Looking Past the Cracks


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Like everything else, I have a crack in me. I think Leonard Cohen said that the cracks let the light in. I don’t know if anything about schizophrenia is light or a silver lining. I doubt it. I doubt the hallucinations, delusions, anxiety, lack of motivation, voices, psychosis in general, can be seen as positive. I would challenge the person who tried to make light of these things, but that isn’t to say that the crack in me can’t be handled with creativity, with uniqueness, with a type of resilience that makes me, not the crack, shine. Schizophrenia will never be the light, but the things I have faced, the difficulties, the obstacles, can make light of me. I am light. I shine.

Like everything else, I have a crack in me, and although my crack isn’t something I would want for others, I am stronger because of it. I am kinder because of it. I see the suffering of others and don’t turn away. I can meet suffering head-on. I can sit with those who suffer and give them space, hold their hand. I’m no savior. I can’t save anyone. The self must do all the saving. The desire to pass through, to heal, to move on.

Like everything else, I have a crack in me, but I am not the crack. I contain the crack, but it isn’t the sum or total of me. I am compassionate. I am creative. I am spiritual. There is a world inside that contains the crack but isn’t defined or made by it.

Like everything else, I have a crack in me, but I can still sing my favorite song. I can still hold hands with my husband as we walk down the street. I can always write poetry and prose. I can call a friend. I can play a video game and get excited about being one point or fifteen points ahead. I can try harder when I am behind.

Like everything else, there is a crack in me, and it’s not that it is small or insignificant. It’s not that it is hidden or that people can’t see it. It’s not that I don’t need to manage or take care of it. All of those things need to be, but it is that it is a crack, only a crack, not a break, not a missing piece, not a lost part, not smashed or completely broken, ruined of flawed.

Like everything else, there is a crack in me, but there is so much more to this container than the piece that the light can get through. I am an adventurer, a traveler, a human being complete, and full.

Like everything else, I have a crack, but it isn’t the most interesting thing about me at all. Not even close. A crack is a crack, and we all have some. Mine is just this way, and yours is another. Let’s not spend too much time there.  

My Sixth Year Anniversary


Yesterday, I received a notice from WordPress that I started my blog six years ago. That means that I came out publicly with my diagnosis six years ago and started to write about living with schizophrenia.

A lot has changed in six years. When I first started my blog, I was one of only a few dozen people writing about schizophrenia. Now, I see YouTube channels, new non-profits (created by people with schizophrenia), and many Instagram accounts that deal specifically with the illness.

The whole landscape has changed, and I have to say I think this is good news. More people talking about schizophrenia and writing about it and being open about symptoms and what life is like can only have a positive impact on those of us who struggle to live our best life. I hope that increased awareness also impacts treatment for those on the street and in prisons.

To have those who are sheltered and work diligently with therapists, psychiatrists, support networks, and have access to medication, write about our lives helps reduce stigma and stereotypes, but does that translate into a better life for the most vulnerable among us?

It seems that even Hollywood might be taking notice that many people can have dreams, relationships, and get an education, or work while living with a brain illness. The new movie Words on Bathroom Walls is an example of that.

Although we have made incredible progress, I continue to hear stories from those caring for a loved one with schizophrenia that getting treatment is still hard to manage. Law enforcement continues to be first responders during a mental health challenge or crisis.

I’m grateful beyond belief that after six years, more opportunities continue to open up for me, but that doesn’t mean that I think the mental health landscape is beneficial to all those who desperately need treatment.  

As those of us who have support, treatment teams, and can manage to write or talk about our illness (when asymptomatic), I ask for you not to forget those who are in jails and prisons across the country. Prisons are still considered the most extensive mental health facilities in the United States. I also ask you to remember those without shelter who are struggling alone and possibly far away from people who care about them and might be willing to help them if only they knew their location.

It’s great that so many of us can give hope to the recently diagnosed and parents of children who receive the diagnosis and change the old boxes that society had us in. On the day after my blog’s birthday and a life I never imagined I be living (out in the open), I have one request: That all advocates work for a better life not only for those with the most but for those with the very least.

Happy Birthday, A Journey with You: Surviving Schizophrenia.

