Tag Archives: poetry

The Miracle of a Day

25 Sunday Oct 2020

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All-day, it continues. Little blessings like a cool breeze coming through the open window. The light as it shines and brightens the whole room. I enjoy the fresh banana and nonfat yogurt with a cup of tea. The guided journals are encouraging gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. I receive a kiss from my husband, a soft word, some days a love note placed in the red mailbox we bought in the dollar section at Target.

All-day, it continues. A phone call to my parents still alive and doing well even with chronic conditions like Parkinson’s and leukemia. A snack of hummus and pita bread or Ritz crackers out of the box.

All-day, it continues an e-mail from a student saying, “Thank you.” A paycheck from a class I taught arrives in the mail. A text from one of my brothers or a friend. Plans to share a brunch date over Zoom to celebrate a friend’s birthday.

All-day, it continues. The smell of a tree with white flowers blooming just outside my window. A swarm of bees pollinating the plants. A dog barking as its owner plays fetch with it on the grass patch across the street.

All-day, it continues. My favorite pair of sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt with soft cotton plush socks. A poem that I think is profound or beautiful or both. A photograph on Instagram of trees turning orange, red, yellow. The air pollution calculator is on green indicating the quality is good today.

All-day, it continues. Something sweet like oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies or a piece of dark chocolate with mint. My husband’s and my guilty pleasure of Red Vines while watching our favorite comedy series.

All-day, it continues. These little blessings. One pound less on the scale, making my BMI in the normal category. The sight of my toenails painted pink. My husband puts my hair up in rag curls. I finish a workout on the stationary bike. I stretch my body for thirty minutes easing some of the aches and pains.

All-day, it continues. I smell bread baking or the scent of a vanilla candle. I feel fabrics so soft on my skin or the touch of my husband. I see the bay out of the dining room window. I hear music from Pandora or YouTube. I taste fresh food like watermelon, apples, or beets.

All-day, it continues these little blessings that spring up everywhere along with each breath making me want to reach up and grab ahold of the sky.

Let’s Not Forget

12 Monday Oct 2020

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Let’s not forget that, along with a year that many call a dumpster fire, there is still the ocean. Sharks and whales and orcas. I heard that a white orca was off the coast of Alaska. Remember, the orca that carried her dead calf around for two weeks or more? That orca has a new calf. I try to imagine her grief not entirely lifted, but the joy of swimming in the pod with her new baby very much in need of her, and very much alive.

Let’s not forget that chocolate is still delicious or vanilla if you prefer that. Last night we froze pumpkin pie to take out slice by slice whenever we need the comfort of the taste of Fall.

Let’s not forget that we have people who care about our well-being and if we are okay. I’m not doing okay each moment, but I still see each morning I open my eyes as a miracle, a wonder, a gift. How did I make it to fifty-five? That young girl who once smoked a pack of cigarettes a day skipped school, got called into the principal’s office. Teachers were so frustrated they lost their composure and yelled at me in class because they knew I was ditching, and I forgot a pencil or pen to a shorthand class. “Who does that?” My mother-in-law would say. I do. I did. I was.

Let’s not forget that people still say I love you and mean it. People even buy each other coffee or pay for a stranger’s meal.

Let’s not forget that most Americans are kind hearted people who would stop and help someone struggling. Maybe they would assist the elderly with their groceries or help a lost child find their parent.

Let’s not forget we are a people who smile when walking past people on the street, a practice my in-laws from France think is foreign.

Let’s not forget all of this because it adds up, and it’s not nothing.

OUTSIDER AS ADULT

15 Monday Apr 2019

Posted by in Uncategorized, writing

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(My contribution to poetry month)

OUTSIDER AS ADULT

Like in junior high

Dodgeball

Two captains

My peers

Pick my classmates

One by one

With each name called

I pray

My name will be next

It is painful

This process

Whittling down

Students to

Two or three

I am the final

One standing

Not chosen

At all

But placed

On the second captain’s team

A loss

Before the game

Even begins

 

 

Shutting Down the Screen

02 Wednesday Nov 2016

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Sitting in Starbucks, I look out the window at all the people walking down the street. Going where? Places. Faces. Moving. The world is traveling faster than I am. Millions of songs I have never heard. Hundreds of millions of books I have never read. So many countries and cities I have never seen. I can’t keep up. Social media travels so quickly. Food I have never eaten pictured on my newsfeed, along with what is considered “in” regarding popular culture. Trends. Fashion. Politically correct language and scenarios. I am going to slow down, step back and synthesize all that I have learned about people, places, art, changes in our language, our speech, our culture. I can’t incorporate all the information as quickly as it passes by me. I have enough new information to chew on for many years. Enough to help me grow, develop, change. But without a break from the lightning fast speed of all that information I can’t use what I’ve learned. Ideas need to germinate like seeds. I need water and the sun and space and time to breathe. I’ll miss the updates, but I am certain my roots will grow deeper, and my branches will become heavy with fruit from stepping away from the screens and learning to live life without the constant ding of a notification.

Advocacy That Can Change The World

11 Sunday Oct 2015

Posted by in hope, mental illness, schizophrenia, writing

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We received a call that we had missed our life insurance appointment. “I’m so sorry. We’ll be there in an hour.” My husband said into his cellphone.

