "You didn't tell me about OCD symptoms at the last appointment."
"I hadn't read this information prior to the last appointment." Did he really think we could have covered every facet of my mental state in one setting?
"You can't have generalized anxiety disorder and ODC." He stated. I find this hard to believe. The human mind is vast, complex and multi-faceted. How could he say something so absolute?
"I didn't say I had either." I closed the booklets and set them aside. "I said that some of the symptoms for each applied to me. I am in no position to say I have anything. I can hardly diagnose myself. I read the materials and took note of what applied to me."
I was exasperated. I don't know why I was allowing this situation to piss me off so much. I just felt so tired. I teared up again.
"I know we have touched on some difficult subjects. I think we may have to do some psychological testing. I am surprised that you haven't completed any tests before. Given your rather chaotic upbringing, I am sure you have some personality issues. I don't see how you couldn't...I will discuss this with Dr. Samson, see what he thinks, and then there is the issue of your insurance. Some insurance won't pay for testing. We can look into that. Now, what I want to know is...if you thought you may want to act on your suicidal impulses, would you tell somebody? Would you go to the hospital?" he had slid his chair to the farthest point away from his desk. His right shoulder was grazing the wall. He was still pointing at me with the pen.
"I don't feel suicidal right now. I am not in danger of acting on any impulses." I felt so exhausted, I wanted to fall on the floor. I probably looked suicidal. I couldn't stop crying. I gathered my things to leave. Ol' Barden stood to walk me out. He turned suddenly and was obtrusively in my personal space. He extend his palm with his fingers splayed out and touched my upper arm. Perhaps this is how they show concern on his home planet, Nerdtron. "Are you sure you're not going to leave here and do anything stupid?" This was so ridiculous I started to laugh. As I was already crying, the laughing looked like uncontrollable sobs. I had to get control of myself or this freak would admit me to the local inpatient unit.
"No!...Yes!...I mean, I am not going to do 'anything stupid'." I pictured my self pulling a ski mask over my face and robbing the GasNSip, yelling, 'Everybody on the floor! Don't make me do anything stupid!' this made me laugh again.
"I have a dog. Who would take care of my dog?" I asked him.

catalyst

Annoying John was ranting. He had ranted through Community Group. He was well on his way to ranting through the second group meeting of the day. "Dese people in here are ignorant! I mean, dat's just not right! Dat's all we got in here! Dat's like havin' five kids, OK? And den you tellin' tree of dem kids dat dey can have ice cream. And den tell da udder two dat dey can't have none. Dat's not fair! Dat's my opinion and I want my opinion to be spoke! I mean, it don't make no kinda sense!"
Sweet little Mae Ling was looking at John intently, nodding. At her first opportunity, she spoke. "John, I understand how you feel, but rules are rules. After a lot of careful consideration, the staff and administration decided that providing community cigarettes was becoming too burdensome. It's also in conflict with our mission here at County Central; we shouldn't be encouraging the habit. We don't think it is unreasonabl....."
John cut her off, "But you guys don't unnerstand what it's like for us. For da people dat's addicted to alcohaw, we can't get no alcohaw. For da people dat's addicted to gettin' high, we..uh..dey can't get no weed. Dat's all we got is our cigarettes, ya know!?!" And da nuther ting is, why didn't dey discuss dis wiff us? If we're da ones dat's gotta be in here, dey shoulda axed us what we taught a dis, so we could stand up fer what we believe in! Cuz, me...I'm gonna stand up fer what I tink is right! I'm gonna speak up...!"
I looked over at the new girl, Jenna. She was 18, a high school senior, straight A student, cheerleader, kind, respectful and mannerly. She was a perfectionist with generalized anxiety disorder and she had tried to kill herself three days ago. She had all the potential in the world. Next to her sat Christopher, 16. Another smart articulate friendly generous kid with great manners, musical talent and an easy likeable disposition. A model son or little brother. His family brought him in after they found his journal full of suicidal ideation. His entire life was ahead of him. These two kids had already contributed more to the world than John would ever. They were here for real problems.
One of the nurses on the unit had started to bring in a pack of cigarettes to have on hand if one of the smokers was temporarily out. The understanding was you could have a "unit cigarette" until you could arrange for a visitor to bring you some. John and Angela had smuggled in packs via Angela's niece. All patient cigarettes were supposed to be kept behind the counter to deter smoking in patient rooms. They were keeping theirs hidden on their persons and smoking them in the bathrooms between official "smoke breaks." When the time came for official smoke breaks, John and Angela would ask if they could have unit cigarettes. John had paid Angela's niece for his smuggled cigarettes with money stolen from another patient. The decision to stop bringing in unit cigarettes had been announced in Community Group. Since John had smuggled cigarettes on his person, he was basically ranting because he could no longer take advantage of free cigarettes. Vile Scumbag.
Mae Ling was fresh out of grad school. She had probably grown up in a respectful family, in a decent neighborhood, and went to a school of mostly middle and upper middle class kids. Her education had not prepared her for a person like John. He did not recognize normal social cues. Her diplomatic and respectful mores were lost on this street vermin.I had grown up around the country, but had spent a considerable amount of time in a town outside of Gary, Indiana. After my father split, my mother and I resided in a government-subsidized housing development (translated; the projects, the jets, the pj's). When forced to, I could speak John's language.

"DUDE!" I yelled in his face and cut him off midsentence. The element of surprise is tantamount to physical domination when dealing with these people. "ENOUGH! WE DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THE DAMN CIGARETTES! THERE ARE PEOPLE HERE WITH REAL PROBLEMS! YOU HAVE DOMINATED TWO GROUPS WITH THIS BULLSHIT! THAT'S ENOUGH ALREADY!" Cursing is also an important tactic. It shows just enough irreverance to the authority figure present to suggest you may resort to physical violence if necessary. I had said very little in groups until this point. I participated if called upon. I didn't volunteer to share. Gentle Karen was making her way to the door as was Jenna and Roxanne. Ashley Burroughs, as I had taken to calling her because of her affinity for Augusten Burroughs, stayed by my side. As a veteran of Juvey (juvenile detention center), Ashley had seen her share of shit fly. No violence John could inflict could ever compare to fighting a black girl, something Ashley and I had in common. John was momentarily silent, then slid forward in his seat and pointed in my face,"I'LL SAY WHAT I WANT AN' IF YOU DOAN LIKE WHAT YOU'RE HEARIN' YOU CAN LEAVE!"
"NO, YOU NEED TO LEAVE. YOU HAVE DISRUPTED GROUP LONG ENOUGH. YOU HAVE NO RESPECT FOR ANYBODY ELSE'S PROBLEMS. CIGARETTES ARE NOT IMPORTANT TO THE REST OF THE GROUP. THERE ARE PEOPLE HERE THAT ARE ACTUALLY INTERESTED IN THEIR HEALTH AND TRYING TO GET BETTER." I leaned forward, but didn't scoot to the edge of my seat because my knees would have touched his.
"John, Please leave." Mae Ling spoke while crossing the room to the Security phone.
"I AIN"T LEAVIN'! AX HER TA LEAVE! SHE STARTED RUNNIN' HER MOUTH! SHE'S THE ONE NEEDS TA LEAVE!" John was flailing his arms about. A droplet of saliva flew from his mouth to the floor.
"John, I am asking you to leave the room immediately, or you will be escorted out." Mae Ling was speaking calmly but her eyes were betraying her. This was probably her first "situation."
She spoke into the white old school phone receiver and hung up.
"Jo-ohn, just shu-ut up a-and lea-eave. You're so-o stu-upid." That was my little buddy, Ashley.
John rose to leave as the security guy appeared in the doorway. "I DOAN KNOW WHY YOU GOTTA RUN YOUR MOUTH. YOU FAT HO!" He stood over me for a second and raised his fist. I didn't flinch. "I wish you would hit me, street trash." I hissed at him through my teeth so Mae Ling wouldn't hear me. Ashley looked at me, alarmed. The security guard yelled, "HEY! DON'T DO IT!" John lowered his hand and walked out of the room, yelling insults and profanities with the security guard on his heels.
"You're no-ot fa-at. And you're no-ot a ho-o." said Ashley.
Thanks, kid.

now for something completely different...

