23 Tuesday Feb 2021
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
article, class, essay, free, health, magazines, mental health, patient leader, schizophrenia, wellness, writer, writing
How to get published in magazines will be live this Saturday at 9:00 AM PST. It is free to attend. This is a beginning class.
Registration is here:
https://wegohealth.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_cf3ZFkvSTJ-RVDogUvDpOA
22 Monday Feb 2021
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
articles, bipolar, caregivers, class, essays, free, get published, magazine, mental health, paycheck, psychosis, schizophrenia, writing
I am offering a free writing seminar this Saturday, February 27th at 9:00 AM PST. The class will teach you how to get published in magazines. If you are a mental health writer, or caregiver, please sign up! I hope to see you there.
Link to register:
https://wegohealth.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_cf3ZFkvSTJ-RVDogUvDpOA
12 Tuesday Jan 2021
Posted in Uncategorized
It won’t be forever
This morning my mom reminisced about her younger self -bodysuits, jumpsuits, and polyester wide-leg pants. She told me how, at eighty-three, she only likes loose fitting clothes.
It won’t be forever
This stay-at-home order is making us unable to dine in restaurants. We are as close as possible to our house-indoors.
It won’t be forever
I tell myself just as our bodies have changed, our clothes styles have changed, this too, the pandemic will pass, and we will go back to – what?
It won’t be forever
But I don’t know what is next. I don’t hate using the bedroom as an office or sitting in my favorite recliner. Or the time I spend standing at the door of an open refrigerator peering in at what food to eat each day. I’ve added lots of fruits – watermelon, cantaloupe, apples, seedless grapes. And lots of vegetables – radishes, yams, carrots, potatoes, zucchini.
It won’t be forever
We will still wear masks after the vaccine, but we will move on with less fear, although some caution.
It won’t be forever
The wearing of sweatpants, baggy shirts, no underclothes. The meeting up with friends on Zoom. The writing groups. Church broadcast on YouTube.
It won’t be forever
Hearing my husband talk to the people he supervises. Talking them through their frustrations, their workload, their overtime.
It won’t be forever
This pause in how we were living – the race to do more, buy more, take more pictures of the flashiest, artsiest, most fashionable things on Instagram. Putting the brakes on won’t be forever, but it’s given us a shakeup. A time to reflect. A time to go inward, and although
It won’t be forever
The impact of it will last for the rest of our lives.
25 Sunday Oct 2020
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
creative writing, gratitude, hope, joy, love, mental health, miracles, poetry, prose, writing
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.
12 Monday Oct 2020
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Tags
americans, Art, creative writing, hope, mental health, poetry, prose poem, schizophrenia, writing
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.
09 Friday Oct 2020
Posted in Uncategorized
It has been over two hundred days since I had my hair trimmed, went to a grocery store, or ate in a restaurant. I’ve hardly been outside of my neighborhood in the past six months. Many people have gone back to work (or are essential workers and have always been working). My house has not returned to anything close to what it was like in January of this year.
In some ways, this pandemic is trying and challenging. In other ways, it has brought hard work and some much-needed tools and healing to my life. I thought that I was an expert in self-care and managing my schizophrenia symptoms the best way possible, but it turns out I had so much work to do and so much to learn.
Before the pandemic, I took my medications regularly, monitored my sleep, made sure to exercise at least five times a week, and ate at least five servings of fruits and vegetables every day. Along with these things, I wrote in guided journals, had regular appointments with my psychiatrist, and watched my stress levels closely. I still had symptoms, but I thought I was doing the best I could to manage them.
In March, I started seeing a therapist, she didn’t work out for me, and I began to see a therapist who works in my psychiatrist’s office in May or June. She was only allowed to work with me for twelve weeks, and during that time, we worked on tools to manage my anxiety disorder, healing shame, and healing trauma.
I never realized how much work I could do to lessen the impact of my anxiety disorder. It never occurred to me that so many thoughts that I had made me spiral into negative territory and have bad days. I also never realized the level of shame I carried. Although the shame comes from more than my schizophrenia diagnosis, that label alone and its weight can harm mental health.
Of course, not everything is rosy. I cry at least a couple of times every day. I don’t sob. I simply cry a little at the state of the world, the deaths, the stress of constant hand washing, and mask-wearing, and not being able to see family or friends (it has been over a year since I saw my parents or any of my siblings). 2020 has been a tough year in so many ways, and I find I worry about things that were never part of my reality before.
On the other side of that, my resting pulse rate has gone down between ten and twenty points (depending on when I take it), and my blood pressure is lower than I can remember it being in the past. These are the genuine health benefits from working on anxiety. I still have panic attacks, but they are less severe and are over in far less time.
The tool that has had the biggest impact on me is sticking to a regular writing practice. I have written regularly for the past six years, but I wasn’t writing every day. Something about sitting down every day and doing automatic or expressive writing has acted like a pressure valve releasing the steam before the pot boils over.