We arrived at the office, parked the car, and went in to check in at the front desk. “Take a seat he will be right with you.” The receptionist said.

We flipped through magazines for a minute or two and then our name was called. Tyler stretched out his hand to my husband first and then to me. We apologized for missing our early appointment and handed him our life insurance policy.

While Tyler was explaining a new policy he thought we should buy, he asked me, “Are you still writing?”

“I am. I have two blogs now. A personal one and one on Psych Central, and I published a book. I write poetry and articles too – those are harder to get published though.”

“What do you write about?” He asked.

“I write about mental health.” I said.

“I am really into mental health.” He said.

Tyler went on to tell me about how he had just developed a relationship with his father and that he had sought out a counselor. I told him that what I wrote about was discrimination, and that some of it was controversial.

Then I made a decision, and I looked at him and said, “I have paranoid schizophrenia and that is what I write about.”

“Is schizophrenia misunderstood?” He asked.

“From what you know about schizophrenia, would you think that I have it?” I asked.

“No. You aren’t doing anything weird.” He said.

We signed the papers, talked about the new policy, and exchanged addresses for our favorite thrift stores before we left.

Changing over our life insurance policy made financial sense in terms of our future, and it felt good to set that safety net in place, but it also felt good to find the strength and courage to directly tell someone that I live with schizophrenia.

I can write all day and all night about what it is like to have schizophrenia, but that writing may never change what someone thinks they know about the disease – they still may think of asylums and people talking to voices only they can hear.

It is likely that once you’ve met someone with schizophrenia they become your reference point and every time you think of the illness, you will think of that person.

I love to write and give interviews about living with schizophrenia, I think it is important, but I changed a mind today, and that is the kind of advocacy that leaves a lasting impact.

I plan to change more minds, even if it is only one here and one there. I know that may not seem like it is making much of a difference, but we all know it only takes one mind to change the world and we never know the person that is going to create that change. I may have just spoken to him today.

Two Blogs and A Book

09 Friday Oct 2015

Posted by in bipolar, mental illness, schizophrenia, writing

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I have said this before, but I think it is important to say it again, those of us with a mental illness that blog about our symptoms, and our experiences with schizophrenia, anxiety, bipolar, depression, OCD, PTSD, etc. need to take a break from thinking so much about ourselves and our illness every once in a while.  I think our blogs are very helpful, but occasionally we need to think about other people, social issues, and the larger world. Today is my day to think about others, and to go out in the world and live life a little instead of thinking about the fact that I have schizophrenia.  As we all know, we are so much more than our illnesses – we need to say it and live it.  So, I leave you with three things:

I have a new blog up at Psych Central that I hope you will read and leave me a comment on it. I think it is worth the trip over there.

I have a good friend with a new novel out. I am on chapter 6 and it is a really interesting and fun read. If you are looking for a mystery/romance to read while you are sipping your pumpkin lattes, please check out her book. The book is The Black Velvet Coat written by Jill G. Hall. 

Lastly, I have another good friend with a very clever and artistic blog (I love it). If you like words and you like art, you will love her blog. It is found poetry and collage. If you have a minute, pop over there and see her unique work.

From the Universe to the Personal: How Big is Your Worldview?

29 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by in mental illness, schizophrenia, writing

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Two nights ago I stood on the roof of my building with my husband to look at the moon. It was a pinkish orange color. It was the first time in my life that I saw the moon look like a basketball that I could pluck from the sky. My husband thought it looked like a balloon. On every other night that I have seen the moon it is like a flat disc cut out of paper and placed on the sky. Two nights ago, you could see that it was round and full and three dimensional. I was also lucky enough to see a shooting star for the first time in over ten years.

Climate change is a threat to us all. We need to work together to lessen our impact on the environment. We need to pollute less, plant more trees, practice sustainable agriculture, walk more, drive less, stop buying, buying, buying.

There are wars in various parts of the world. People are frightened. People are dying. People are running to save their lives. We need to teach children about peace, harmony and tolerance. We need to curb power hungry people, greed, and extremism.

In the United States the stock market has been falling for over a month. The government may shut down again in a few short days. We owe billions of dollars to other nations. People live in the streets. Children go hungry. We imprison more people than any other country. People don’t have access to the health care they need.

In California there is a drought. There are wildfires. There is supposed to be a heavy rainy season that will bring floods and mudslides. There is always the risk of sink holes and earthquakes.

My mother has leukemia. My husband has an autoimmune disease.

I have schizophrenia.