Katie's back hurt. And she had to pee, again. She had been up six times in the night. She lay watching the hand on the beautiful antique clock on the beautiful nightstand next to the beautiful custom made bed in the guest wing of a huge compound in L.A. In two minutes, at 4:58 a.m., she would be summoned by the intercom system. (During her first week, she thought she would be a diligent little employee and arrive early without being summoned. As she opened the fake door, he shouted at her. She ran back to her room in tears. She didn't see anybody else but him, but she was certain he wasn't alone. His assistant came in later and diplomatically explained she was never to come without being signaled first) She would make her way to the master suite, where she would take her place beside him in bed. There she would lay motionless for several minutes until the day staff would start to arrive. As the maid opened the door, they would be "emerging" from the bed. The maid would look alarmed, apologize profusely, and back out the door with her eyes lowered. He would flash the multi-million dollar veneers and say, "That's OK, Esperanza! Buenos Dias! Give us a few minutes!" Katie would smile her famous sheepish smile. With Esperanza's footsteps receding down the hall, he reminds her, "The morning briefing starts in five. See you in the office." Katie would make her way back to the lavish guest quarters via a hallway behind his shoe closet. The staff was only required to clean and service the guest quarters upon request. They would not know she was actually residing there unless they were especially hypervigilant. The night staff (she'd secretly dubbed them the "chosen ones" due to how close they were to him and how much information they were privy to. A few members of this "inner circle" were more familiar with the details of her agreement than she would ever be.) made sure the articles in the "hers" bathroom were in enough disarray to look used. The security staff inner circle members had them under such close surveillance that any perceived breach would be handled immediately. She would hurriedly pee, brush her teeth and hope she wouldn't have morning sickness. Being tardy to the morning briefing was grounds for a fine. Wednesday's bout of diarrhea cost her 50 grand. Over the initial 9 months of the contract, the fines had accumulated to a staggering amount. There was the initial 200 grand penalty for those unfortunate pictures of her in the Buddy Holly style glasses with the inflamed skin around her mouth. The tabloids were wild with speculation about the redness and swelling. One featured a prominent Beverly Hills plastic surgeon giving his expert opinion that it was a rare type of Herpes. Actually, the contract required removal of all body hair by laser treatments, the redness and swelling were common side effects. This was a stipulation he had required of all three. Of all of his obsessive compulsive stipulations and requirements, this was the one that had ended the first arrangement. The first wife just couldn't tolerate the laser treatments. She still has visible scars that prohibit her from showing much skin. It put quite a damper on her fledgling film career. Instead of catapulting her from virtual obscurity, as his camp had promised, it relegated her to wholesome matronly roles which take you no where fast in the industry. In her settlement, she and her legal team used this to their advantage. The retired judge who heard the case was sympathetic and granted her the full amount of the contract despite the fact that she was unable to fulfill the obligations. He was enraged and had to be calmed down by the spiritual advisors that remain available to him around the clock. Katie had been fined for each wardrobe faux-pas, each grimace or awkward expression, and any body language that could be misconstrued. The Good Morning America interview alone set her back close to one million dollars. She would still make enough money to ensure the next three generations of her offspring and those of her siblings would not have to struggle financially. While perched on the toilet seat, she allowed herself to think of Chris. The funny little things they used to say and do. The sex, especially in the beginning, when it was incredible and to be out of bed was to be in pain. There were things she missed about a real relationship, but she reminded herself that those things wouldn't bring generational wealth. Besides, if Chris hadn't cheated on her she wouldn't be in this situation. The call had come at one of the worst times she had ever experienced in her life. The reports about the state of her car and the cleaning crew he had dispatched to her house were true, but they didn't stop there. She had cancelled her cleaning services weeks before. She was only communicating with her manager and her immediate family from her bed. After she signed the contract, the "sweep" began. Her car was cleaned and promptly donated to charity. Her house was thoroughly cleaned to his specifications and anything not to his liking was put into storage or disposed of. Anything. That would include family photos that were not pleasing to his eye. Wardrobe staples like her favorite running gear and comfy sweats were strictly prohibited in the new quest to glamorize and sophisticate her. Her appointments with her doctors stopped abruptly, along with her antidepressant medication. His belief system prohibited the use of most drugs and was vehemently anti-psychology. Her new diet started immediately after a two week fast and enzymatic whole body cleanse including her lymphatic system. This process was overseen by a nutritionist from the Center. Literally. The nutritionist would stand over the meals as they were weighed and prepared. The nutritionist would stand over the toilet after Katie completed a bowel movement to note the color, texture and length as indication of how the regime was proceeding. He was briefed about all of these things daily. The egg donor had already been found and was undergoing the hormonal treatments. She was an eighteen year old girl with strikingly symmetrical features and stunning musculature who had been strictly brought up in the church lifestyle. She had consumed only minute amounts of processed and non-organic foods. Regular drug testing confirmed she had never partaken in so much as an aspirin. When he had insisted upon the spinal fluid test for LSD, the church leaders had appealed to him for leniency, especially in light of the absence of any "lighter" drug use, but he was undeterred and demanded it. Under the staggering sum of money being offered to the church and the family, the girl relented and subjected herself to it. Of course it came back negative. Katie was lucky that the in-vitro process had gone so smoothly and worked on the first try. The second contracted wife had tried for 6 years, every three months with no success. The last three years, he had kept her on because his adopted children were quite fond of her. She had surprised him at the end and fought for custodial rights. This retired judge had been sympathetic based on interviews he'd had with the children (despite his protests and much to his dismay) and granted her a certain amount of time each year, still leaning favorably toward his convenience. Katie forgot herself for a minute and thought about going to the grocery store. She still did this all time, momentarily forgetting that any normalcy she'd had prior was gone for now. As she took her seat for the morning briefing to be followed by hair, make up and wardrobe ( every style, shade of lipgloss and even undergarment pre-approved by him or a representative), Katie took heart. The recent photos of the second wife enjoying elements of mundane and ordinary life gave her hope. It'll be just a couple more years and she would be free.