There is Proof

There is proof that we are still alive. The coffee pot and teapot are in a different place on the counter each morning. Clothes disappear from the closet and end up on the bed or in the hamper. Dishes are removed from the cupboard, stacked in the sink, rinsed and loaded in the dishwasher, then back in the cupboard. Over time, the soap bar gets smaller. Shampoo bottles have less and less shampoo. Razors get dull. A book, magazine, papers are in different places around the room. The quilt on the chair is higher or lower than the day before. The bed has one more bump or crease than it did yesterday.

Plastic containers get placed in the refrigerator and are half full of zucchini, carrots, hummus, salad, rice. The jar of peanut butter has less in it than the day before. Each morning, the fan is in a different position. The soil of the mint plant is damp from a recent watering.

Grease spots come and go on the surface of the stove. A gallon of milk in the refrigerator has less liquid in it than earlier in the week.  An empty bread bag is on top of the trash. The overflowing recycling bin makes it difficult to close the cabinet. The kitchen towels change colors and patterns every few days. Bananas disappear from the counter.

Journals and diaries scattered on the table near the reclining chair get moved daily. The window shades go from closed to open each morning. The tube of toothpaste has less paste in it. There is a new pile of paper on the couch. The remote control is in a different place every day.

There is proof that we are still alive even though we can count the times we have left this space over the last one hundred and fifty days on our toes and hands. There is proof that we are still alive during this global pandemic because each day we wake up and say good morning recognizing and thankful that we are still here.

My Husband is a Badass in an Unexpected Way

The title of this post is the title of my latest essay on Medium. Sorry about the swear word to those of you who don’t like that kind of language. I couldn’t think of a better way to describe my husband and his role in helping me manage schizophrenia and being open and honest about my diagnosis. I hope you will read the essay and clap for it if you like it. The link is here.

Building Up Strength and Resiliency During COVID-19

My husband and I have been home together for 110 days. I can count the number of times we have left our building the past three months on two hands. During this home time, this social distancing time, this “him and me” time, I have been working on myself far more than usual.

When we received the stimulus check, I signed up for virtual counseling with a counselor at BetterHelp. After two months, I decided that it was too expensive and signed up for counseling through my psychiatrist’s office. The counselor I have now works in conjunction with my primary care physician and my psychiatrist. I feel like I have a reliable treatment team in place. I feel like I made a move to do everything I can to reduce symptoms and live a life with as few difficulties as I can reasonably control.

My counselor and I have been working on techniques to lower my anxiety and ways to overcome some medical trauma I have, so I don’t panic every time I need to see a doctor. One of the techniques she is working with me on is to distance myself from my thoughts. What this is, is a way to have my thoughts have less power over my reactions and responses. So, for example, if I am anxious about going to the doctor, I say to myself, “I am having anxious thoughts about going to the doctor.” She said this technique works well for some people, but she asked me to also keep in mind that not everything works for everyone.

A few things that appear to be working well for me are deep breathing exercises ( I do these while doing my morning stretches), and I do them when I find myself tense, tight, and stressed during the day. When I am doing the deep breathing exercises during the day, I imagine tree roots growing from my body into the chair where I am sitting (a grounding exercise I learned in my mindfulness journal). If the tree roots exercise doesn’t start to relax me, I imagine I am wrapped tightly from head to foot in a blanket like we often swaddle babies. While visualizing these things, I focus on my breath and breathe as deeply as possible. Most of the time, I can slow my heart down, and feel the tension that gets all balled up in my shoulders and chest and upper arms start to fade away.

The other technique that is helping me is my writing practice. I used to write whenever I had an assignment for a magazine due, when I thought of an idea for a blog post, when I thought of a poem, or when I was working on an essay that I wanted to pitch to an editor. For the past 40 days, I have been practicing something called Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner. Every morning, I receive a video from her, and she reads a poem then gives a writing prompt. I set my timer and write for 15 minutes as fast as I can. Some days the writing is terrible (and that doesn’t matter), other days I write something I like and want to develop into a blog post, poem, or essay. My writing practice has tapped into many of my memories, and it is a safe place to write how I am feeling and thinking about current events.