Schizophrenia: My Brain

15 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by in mental illness, schizophrenia, writing

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My brain. Much of who I am and how I see the world involves my brain. I love the way it puts words together that represent my experiences and my feelings and figures out a way to share those words –blogging, magazine articles, and journals- with the world. I thank my brain. I reveal in the beautiful thoughts it can tell me about people, trees, and the color of your dress- yellow with tiny white daisies. My brain helps me sort through feelings of deep love like I feel for my husband, or grief when I lose someone, or that uplift in spirit when I witness an act of great kindness like someone helping a vulnerable person to find a bus, or get a meal, or pay the extra money they owe but don’t have at the check-out counter in the grocery store. My brain. It is a love and hate relationship. It can trick me with delusions and hallucinations – voices only I can hear. Schizophrenia. I battle with it every day. Everything beautiful can turn ugly in an instant. My thoughts of altruism and joy can turn to thoughts of paranoia, anxiety and fear. I read that schizophrenia decreases your gray matter over time, and so does taking anti-psychotics. That means I may not always be able to put complex ideas together. I may forget more than just the name of a television show I watched last week. I may forget what I did yesterday, or the day before, or important dates, or people’s names. I don’t get to choose how my brain will deteriorate but it is almost certain that it will at least in some capacity. How to love and hate a brain at the same time? How to thank it for the happiness and curse it for the psychosis? How to celebrate and use it to its full capacity while it is still strong? I need to document. I need to research. I need to read. I need to work my brain and show what it is capable of so that when I lose a piece or a part of it, I have proof for myself that it once a sharp organ with great flexibility that gave me endless hours of pleasure. To say good-bye to a piece of yourself that you may not even be able to realize is gone but others will is to swim in a sea of deep water where you can’t even see to your feet.

A Voice That Makes No Sound

10 Thursday Sep 2015

Posted by in bipolar, hope, mental illness, schizophrenia, stigma

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In the past couple of weeks I have seen many jokes on Facebook about the year 2015 being the year that people were offended by everything. I have to admit it is hard to keep up with all that is offensive to others. Recently, a white poet, used an Asian pseudonym to try to get some poems that he was having difficulty placing, published. It worked. He got the poems published and he was included in the prestigious anthology of Best American Poetry of 2015. The poetry world is currently in an uproar and calling this incident “yellow-face” named after the very racist costumes some people wear and paint their faces black (called black-face). Some poets are saying he should be taken out of the Best American Poetry anthology. There are articles about it on many blogs and it even made it into the Washington Post. Many writers think this poet’s choice of an Asian pen name is insulting, wrong, and many other negative things.

When I was much younger, and before I got sick, I used a man’s name to write some articles for a journal that I published. I knew that throughout history women had taken the names of men in order to write. I thought nothing of the practice, and I doubt anyone would question me if I did the same today, but if you chose an ethnic name, you very well may destroy your career if you are found out.

Personally, I am not outraged by this poet. I don’t see what he did as wrong or as a major offense, but I can assure you, I am in the minority of writers on this issue.

I do, however, feel the same offense many writers are feeling about this issue, in regards to much of what I read about mental illness (like the article I posted yesterday, that didn’t offend many but made me so angry I couldn’t respond until the next day).

I could try to write an article that defended that poet, but I am not jumping into the ring on this one. I am not Asian. It is not for me to say whether or not using an Asian name to try to increase your chances of publication is offensive. If it is offensive to Asian people, I trust their experience. It is not offensive to me personally, but that doesn’t mean it is not offensive.

This is the battle I go through every day. Many articles that I come across that are written about the mentally ill are extremely offensive to me. I don’t expect everyone to take the same level of offense as I do (often they don’t hit my husband as hard as they hit me, and I know many other people who feel the same way). But it is my voice, and the voice of other people who are mentally ill, that matter in that situation. Just because you are not personally offended doesn’t mean the content isn’t offensive to the group it is describing.

The thing that makes me sad, is that most groups, have a very large voice, and so many people jump on board when offense is taken (Asian writers have found much support among people of color, and among white writers regarding the situation I referred to). For those of us who are mentally ill, we are often not taken seriously and silenced through one channel or another. We often don’t have the power of many voices, and people, and large media outlets to back us up.

There are times when it feels like we are a solitary voice. One voice among hundreds of millions and that we make no sound at all.

I Am Invisible

03 Thursday Sep 2015

Posted by in mental illness, schizophrenia, writing

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I am invisible. Our eyes don’t connect in a crowded room. You refuse to see me, because to see me might mean you have to acknowledge my existence, or worse yet, I might approach you and say, “Hello.” That would be threatening and uncomfortable wouldn’t it? Who wants to talk to the woman with schizophrenia? What can she possibly have to say that would benefit you? And it is all about benefits isn’t it? What can we get from one another? And you think I have nothing to offer, that I am a hole that will require you to throw something in, but not be able to take something out, and what you throw in will clamor and bang along the sides until it hits bottom with a thud. I am nothing to you. I am invisible. Less than a ghost, because even with a ghost you believe, you listen for the knock on the wall, or look for the flicker of a light. With me, there is nothing. To be invisible is to be without value, and to be without voice. I have cried into the stillness of night about how your language, the words you use, are like pins being stuck deep into my skin, not like acupuncture needles that don’t hurt, yours hurt, they wound, and I bleed. But my blood is like a drop of rain in Seattle, not noticeable, noteworthy, or cause for alarm. There will be no ambulance, no medics, no help is on the way, because I am invisible and there is nothing I can do to make you see me. I stand waving in the yard outside the windows of your house, but it is no use. I am invisible to you and you will never set your eyes on me until you change your mind and let loose a piece of  your heart.