fiendishness

The naked guy from the intake room turned out to be a homeless epileptic alcoholic guy named John. He was a hard core street dude. His top teeth were missing or decayed. He had a considerable underbite that gave him the appearance of a pirhana with fetal alcohol syndrome. He looked like the stereotypical carny at the local county fair, manning the tilt-a-whirl under the influence of crystal meth and Jack Daniels. It was clear right away that John had no interest in his health. He used the hospital like a spa or resort; for a respite from the street. The entire staff knew him. With the appearance of John, there came a renewed vigilance for the unit rules. Every morning after Personal Care Time (7-8) and Breakfast (8-9) there was Community Group. This was the time for residents to express concerns about conditions(The shower in our room is freezing cold), ask for clarification of policies and procedures(Can my visitors bring me food?), be reminded of unit rules (You must always wear socks or slippers), and set a goal for the day( I would like to complete my written patient history/autobiography for review by my doctor and counselor). In the days Before John (hereafter referred to as BJ) the counselor in charge of Community Group would refer to the written rules posted on the wall and say, "The Community Rules are posted. They should have been reviewed with you upon intake. If you are not familiar with the Community Rules, please take a moment to review them. If you have any questions about the rules, please ask any member of the unit staff and we will be happy to go over them with you." In the days After John (hereafter referred to as AJ), the staff would carefully and painstakingly read and give examples of each rule. They were especially hyper-vigilant in their explanations of Rule #4 (Patients are allowed to be in the rooms to which they are assigned. Patients are not allowed to be in any other room to which they are not assigned. Patients are not allowed to "visit" or socialize in other patients' rooms.), Rule #5(Patients are not allowed to have physical contact. Touching is prohibited.), and an entirely different poster dedicated to all of the rules and regulations pertaining to smoking was read to us verbatim and elaborated upon ad nauseum.
"Wait...Smoking?" you say. "I thought you were in a hospital; a health facility; a facility that should be promoting health; meaning discouragement of smoking."
County Central was one of the last units in the state that still maintained a smoking facility for in-patients on the Psych Unit. BJ, patients were allowed to co-ed smoke; males and females could use the facility together. AJ, the sexes were segregated, which caused a near riot due to one Ashley, the 18 year old "emo" cutter briefly referred to in the previous entry, "me! me!" It seems that smoking in the facility gave some of the male patients the only close proximity they would ever have to the unit ingenue. They were not pleased. Despite her penchant for mismatched thrift clothes (combos of which she wore without washing for days on end) and covering her face with her hair (which was luxuriously thick and blonde and hung to her waist), Ashley was gorgeous. She could have been a model or actress. The best way to describe her would be a blonde, light green-eyed Helena Christensen. She occupied the room with Pearson and I and can only be described as a force. She was on a veritable cocktail of psych meds and made it her mission to be put on more. She spoke in slow motion with a trace of a California accent. "He-ey guy-uys, you-ou know-ow wha-at? I-I'm go-nna te-ell the do-octor that I-I felt be-etter whe-en I-I was on Zo-oloft. I-I be-et he gi-ives i-it to me-e." Sure enough, she would come back from her daily visit with her Psychiatrist with a 'script for her new drug du jour. Ashley was also a non-stop laugh riot. Mid-conversation, she would stand up, wrap her tie-dyed t-shirt around her head, and announce,"Le-et's have a ra-ave!" She would turn the bathroom light on and off rapidly, creating a strobe effect and jump up and down, shaking her ass while imitating a pulsing electronica song, human beat-box style. Pearson and I would be convulsing with laughter in our beds. She aspired to be a writer in the style of Augusten Burroughs. She showed me her journal full of stream-of-consciousness style poetry. She had real potential. When she found out I came to the hospital with no belongings and had nobody to bring any to me, she insisted I use her toiletries instead of the nasty hospital-provided ones. During group, we were somewhat on edge in anticipation of what Ashley might say or do. Once, when asked what she was thankful for, Ashley replied in a faux Georgia accent, "My beautiful ass, my big rack and my gorgeous face!" I will probably never have children, but if I did, I would want a daughter just like Ashley(minus the criminal record). I often think of her and hope she is taking care of herself; not throwing her life away on drugs and boys and her generation's strange brand of trisexuality.
John proved to be an annoyance and a pariah. He knew no boundaries. He would approach the visitors of other patients and ask for favors, such as, "If you're coming up here tomorrow, could you bring me some cigarettes?" This was a blatant violation of the smoking as well as the unit rules. In fact, most of his free time was spent in pursuit of cigarettes. He was like a man obsessed.
Decaffinated coffee was provided in a thermal carafe in the dining area. Patients were allowed to partake as they wished. John drank cup after cup and would ask any unit employee who happened by, "Hey, we're out of coffee here, D'ya think you could get us some more?" as if he was a patron of a diner and these over-burdened degreed mental health professionals were his waitstaff. Toward the end of his stay, we discovered he was leaving group sessions under the guise of getting more coffee or using the restroom, waiting until the counter staff was not looking and sneaking into patient rooms to steal. I knew something in my mind was shifting when I was capable of wanting to punch this asshole in the face.
"How do you feel?" asked gentle Karen.
"Something's going on, my meds must be kickin' in 'cause that fucker's startin' to piss me off." I nodded toward John who was deep in some kind of untoward conversation with Angela. There was something going on with John and Angela's visitors. I had a feeling they were bringing in more than cigarettes for John.
To be continued.

pen-sive

Dear Unit Director,

As a patient on the Crisis Stabilization Unit, I feel you should be made aware of the subject matter of a recent Patient Education Group, conducted by Unit employee, Mimi.
The topic of the discussion as introduced by Mimi was "Sexuality." What ensued was a largely Judeo-Christian influenced plea for abstinence from casual sexual encounters as well as masturbation. During the discussion, the patients were regaled with tales of Mimi's failed marriage. We were also made privy to Mimi's struggles with resisting the temptation to masturbate as well as how long she has remained celibate (8 years). Mimi referred to us as sinners at least twice, and wrapped up her presentation by informing us that she knew where she was going when she died. She then asked the group, "Do you [know where we are going when we expire]?" Not only was the subject matter and the religious context objectionable, the forum was uncharacteristically one-sided. Most group leaders encourage an interactive discourse that seems to be more beneficial for all attendees.

Thank you for your time and consideration,
Katherine

approaching hopeless

We once again interrupt the regularly scheduled programming to wax depressive about the significance of today.
There's nothing like a holiday to make a somewhat isolated person slide backward onto the downward spiral to despair. Socially significant events magnify the lifestyle differences that exist between me and the family members that I:

• still speak to
• live in proximity to
• maintain obligatory yet tenuous relationships with

That grand total would be 3; my insane borderline histrionic mother, my poor beleaguered stepfather and my dear Aunt Peg.

I remind myself to be grateful for everything I have. I know there are people who have suffered terrible tragedies. I know there are people who have so much less.

I think it is in our nature to seek understanding. I think it is in our nature to want connection with our families. In the absence of connection, people turn to acts of depravity. I don't know why addiction goes to the place where the void exists and replaces it for just a minute. What intelligent designer wired us that way?

vagrancy vacancy

Like any small isolated community with limited resources, we of the unit were very interested in newcomers. Suddenly, there would be a flurry of activity at one particular door. Unit counselors would suddenly brandish large rings of keys. Security guards would appear behind the counter conferring with social workers. One counselor would call out to another, "We got three comin' up! One female, two male!" Paperwork and files would change hands. Sometimes the door would open enough to get a glimpse of the "Intake Room." Usually the unit therapist/counselor/social worker would sit with their back to us. One or more people would be around the table. Sometimes it was difficult to guess which was the new patient.
Lenny and I were sitting next to each other on the couch when the Intake door swung open. Lenny turned to look, "We got a new one." I would have turned to look but that would have required me to turn most of my body 180 degrees. Besides, I was engrossed by Lenny's left hand. It was resting on his knee. Which was close to my knee. He had those good mannish hands; thick fingers, wide nail beds, sturdy thumbs, tan and sorta calloused. Very nice.
"Male or female or transgender?" I asked.
"Whatever it was, it looks like a male now." Lenny was funny.
"Looks like you've got a roommate, my friend." I teased him. He had been on the unit for four days with no roommate. That was the equivalent of Five Star accommodations by Psych Ward standards. We were all envious. Roomates could be...well, ooky. On a previous hospitalization, I was placed in a room with a detoxing heroin addict. She did nothing but lay stock still in bed, then suddenly bolt upright and into the bathroom to violently hurl. The entire room smelled like vomit and I woke up every couple of hours during the night to the sounds of her wretching. I don't understand how this was conducive to my stabilization. The worst part was the bathroom situation. I am unable to go to the bathroom (translated; defecate) in public. It just won't happen. Once on a business trip, the company had the rather debasing policy of rooming employees together. I did not go to the bathroom from Sunday until Friday.
"I think he's naked." Lenny was looking back into the room.
"Whaaa?" I almost turned, then thought better of it. I didn't need to see that.
"Seriously, he didn't have a shirt on. I couldn't see under the table, but he's definitley nekked from the waist up." Although he commented on this, he was unphased. For a first-timer, Lenny wasn't particularly freaked out by anything or anybody in this place; not even Angela.
Angela was an old black lady who took over every group meeting. No matter what the subject, Angela had something to contribute and contribute and contribute. Once she raised her hand to share. The counselor acknowledged her. She proceeded to tell us that she suffered from 'incomptenence'. She was going to strike it rich designing a product called "Body Plugs." They would be like tampons for incomptenence. She said that men could benefit from using them as well by eliminating ..."them skid marks they always be havin' up in they drawahs, you know how they be havin' them skid marks. 'Cos they be nasty as hail. And gay mens, too. In case they be dribblin' or somethin'. " She said they would be available in designer colors like purple. She had a passion for purple. That's why she wore something purple every day. If you owned an item that happened to be purple, Angela would ask if she could have it. At another meeting, she told us about the horrendous abuse she suffered at the hands of her father. One story was about how he would often put them in the car and drive head on into oncoming traffic, swerving away at the last possible second. She and her siblings had planned to murder him, but he left before they carried it out. Tears streamed down her face and fell onto her sweatshirt when she told us about dreaming of being a big strapping man who could have beaten her father to protect her siblings. Instead, she tried to place herself between him and the younger ones. After that meeting, where I had been moved by her story, I overheard her ask Dave, "Hey, Hey, baby...how big is your stuff? Cos you be lookin' bi-ig to me. Whatch you, 8? Is you 8? Is you biggah?"