I have been using a writing technique I learned from a woman whose name is Laurie. If you want to join me in a group where I use what I have learned from her, please get in touch. I plan to run several groups starting soon, and I would love to have as many of you as possible write alongside me.
25 Friday Sep 2020
Posted in Uncategorized
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.
15 Monday Apr 2019
Posted in Uncategorized, writing
Tags
anxiety, april, brain disease, isolation, journal, junior high, mental illness, mentally ill, misfits, not belonging, outsider, poetry, poetry month, schizophrenia], writing
(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
02 Wednesday Jan 2019
Posted in bipolar, caregivers, hope, mental illness, schizophrenia, Uncategorized
Tags
2019, body, hope, language, mental health, mental illness, mentally ill, mind, resolutions, schizophrenia], spirit, walking, wellness, words, writing, yoga
I know I said I wasn’t going to make resolutions but to be completely transparent I spent three weeks before the New Year making them. Every other year, I have scratched a list out on New Year’s Eve, tossed it in a notebook and then dug it out late December to discover I hadn’t done a single thing on the list (or maybe, I had done one or two if I was lucky).
This year, I was fascinated by the process. I even started some of the resolutions as soon as I made them. For instance, I have been stretching (some would call it doing yoga) for twenty-five minutes every morning for two weeks now. I have also been walking forty minutes five days a week for a couple of weeks.
The thing I realized about all of my resolutions, is that they are all about trying to keep me healthy in mind, body, spirit. The other thing I realized, thanks to one of my guided journals, is that they are not a drag or punishment at all. They are a privilege. I don’t “have to” stretch every morning. I am healthy enough to “get to” stretch every morning. I don’t “have to” walk five times a week, I am healthy enough and have enough mobility to “get to” walk five times a week. The same is true of all my resolutions even the ones I set about writing and reading (I don’t get to read and write when I am experiencing psychosis).
Changing these two small words, “have to” to “get to” makes the difference in my attitude. It makes working on my resolutions a joy, an accomplishment, a privilege, an adventure. Unlike years before, I don’t see my list as a bunch of things I “should do” I see them as a bunch of things I “want to do.”
I have started to use the same language for my chores and other things I find difficult or not necessarily pleasant. I don’t “have to” do the dishes, I “get to” do the dishes because I am well enough to see that they need cleaning.
I know many of you struggle with your mental health in one way or another, and I know it isn’t always possible to talk yourself into a shower or to get out of bed. (Oh how I know these things), but on the days that you are functioning enough to try a task or two, try changing the two words, “have to” to “get to.”
I hope changing these words will change your perspective and help you accomplish new and better things. I have high hopes for 2019, and I think two simple words are going to help me make it a great year instead of just the status quo.
29 Monday Oct 2018
Posted in bipolar, hope, mental illness, relationships, schizophenia, stigma, Uncategorized
Tags
bipolar, brain disease, mental health, mental illness, mentally ill, psychiatry, psychology, schizoaffective disorder, schizophrenia], Voice, writing
I came out publicly (including family and friends) with my diagnosis three or four years ago. Since that time, I have fought very hard to try and show people with schizophrenia living lives that are similar to those without the illness. I have fought to make people like me seen as friends, partners, sisters, brothers, daughter, sons, aunts, uncles, parents, etc. And I still think we need more people with schizophrenia writing these stories. The stories of a successful life despite a severe mental illness.
I had something happen to me the other day that broadened my view and made me feel guilty, sad, and like I wasn’t telling the whole story. I met a mother online whose son’s life is nothing like mine. Many times I have written about the mentally ill who are homeless or in prison but rarely do I write about those with schizophrenia, or schizoaffective disorder who can’t live alone, who are medication resistant, or who never get to the point of managing their symptoms.
It isn’t that I was unaware of people who need more care like inpatient treatment or a group home. I am constantly aware of that because I have a cousin who currently requires that level of treatment. But I was fighting. Fighting for stories of success, fighting for stories of hope, and fighting for stories that I rarely heard, read, or saw in books, movies, or television.
There were many times when I was frustrated by parents and adult children for writing the stories about the illness and leaving those of us with the actual illness without a voice, or way of telling a different narrative. I realize now, that there is room, if we allow it, for all of the narratives about mental illness. There is room for us to talk and hear from those in prison, there is room for us to hear from those on the street, there is room for us to hear from the children of someone with a brain disease, and there is room for mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers to tell their stories.
All of these stories matter and can help improve our understanding of schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, bipolar disorder and other illnesses that impact an individual and the ones who love them. I only hope that with so many people writing about the tragedy of mental illness that stories like mine and stories like other people I know won’t get lost, or not be as valuable (because they don’t fall into our comfort zone or understanding).
I hope along with the stories of sadness, pain, struggle, and grief that stories of hope and possibility continue to find space in popular culture. For years, the heartbreaking stories have captured our imaginations and driven the cultural response; I only hope that we continue to make room for the voices of those who have lived experience because like a kaleidoscope with one blacked out spot, the view is not complete, or as colorful, or as interesting without seeing the whole picture.