We tried to open up our economy in California, but it looks like we will begin closing back down again today. The pandemic has been stressful, continually worrying about getting sick or loved ones getting sick. It has also been stressful to witness the massive division in our country over racism and even over wearing masks. Almost everything on the news is cause for intense worry and concern. These days are full of uncertainty and confusion, but I am working to make myself as strong and resilient as possible in a time when those two things seem necessary to daily survival.

Two New Essays

Well, the title of this post is a little misleading, because one isn’t an essay, it is more like a list-prose-poem. I hope you will read both of them.

The first one is in Courier Newsroom and can be found at this link. I answered the question, “What Does Freedom Mean to You?”

The second one is a note from my writing practice that I posted on Medium. It is called “6 Surprising Things About the Long Days of COVID.”  You can find the link here.

I’ll be posting more soon.

Stay safe.


Join Me On Sunday

I will be a part of the Human Library this Sunday, June 28th. You can find the link to sign up here https://www.facebook.com/events/187531466027255/

The event is run like a library with librarians and books. I will be a book on schizophrenia that people can check out. I will talk for a half an hour about what life is like for me living with chronic paranoid schizophrenia.

I hope that you will come and support me. For those of you who don’t know much about my journey to diagnosis, my daily symptoms, and details about my first psychotic episode and hospitalization, it could be interesting for you.

Please sign up. It is on Zoom, and it is free.

Let me know if you can make it, and if you do, please be one of the people asking me questions. Questions help the presentation go so much smoother.

I will feel more confident with you there!


Why I Started Carrying a Security Blanket Again

My life involves much silliness and playfulness, but I’m not the kind of person who eats ice cream for dinner or builds a blanket fort for self-care. I practice many rituals and routines for self-care, but they all fall under a pretty serious umbrella. For example, I floss my teeth each night, and I make my bed every morning. I take my medication twice a day, I eat five servings or more of fruit and vegetables every day, I stretch most mornings, and at least five to six days a week I carve out a half an hour to do some cardio exercise to strengthen my heart and burn extra calories.

My self-care routines are the fabric of my well-being and mental health. Still, no matter what I try, I can’t eliminate the symptoms of schizophrenia or an anxiety disorder. As a part of my routine, I write in several guided journals each day – a gratitude journal, a prayer journal, a mindfulness journal, and a few others. A couple of weeks ago, one of the exercises in my mindfulness journal was to touch something and concentrate on how that made the skin on my hand feel. I grabbed a piece of the shirt I was wearing and rubbed it between my index finger and my thumb. I concentrated on how the thick cotton felt on my hand. The motion of rubbing the cloth soothed me.

When I finished with the exercise, I decided to cut one of my favorite pieces of clothing, a t-shirt, or dress, or blouse and carry a patch of the material around with me. That way, I could use it to keep my fingers busy and, when necessary, concentrate on the feeling of the cloth to ground me in my body.

When I was searching through my drawers for the perfect fabric, I found a rose-colored scarf that is sheer material with crushed velvet flowers on it. I rubbed the scarf between my index finger and thumb and thought, “This is perfect. The sheer fabric feels light and a little rough, and the crushed velvet is soft and raised and creates little bumps that I can circle with my fingers.”

Since I found the scarf, I have been carrying it around the house with me. I keep it in my recliner when I am writing in my journals or playing on my phone. I take it into the bedroom to participate in Zoom meetings when my husband is on conference calls for work. I wrap the length of it around my left arm at night and hold the end of it in my hand so I can rub it while I am falling asleep. In the middle of the night, if I wake up (which I almost always do), I search for it with my hand because it has unwound itself from my arm. I feel for the flowers of raised material on the lace-like fabric.

I plan to take the scarf with me to my doctor’s appointments because I always have a high level of anxiety when visiting the doctor. Although I call the scarf my second blankie, the first one being the one I had as a baby and carried with me my first year in school and held it while I sucked my thumb. This new security blanket is the perfect camouflage because I can throw it around my neck, and no one suspects that it is a tool to combat anxiety and ground my thoughts in my body. The only sign something is amiss is that it is summer, and a scarf seems like an out of season fashion choice similar to the way this new self-care practice of “carrying a blankie” is out of character for me. I’ll go with it though, because it works but don’t expect to see me having chocolate cake or ice cream for dinner.