funny puppy thing

We interrupt the hospital storyline to bring you this very funny puppy story;
Today I was sitting on my kitchen floor, playing with Henry when I passed audible gas. Henry immediately stopped chewing his toy and spun his head around to check his own bottom.

saving patient leonard

Every day at five o'clock, the dinner cart was rolled down to the dining area. Meals were the only time we could exercise any control over our day. We ordered our meals for the next day at breakfast. A Xeroxed paper was presented to us with a stubby dull pencil. On the paper was the next day's menu options. Caffeine and chocolate were strictly prohibited. They messed with your sleep pattern as well as the efficacy of certain meds. The menu was standard hospital fare, low on the quality and heavy on the simple carbs. If none of the options were appealing to you, there were write-in options; basic items like sandwiches and bags of chips. The homeless people ordered menu options and wrote in extras. For example, Dominic would circle one of the entrees, write in "(1) cheeseburger (1) turkey sandwich (3) bags of chips" in the space provided, and continue circling other options and ordering multiple beverages and condiments. His meals often came on two trays. Anything I didn't eat I offered to Dominic and he took it. As you can imagine, meals become very important in the absence of normal existence; freedom.
The front wheels of our dinner cart appeared in the doorway of the Group Room. Like Pavlovian dogs we all sat watching it. Usually the Group Leaders would wrap up quickly upon a meal cart arrival. Mimi continued on her quest to convert us to born again virgins. She finally wrapped up by looking at us imploringly and stating, "I will not waste my sexuality on just anybody. I will wait for my knight in shining armor. That's right, I'm holding out for a hero! I know where I am going when I die. Do you? (I swear on my life and the life of my puppy- she said this.) Enjoy your dinner."
Dave muttered, "Good Luck, lady." and we filed out the door.
I turned to Leonard and said, "You weren't buying that right wing nut job's load of shit, were you?" He fixed his eyes above my head and said, "Actually, I think she had a lot of good points. The things she said...about stuff that guys do...maybe if I hadn't done that stuff, my girlfriend wouldn't have left me." I dropped the subject. Lenny had been on the unit for 3 days. He'd had a few too many and announced to his fellow patrons of his favorite bar that he intended to jump off a bridge onto the I-88 tollway. He worked in the trades, was a rabid White Sox fan, looked like a tall version of Edward Norton (the American History X actor, not the Honeymooners guy), was very extroverted and very typical in his regular guy-ness. When Lenny "shared" in Group, it was usually about his girlfriend leaving him and how it was all his fault. I think this was his first foray into introspection, not to mention anything "mental health" related. He was three days sober and obviously highly suggestible. Later, over our dinner of write-in grilled cheese sandwiches, I told Pearson, "We may have to de-program Lenny."
"No way. You think he was listening to that?" Pearson was such a great kid. On her first day, I could not understand why she was in the hospital. She had an easy smile that never seemed to be off her face. She was smart and had great social skills. She made me feel welcome and I was there prior to her. In groups, she spoke about her depression and anxiety matter-of-factly. It wasn't until almost a month later, while we were in the Partial Hospital Program, that she pulled up her sleeve and showed me. Hundreds of lines covered her fair skin from wrist to elbow. In varying shades of pink and red, faded to vibrant, old and new, smooth and scabbed, all horizontal, some slightly diagonal, all approximately the same size. They overlapped in curious patterns. Like a scar tissue scorecard; every hurt, every stress, every disappointment tallied up, for life.
"Oh, yeah he was." As if on cue, Mimi and Lenny appeared in the hallway, deep in conversation. I nodded in their direction. "Check it out."
Pearson turned to look. She turned back with an exasperated expression and nodded. "We'll get him after night meds." she said with her eyes narrowed in a conspiratorial fashion.
"Night Meds" were distributed after the last Group Meeting of the day around nine p.m. We were allowed to watch television in the Community Room until 11 p.m. From 9 until 11, the atmosphere of the Community Room became increasingly more festive as the sleep medication kicked in. The first night I took my sleep meds, I suddenly sat up and asked, "Do you guys feel like you have hats on your heads? I feel like I have a little hat on my head." Then I wished them all a good night and stumbled to my room, singing. I have no recollection of this.
Fortunately, we didn't have to wait for Lenny's salvation. Lenny and I were visitor-challenged. I didn't want any visitors. I didn't tell anybody where I was. I didn't call anybody. I didn't care if I ever saw anybody again. I had concocted a rock solid suicide plan for when I got out, so it made no difference anyway. I didn't need anybody around "guilting" me into sticking it out. Lenny's friends consisted of the guys he worked with. He recently got fired for taking "side jobs." These are jobs done on a tradesperson's own time, supposedly with their own materials, for a fraction of the price. The employers feel that the job should be referred back to the company. Taking a side gig is seen as cutting in on the company's business. Truthfully, most owners/employers look the other way. This kind of thing is a given in the trades. However, if you come to work hung over too many times or if the boss is looking for a reason...you just gave him one. None of his work friends knew Lenny was on the unit. His girlfriend was currently packing her belongings. Despite all of Lenny's self-flagellation, it seemed she took off whenever the finances got tight. I pointed this out to Lenny as we sat together in the Community Room during visiting hours (6-8), "Lenny, you say she left when you were layed off. She left during your apprenticeship when you weren't making that much dough. She left when you were injured. She's leavin' now. Do you see a pattern, here?" He considered it. "What does she do?" I asked.
"Whaddya mean?" he countered. He was actually tearing up. His eyes turned from blue to aqua as his face reddened.
"For a living...does she work?" I was snarky. Lenny was a cute guy.
"No...she was going to school...for a while...but I didn't care! I told her she didn't have to work!" Lenny was defensive.
"Uh-Huh!" I said. Snarky, Snarky, Snarky. He was tall. Basketball tall. "Lenny, I'm gonna be honest with you. You won't be alone for long. You're a cute guy. You make decent money. You're tall. Chicks'll be all over ya." Lenny had been kind of hanging his head. Looking down, under the table as we talked. He smiled a little when I said this. It slowly spread until even his eyes were smiling.
"Thanks. Thank you." He held his head high. "Well," he said as he stood up, "I think I'm gonna go take a shower while my roomate's out of the room....." he paused in the hallway at his door, "so I can do that masturbation thing!"
Lenny was back in the fold.

me! me! me! the trilogy trifecta

"We are all sinners. Everyone here, including myself...a sinner." Mimi was channeling a television evangelist. I wasn't laughing anymore. The base humor of the "spoofed" comment had worn off. I was stunned silent. This woman had opened the meeting with the generalized "men have hurt me" statement. She proceeded to introduce a completely inappropriate topic full of fundamentalist undertones. She'd assumed and declared Pearson and I to be naive or promiscuous or both. Now, she was blatantly pushing a conservative Christian agenda onto a room full of mentally ill people (who were not even here on our own volition). Although the situation was still ludicrous to me, I was wondering if I should be offended. Imagine this happening to a group of cancer patients.
I didn't leave because I knew this show wasn't over yet. I had to see how far she was going to take this. She proceeded to tell us of her failed marriage, which she blamed entirely on her ex-husband. She described him as a wildly successful mechanical genius who was unable to give her emotional support. She went on to describe his blunt affect and lack of social skills. I raised my hand and asked her if he was ever evaluated for Asperger's Syndrome. His symptoms seemed textbook clear. She looked puzzled, then irritated, finally she threw her hands in the air and yelled, "WHO CARES!?!"
Aha. I suspected Mimi had no mental health credentials.
Mimi went on to explain that her marriage was based upon the physical aspect of sex. The marriage had failed because the sex wasn't satisfying. They were not fully experiencing the sex. The image of the Miminator fully experiencing the sex with the Asperger's geek was at once repulsive and morbidly hilarious. Sexual satisfaction, explained Mimi (by way of her Fundamentalist Christian Counselor, I assume) was a three dimensional experience. The three dimensions of sexual satisfaction were Physical, Emotional and Spiritual (disclaimer/notice: this part of the discussion could have some merit. I am not completely opposed to this idea). If you were not experiencing sex on all three dimensions, you were not satisfied. This, according to Mimi (and her cult leader, no doubt) was why people looked to other means such as masturbation, pornography, and adultery.
Dave saw a way to liven up this discussion. He'd been on the ward for 23 days. He had to create entertainment where he could find it. "Awww, what's wrong with a l'il pornography?" he said. For the first time in the four days since I arrived, I saw a bit of life in his eyes. At this, Mimi leaned her buxomness over the table toward Dave. "If you used pornography during your marriage, you did not love your wife." Pearson and I were shocked. Dave spoke lovingly of his wife at every possible opportunity. As sure as Dave loved heroin, he had loved that poor dead coke addicted woman. "Oh, no...I did love my wife...very much so!" Dave actually looked hurt. "No, Dave, you could not have loved your wife if you indulged in pornography. She... never... had... your... heart." When she said the last bit, she brought her fist to her heart like Celine Dion working Ceasar's Palace. Who was this crazy bitch? Why were we being subjected to this?
Mimi told us that any sexual act not experienced with a spouse was ultimately unsatisfying because it could not meet the three dimensional criteria. "That is why masturbation should be avoided." she said. Then, she dropped the bomb, "I understand the temptation. I have been celibate for eight years. I, too, have done the masturbation thing."
I was sure that Pearson and I were in solidarity on this latest bit of Meemster-disclosure. I decided to check in with Leonard. I turned to look at him. He didn't return my look. His eyes looked a little glazed over. His expression was serious...interested, even. I couldn't believe it. He was buying it. She had gotten Lenny.
"The only way to abstain from the masturbation thing is to create accountability, and to make the experience less pleasurable. There are three things you must do when you are tempted to do the masturbation thing. First; you must leave the lights on. Second, you must keep your eyes open. Third, you must not fantasize." She was writing this on the board as she spoke; '1. Lights on!, 2. Eyes Open!' etc. . "Now, I want to talk about accountability. You must find an abstinence partner."
Huh?
"An abstinence partner is a friend, who might be in the same situation as you, who may also be struggling with the masturbation thing. Whenever you feel the temptation to do the masturbation, you call up your friend and say, 'You know, man, I really am tempted to do this masturbation thing' and this is the kind of friend who'll say,'C'mon over. Let's have some coffee and talk about it' and that is what an abstinence partner is."
Tune in again for the riveting conclusion.

me! me! part deux

At this point I think I should describe Mimi. Mimi is approximately 5'4". She is heavy in a solid way, in a Nebraska or Dakotas way. She wears clothing that would be found in the Women's Career Wear section of a Kohl's Department Store or an anchor store of a "B" or "C" rate shopping mall; JC Penney, Sears, the Carson Pirie Scotts located in lower-tiered markets, etc. On this day she was wearing black pants of a wool/rayon blend. They were definitely lined, because you could hear the swishy swishy sound when she walked. They were easily a size too small and pleated. The pleats were beginning to strain. The waist was so tight, it created a protrusion/shelf/ledge of fat all around the top. Her shirt was a shiny black scoop neck knit. The scoop did not reveal any cleavage but did show some of the tiny moles that spring up on the necks of post-middle aged women (dermatologists call them "tags", I think). The smoothness under her garments suggested heavy duty control top hosiery, full girdle from high on the waist to the knee, full paneled wide strapped brassiere, etc. Atop the knit was the regulation working woman's blazer; forest green, wool/rayon blend, shawl lapels, and black plastic buttons that weren't even trying to imitate horn; just shiny black plastic. The jacket was double breasted, but she wore it open and by anybody's calculations, the buttons and their designated holes would never be in the vicinity of meeting. She wore a yellow gold necklace with a pendant of some sort and a pin on her lapel that looked like falling autumn leaves. Her hair was short; slightly longer on the top, parted in the middle, faded dye job with 1/8 inch of gray roots exposed. She wore wire framed glasses. Her shoes were old school all black Reeboks. You could mistake her for a lesbian. Especially if you're from a coast. Many women in the midwest resemble lesbians. When women in the more rural parts of the midwest begin to age, they cut off all of their hair, stop wearing makeup, gain weight, put on sensible shoes, warm coats, comfortable pants and the like, and get busy resembling lesbians. My mother has worn her hair in a version of the bleached Joe Pesci/Susan Pouter hairdo for a couple of years now. In Chicago, she would look like an old lesbian. In our hometown of Palookaville, she's quite a trendsetter.
Overall, Mimi looked uncomfortable. She labored a bit when she walked. Her torso tended to lean forward in an exaggerated way like she was a pack dog struggling against the weight of the sled. The back of her moved independantly from her front. It looked like it was jostling along, trying to keep up.
Stay tuned.

me! me!

Between the hours of four and five, patients on the Crisis Stabilization Unit were supposed to attend Patient Education Group. As I am usually a compliant sort, I went down to the Group Room at the end of the hall and took a seat between my roommate, Pearson, a cheery 20 year old cutter, on the right and the cute alcoholic guy, Leonard, on the left. Dave sat next to Leonard. Dave was a former millionaire who had made his fortune owning a bar and selling boats in a resort town on Lake Michigan. He became a heroin addict. After his wife died (slammed her Cadillac through the garage while having a cocaine induced heart attack), the Daveman went to Las Vegas to recreate the lifestyle of the Nicholas Cage character in the film 'Leaving Las Vegas'. He planned to drink and snort heroin and indulge in hookers until he died. He ran through all of his cash and found himself still alive despite his efforts. He currently divides his time between the hospital, heroin binges and suicide attempts. Given his history, Dave always conducted himself as if he were hosting a party. His wardrobe consisted of cargo pants and Hawaiian shirts. In late September. In Illinois. He greeted every female with "Good Morning, Sweetheart!" or "Gonna join us for lunch, beautiful?" The guys received handshakes or robust back slaps.
When Karen came in to join the group, Dave greeted her with his favorite female salutation, "Hey, Dolly!"
Our Group Leader for this hour was Mimi. She immediately said, "Is your name Dolly?" to Karen.
Karen replied no.
"If her name isn't Dolly, why are you calling her that?" Mimi asked Dave.
Dave in his usual cloudy way, responded, "It's a term of....an expression of..."
"Endearment" I said. Dave pointed to me and nodded vigorously.
"He calls us all Dolly. You will probably be Dolly soon enough." I said to Mimi.
"OOOhh, No, I won't." said Mimi in a grave overdramatic way. Then she turned to Dave, "You better not call me Dolly, because I have been very hurt by men in my life."
I exchanged a look with Pearson. We had a feeling we were in for some very interesting Patient Education.
"Before we start, I would like to ask the group a question." said Mimi. "If you believed something, and it wasn't true, would you want to know?" Around the table, there were shrugs, head nods, vague acknowledgements.
"Our Education Group today will be about Sexuality." Mimi wrote "Sexuality" on the board.
Pearson and I exchanged looks again. Across from us, Dominic, a coke addict, made a wheezy sound. Dominic always wheezed, (probably because he looked like he could fall over dead at any minute. His eyes were always half closed, and his mouth hung open with his tongue partially hanging out, and his teeth were just horrible; yellow, black, missing, crooked. He was emaciated with a huge head.) but this was an intentional wheeze. A sort of "Pshaw!" wheeze. We looked at him and he rolled his eyes under the heavy wrinkled lids and shook his head atop his toothpick neck. He was 45. He looked 70 except for his stylish haircut. He had good hair and he was workin' that one last remaining feature for all it was worth.
"Your sexuality is your most precious posession." Mimi was looking at us as if she was going to burst into tears. "But, so often, we just throw it away...instead of waiting for a commitment." What the hell? This was a county, not a faith based, hospital. I did a mental inventory...have I seen any nuns? statues of the Madonna? lifesize depictions of Christ on the cross? those pastel portraits that make Jesus look like a very pretty homosexual hippie with shiny long hair? No, no, no, no. None of those.
"I don't just mean with meaningless trysts with others...I am also talking about masturbation."
Karen, a gentle, quiet soul, rose soundlessly from her seat and floated out the door.
Ashley, the 18 year old "emo" cutter who usually sat with her waist-length hair covering her entire face, clamped her hand over her mouth and laughed out "EXCUSE ME!" before running out.
Dominic sputtered and wheezed and declared "This is not what I am here for!" and made a dismissive gesture with his oversized hand attached to a filament of an arm as he left.
Mimi continued to extol the virtues of celibacy. When Pearson and I couldn't control ourselves and tried unsucessfully to hide our laughter, she pointed to us and shouted, "Laugh all you want, ladies, but you're getting spoofed!" Her choice of the word "spoofed" was too much. Pearson and I laughed openly and didn't try to hide the looks of disbelief and hilarity on our faces. The situation was too ridiculous. We didn't know that the worst was yet to come.
To be continued.

shrink snarkiness

I met with my new psychiatrist yesterday. I have to describe him. He looks like a Steve Martin parody of a psychiatrist, complete with the graying hair. He was wearing chocolate brown suede crepe soled shoes, black pants, white shirt and a maroon cardigan with a little fire breathing dragon (?) where an alligator or polo player would normally be. It seems as though I have seen the fire breathing dragon logo before, but it was still a surprise. Back in the early 80's there was a boom on these logo polo shirts. The "preppy" trend was still in full force in the midwest. For those of us who couldn't convince our parents that an alligator or polo guy was absolutely necessary, there were unicorns, ducks, tigers (or "le tigre" to be exact), J.Crew had an "oarsman", and so on. The cardigan had to be from this era. He also had on a red tie (red with maroon, black with chocolate, Good Lord, man!) with Santa Claus heads all over it, and a tie pin. The tie pin was gold plated with a round garnet-esque stone. Now, mind you, this was not done in an ironic Rivers Cuomo, indie rock nerd chic kind of way. This guy was dead serious about this outfit. The dragon, the Santas, the pin were earnestly put together. The effect produced a similiar response as when I see pictures of Karl Lagerfeld. This guy designs? This guy designs for Chanel? This guy practices psychiatry? He's obviously undiagnosed, himself.
He was over half an hour late for the appointment. He had the annoying habit of asking a question, not allowing me to answer, and asking another question. He contorted his head around not unlike Joaquin Pheonix performing as Johnny Cash as he talked. He then had the audacity to re-ask the questions that he had previously not allowed me to answer. While I spoke he organized his papers, read and discarded scribbled-on post it notes, opened his desk drawer and inspected it intently, shuffled and restacked manilla folders, etc. It was completely unnerving. I am already vacilating between irritable and exhausted. You can imagine.
His office was ridiculous. Files and folders and papers stacked on every available inch of desk, the adjoining window ledge, across the floor to the wall. This was how my apartment looked right before my most recent hospitalization.
When we had concluded the session, he spun his chair so that his back was to me and pushed off, gliding across the office until his chair rested at a point just ahead, but next to mine. He stuck out his hand for me to shake it. I reached for it and he pulled it away. "Do you have any questions?" he asked. "No, thank you. " I replied. He produced his hand again. I hesitated then shook it. He told me that I didn't "show my depression." I told him the wailing and gnashing of teeth were over for now. My mental illness is no longer a novelty. I have lived with it my whole life. Unless I am in the midst of a major episode, I plod along. Mental health pros are an odd lot. I might do a series of entries about the strangest ones I've encountered.

mind probe monday

Today I have the double whammy psychiatrist/psychologist back to back appointment marathon!(Monday on the All Psych Network! Don't have the All-Psych Network? Contact your cable service provider NOW!)
I think Henry Miller said the cure for depression was $500. Meaning that if you had disposable income of $500, you wouldn't be forced to sit around lamenting about your lack of discretionary funds. Now, HM said that back in the 30's; so, $500 then would probably need to be a few grand today. I think he was on to something, but I have indulged in a fair amount of retail therapy in my lifetime and it only gave momentary relief. Not to say I don't enjoy some of my more extravagant purchases; my ridiculously expensive bed, my dog, etc. I still experience a fair amount of depressive symptoms. I just get to lay in a very nice bed with a very nice blanket over my head and cry into a very nice pillow all day. At my most depressed, I didn't want to leave the hospital. I was having a completely serious self-dialogue about the possibility of living in a hospital for the rest of my life, and how I could make that happen. They have the absolute worst beds and bedding save for prisons in the Ukraine, perhaps. The showers are disgusting. Nothing about the hospital is nice. Yet, I wanted to remain there for eternity at one point. I found the routine and lack of stress comforting, Also, I could remain alone and yet not completely alone. I could have interesting discussions with the staff and other patients yet not be invested in these situations because the parameters of the relationships were clearly defined. The patients were all temporary. The staff could only be so friendly. I like that. See previous post,"null and void are best friends."
I am caught up in a vicious circle of being uncomfortable with people but being depressed due to lack of contact with people.

hey sistah, go sistah, soul sistah

I work with a girl, Maria, whose sister is a hooker. Now, she's not the street-walkin', crack addicted, wearing underpants as normal attire, approaching cars on 64th and Halsted kinda hooker. She's the posh hotel, plastic surgery addicted, LaPerla wearin', high end escort service, financial district kinda hooker. Maria was quick to point out this distinction. Maria didn't actually tell me this; her blabber mouth sister-in-law did and quite abruptly. Maria blushed and said, "She works for an escort service." She said it as if hoping I was one of the four remaining people on earth who thinks "escort" means just that.
There is always a point in every relationship; co-worker, friend of a friend, new friend, neighbor, anybody, etc. wherein one has to explain certain family members. "How many siblings do you have?" somebody asks while trying to make conversation or determine your birth order so they can justify your bossiness or attention-seeking or rigid moral code. "Ahhh, a middle child...Needs attention."
This one question turns into another and then another and there you are; considering,"Do I tell them or do I leave it vague?"
I have a brother who is, for all intensive purposes, a criminal.
"What does your brother do?"
"He works at a Correctional Facility in Illinois." It's not really a lie. It's not. Really. He does work while he's incarcerated; sometimes it's on his horrible tattoo collection, his pectoral muscles, his letter writing skills or fundraising for his commissary account or legal defense fund.
"...And he's a student." It's true. He does research on how to be a better criminal. His last batch of counterfeit money fooled almost every bartender in town. Almost.
"What does he study?" what else?
"Criminology."
I have another brother who's a wake-n-bake homeless dude. This is trickier. "How is Stephen?"
"Oh, you know Steve....."
"What is he doing these days?"
"Well, you know Steve...He loves to travel..." He does travel...from a friend's couch to another friend's basement floor to another friend's dad's abandoned camper.
"...He also has quite a green thumb; spends a lot of time gardening." He would have had quite a lucrative hydroponic weed enterprise if his friend's trailer home wouldn't have been raided. I guess the blue-tinged light constantly illuminating the double-wide alerted the police.
"Has he always been interested in gardening?"
"Heck, yeah. Since he was a teen." Mom regularly inspected all of her indoor plants for marijuana seedlings. My Dad made routine sweeps of the wooded acre behind our house to remove larger plants.
"Where's he living now?"
"Gosh, you know that Steve, he's hard to keep up with. He had a place near the beach (read: van in parking lot) but he found a place he liked better near the hospital (read: local homeless shelter)."

god rest ye merry puppy butts

As Henry is still young and this is his first holiday season (Please don't turn us into the fundamentalists for saying "holiday" I really do think we should respect the religious differences of all.) I am helping him assemble little gifts for his friends. There's Cooper, the full grown Corgi, who lives downstairs and tolerates Henry very well. Truth be told, I bought Henry because I am absolutely in love with Cooper. He is the sweetest dog ever. There's Leni the daschund who is very sleek and always attired fashionably, owned by my dear friends down the street. There's Zsa-Zsa the bug-eyed mostly Pomerianian-mix next door, who wears a rhinestore headpiece and a little collar adorned with bells. And last but not least, there's Tito and Juno, Henry's chihuahua vatos,who live with my friend of 20 years. Each dog is getting a small bag filled with biscuits, treats, dental chews, a small toy and a "Curious George" holiday card, signed with love from Henry. As Henry is a very liberal and accepting sort, he also has friends of the feline variety. Lily and Scout live with Cooper and will be getting small bags filed with cat-appropriate treats and 3 tiny catnip filled mice.

cyclone thigh mick

I have been under the care of psychologists and psychiatrists for eight years. I have tried seven medications, alone or in combination. I suspected mental illness ran rampant in my family so I started to read anything psychology-related when I was quite young. Insomnia has been a problem for me since I was a small child. I remember staying awake long after everybody else was asleep, creating plays and television shows with my stuffed animals. I started watching Saturday Night Live when I was five. (What five year old is awake at 11:30 p.m.? And alert enough to know John Belushi is her favorite castmember? JB died when I was 11. I heard the news as I was walking home from school and literally sat down on the sidewalk and cried.) I would often find myself curled into a ball on the floor of the living room in front of the TV as my brothers were coming out to watch morning programs like Ray Rayner.
I've realized that there is a seasonal pattern to my disorder. I have periods of high efficacy in the late winter/early spring that last until mid summer. Organization comes easily. I can go to sleep at a reasonable time. I can get out of bed in the morning. I can work for 12-14 hours with no breaks. I lose weight. I start exercise regimes. When I have been promoted at work, it has always been in spring/summer.
I start to slow down in late summer. I feel increasingly more exhausted. I have problems with concentration and short term memory. I feel overwhelmed with work and taking care of myself. During these periods, my laundry goes undone, my dishes remain in the sink for embarrassingly long periods of time, everything is covered in dust. I crave carbohydrates and fat. I gain weight. Nothing seems worthwhile. I can think of nothing to do that seems pleasurable. Sleep begins at a normal hour, then is interrupted every two hours or so until 2 a.m, when I am suddenly wide awake. I have cleaned my house, read books and written papers for school at 2 a.m. At around 4, I feel drowsy and go back to sleep. When my alarm goes off at 6, I can't get out of bed. I slip into suicidal ideation during these periods. It is common for me to have a plan, supplies, and letters written on hand. When I start to feel better or more rational, I rid my house of anything related to "the plan."
In the past, professionals have always diagnosed me with depression; clinical, major, dysthymic...etc. Recently, after purchasing a DSM IV in an attempt to figure out for myself what is going on with me, I ran across the criteria for cyclothymic disorder. It seems to fit with my pattern.
My new elfin shrink told me about hypo-mania. It doesn't fit the criteria for the manic episodes associated with bipolar disorder. It is a step under the euphoria. As he explained it, it sounds like hyper-efficiency. This could be another diagnostic option. I meet with the psychiatrist on Monday. I want to know if I can manage my illness without pharmaceuticals. I wonder what he will suggest.

panic/relief/panic

I have become the 30 something single female cliche. I alternate hourly between utter despair over being alone and complete relief when I consider intricacies of the relationships of those I know well. I am certain that marriage is obsolete and monogamy was a cruel conspiracy of the monarchy (in cahoots with the church) to stop the spread of venereal disease during the Dark Ages (think about it).
Consider the divorce rate. It is at roughly 100%. We live too long and everybody works. There is no need to stay with one person. Especially if they get too fat or insist on placing the ketchup on the shelf instead of the door in the fridge. I mean, for the love of God, people! Bottles are in the door! It's made that way-for that purpose!
Usually when communication breaks down to that point; arguing over condiments, putting the canned goods in alphabetical order, etc, etc. It coincides with boredom. You've let the routine get stale or the initial hormonal buzz is on the wane. All of the things you knew would eventually get on your nerves, are and with the intensity of a jackhammer. At 5:47 a.m. On a Saturday. With a Hangover.
Now I can't even fathom that kind of annoyance coupled with being all legally bound up; financially and otherwise. I have always managed to destroy relationships before they ever got to that point. I have never co-owned anything with another person. I lived with someone briefly and discussed marriage and even started to plan it (Egads!). We had dated for approximately one year when he initiated the marriage discussion. We decided to move in together to give it a trial run and start to save toward financing the shindig. Disastrous. He immediately stopped participating in the relationship. He stopped all of the thoughtful little demonstrations of affection; taking out the garbage, paying for dates, kissing me goodbye, speaking to me...
One morning, after trudging through the Chicago snowdrifts to procure groceries (one of every chore that was relegated to me) I opened the door to our apartment to find him on the couch, watching Cartoon Network(what was my first clue?). I flipped out. I bounced an economy sized bundle (24 rolls) of toilet paper off of his head, while screaming, "I am not your slave! I am not your slave!"
Later that week, at my shrink du jour, I told her of the incident. I realized that our relationship now resembled an overwrought shrewish single mother to a sullen angsty teenage boy. I told her, "I don't want to be in a relationship that requires me to do all of the work."
Until this point, my shrinky dink had displayed all of the warmth and personality of Lillith, the psychiatrist wife of Frasier from Cheers. Upon hearing this, she took off her glasses, scooted to the edge of the seat and leaned into my face. Her eyes actually took on some fire and she asked me, "What if I told you that the woman always does all of the work?"

king of the mountain

The following is a play-by play of a hypothetical family outing. It is compiled from actual events which took place during our family vacations in the 70's. I've chosen a mountain park as a destination.

Prior to departing for the mountain;
Mom and Dad get into a bitter argument because Dad promised to take us, and then denied any such promise at the last minute.
Second-oldest brother Steve and Dad get into a fistfight because Steve refuses to sit in the back although it is undoubtedly his turn.
Oldest sister Pam bursts into tears because she is afraid she is too fat to climb the mountain and plus she only has one pair of shoes, clunky wooden clogs. My mother tells her, “You are the one that wanted those damn ugly shoes! I told you to get something else, but noooooo! Shut the hell up and get yer ass in the car!”
A 25 minute house search for Lil Kathy ensues. Nobody realized she had been patiently waiting in the car even though she told her sister, mother and father.

At the GasNSip Convenience Mart;
Older brother Steve shoplifts cigarettes, rolling papers and one of those oversized combs that everybody wore in their back pocket.
Oldest sister Pam vomits in the restroom due to motion sickness and bursts into tears.
A 25 minute search of the store, the parking lot and the adjacent wooded lot takes place to find lil Kathy. Nobody realized she didn’t get out of the car.
Brother Jeff is left behind because he was looking at a shoplifted Hustler magazine in the restroom. He is picked up approximately ¼ mile down the road.

At the Mountain entrance;
Dad embarrasses us by complaining about the cost of admission to the guy manning the gate.
Mom and Dad have a bitter argument about finances.
Mom embarrasses Dad by asking the gate guy if we can get our money back because (quote) “…My husband is a god damn cheapskate jackass!”
My father yells at my mother to “Just C’mon, Patsy! Damn!”

At the Mountain;
Dad remains in the parking lot smoking cigarettes and listening to Merle Haggard on 8-track. He claims an old army injury is acting up so he doesn’t have to be seen with Mom, who is currently at her heavy weight.
Steve and Jeff purposely get lost so they can smoke weed and vandalize the men’s bathroom.
Pam bursts into tears at the base of the mountain because she is afraid to climb and already has a blister.
Mom starts up the mountain only to become distracted by picking up litter and rearranging piles of rocks.
Lil Kathy climbs the mountain, comes back down and gets into the car. Nobody notices and a 25 minute search of the mountain ensues.

After the mountain;
Steve and Jeff both claim to be King of the Mountain. A fistfight breaks out after Steve calls Jeff a faggot, and Jeff calls Steve a queer.
Pam weeps silently.
Mom turns around on her knees in the front seat, so that if you were facing the front of our car her ample polyester covered bottom would be on full display. She deftly beats Steve and Jeff into submission while shrieking threats punctuated by obscenities.
Lil Kathy makes faces and obscene gestures to the occupants of other cars.
Dad bitterly argues with Mom about directions and is in turn reminded of his infidelity in 1964.

relevance

After Kurt Cobain blew his head off, I read an interview with Courtney Love in which she said, "I had a prince. Don't think I don't know I had a prince!" Or something to that effect, only more slurred.
Long ago and far way, I had a prince. He was georgeous and brilliant and I think he actually loved me; for whatever that meant to people so young. But, I was a bad bad girl. I was careless with a delicate man (Thanks, Fiona). Although he wanted to remain, I sent him away. I had been sullied by my transgressions. I was no longer worthy of the prince.
He and his life have fared better for it. He met his intellectual peer (a french virgin, no less) and now lives a charmed existence in a picturesque french setting. I googled his name and found his blog. There is picture of him holding one of his children. It is so beautiful that tears immediately stung my eyes.
In reference to our hometown, he recently told me that he was glad he ended up elsewhere. I am glad he ended up elsewhere as well, more than just geographically.

stepgod

"God told me she had that baby." My mother is religious today. No matter that the doctor had determined the delivery date of my wayward niece's illegitimate progeny some months ago. God had delivered the news to my mother.
My mother is fluctuating between barfly and Baptist neo-con hourly. One moment she's dropping "F" bombs and the next she swears that she can see the signs of the apocalypse all around us. Just as alarming, she has lost a considerable amount of weight over the last few months with no change in her eating habits or incorporation of an exercise routine. She replaces household appliances frequently, citing a litany of defects or most frequently complaining that she "...just can't get them clean." She cleans her house every morning and sits in one chair for the remainder of the day so as to not mess anything up. Dishes may never for one moment linger in the sink. They must be washed, placed in a drainer and then washed again in the dishwasher (the second one she's had in two years). In four years, my parents have mortgaged their house three times to keep up with the replacement and re-replacement of virtually every household item they own. They are bankrupt. On the eve of my stepfather's retirement from 40 plus years with the railroad, he is in financial ruin.
"She's toxic." My new pint-sized shrink with the peculiar eyelids says matter-of-factly. "Sounds like bipolar, borderline personality disorder, OCD and some psychotic episodes thrown in." He's right. On all counts.

genesis

"Why don't you just go see someone and take the medication?" One of the most influential people in my life was telling me, without really telling me, that I needed some kind of help. So, I went. I saw someone; a mousy plain-Jane therapist named Amy. I told her of my recent breakup, my history of suicidal ideation, my OCD tendencies. I asked her about medication and she referred a psychiatrist; a no-nonsense Indian woman. She asked only the most perfunctory questions and handed me a prescription for Luvox. I began taking it precisely as described. I did not deviate from my scheduled dose. I began to feel better. Was it the Luvox or my liberation from a disastrous relationship? Was it the Luvox or that my dear friend had moved to the area and I finally had a partner in crime with whom to discover the city? Was it a combo platter of all three? I don't know. Perhaps my neurotransmitters had been dormant for so long that the Luvox was a much needed kick in the ass to get the Seratonin moving around again. I went vegan. I lost weight. Men were looking at me again. I was feelin' fine! I was promoted. I was thrown into a new schedule, new office, new cagey political work situations. I stopped making my appointments with my shrink. I stopped taking my meds as prescribed. My friend started a series of short term albeit intense relationships with recovering alcoholics she met in AA. I had lost my partner in crime. I started to eat garbage again. I saw my psychiatrist. "How much weight have you lost?" she demanded. "Forty pounds." I was proud.
"Do you know that anorexia is a side effect of Luvox?" she asked.
"Uhh, no...I am far from anorexic, I assure you...I have changed my diet..." I stammered.
Why does she seem impatient or angry with me?
"How is your sleep?" she cut me off.
"Well, I wake up throughout the night, usually every couple of hours..."
"How about friends? How many friends do you have?" she cut me off again.
I felt attacked. I felt like I was being interrogated. My eyes filled with tears.
" I have a couple...I guess."
She was staring at me, hard. "Why do you become tearful when I ask you about friends? Why do you have no friends?"
I couldn't answer her. My throat was clenched around a sob.

null and void are best friends

"A person whom one knows well and is fond of..." Sounds harmless enough, no? This was not my experience with friends. Most brought problems. Unnegotiated terrain like compromise, scrutiny, judgment, accommodation, and accountability came along with the title. Strange experiences accompanied friendship. I became more comfortable with being alone very early. Chaos reigned in my childhood homes. Plural. We were a nomadic clan headed up by two very unstable parents. My father never quite caught on that no matter where he went, there he was. At least 13 schools in 6 states lay between kindergarten and high school graduation. Honesty and Integrity were not a part of my family's dynamic. My parents lied to us and each other with such frequency that I thought of truth as situational. Parameters were fluid and could be manipulated with no consequence. My father would often make promises, such as, "Next weekend, we'll go to the circus." The next weekend would come and I would ask when we would be departing for the circus, and my Dad would say,” What circus? I never said that!" Rules were established one day and forgotten the next. One day we reveled in our heathen status and the next week we were being enrolled in Christian schools and forced to wear skirts every day. My mother took on different tones of voice, varying degrees of Southern accent, different mannerisms and behaviors during these times. People were confusing. Coloring books were my refuge. The lines were definite. If you closed the book and re-opened it, the image remained intact. The colors were to stay contained within them. That was a rule that did not change. That I knew for sure.

charlie brown shoes

I was newly 14 and had kissed one other boy. He was 17 and to me, almost like a grown man. He had those heavy drowsy eyelids that partially obscured irises of watery blue-green. When he turned them to me, I felt faint. My best friend and I were convinced he had the same exact nose as Michelangelo’s David. Light seemed to attach itself along the two ridges of flesh created by that divot connecting his nose and upper lip. When I thought he was unaware, I would stare at his full rectangular shaped bottom lip like it was a beacon. He would catch me and I would avert my eyes for fear my heart would literally stop. He was on our pitifully bad football team and had a v-shaped torso which sat atop the prominent upper glutes and thick thighs typical of linemen. His shoulders seemed massive and rocklike. When he spoke to me, he made a show of bending down as if from a great distance (His 6’3” to my 5’4”); casting me in his shadow. Over and over, my mind replays the first time he pulled me beneath him into the cushions of my mother’s couch. He was at least 75 pounds heavier than my 115 pound frame. I was afraid, but there was no way I wanted him to stop. Warm dark water rises slowly and lifts me afloat; I close my eyes and am gently engulfed. I do not struggle in his wake. I am being carried away in a current so subtle it is barely perceptible. My mind approaches serenity, emptiness, but I am not asleep. I am sustained only by these sensations that originate in the core of each of my cells and I do not exist outside of this situation, outside the feeling of his skin, his smell, his mouth, my hand on the back of his neck, in his hair, the weight of him keeping me submerged. There is no concept of time here. An hour could be a minute, several could have passed or none at all. We would emerge, panicked and disoriented in the wee hours of the morning, untangle ourselves from each other and the throw blanket. He would run out while putting on his coat, pause to give me one last look or grin and be gone with a “whump!” of our front door and a blast of cold air and snow. Like debris, suddenly washed ashore, head and shoulders’ gentle collision first, clothing weighted, hung up on small rocks bulrush and driftwood, limbs heavy, only aware of the absence of his weight and heat. Cold air foreign without his dioxide, sound intrudes my ears.