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Mayor John Street, of Philadelphia (pictured here in a funny illustration by Jay Bevenour), really could not be any worse in my estimation right now. Gar Joseph of the Daily News reports that Street said:
"I should also announce that Terrell Owens is going to be the mental-health adviser to the task force."
What a funny joke! Thanks, Jay, for sending this in. Mayor, you are a jackass. I will say that to your face. Or your hair. Your call.
Portsmouth, England. From Portsmouth.co.uk:
Gaps in the city's provision were revealed in a survey of mental health users carried out by health watchdog, the Healthcare Commission. It said the government recommended counselling and cognitive behavioural therapy for all patients with schizophrenia or suspected schizophrenia, but nationally the inspectors found only 50 per cent were given access to it. The survey also discovered mental health patients living in the community cannot rely on getting NHS help in a crisis.
Sounds almost as bad as the U.S.! (Kidding. Patriots: Please don't yell at me.) The best places for nutters like me to live in England are: Bournemouth, Dorset, Buckinghamshire, Southampton and Harrow. Good to know.
I gotta be honest with youse all: There's just not much going on in the way of exciting mental health news today. Hence I give you the following article.
Eight hugs a day keep depression away
You know when you're citing Oklahoma State's Daily O'Collegian, things are bleak.
Those of you who watched the Discovery Channel video might wonder why I chose Wilson's song to go along with it. As Dennis mentioned, Wilson is a fellow traveler, and I have always felt that his music on Pet Sounds expressed the deepest most lonely parts of him, and me. To explain further, here's something I wrote about him:
Brian's SongLast night I stumbled out of bed to find my cat and dog--usually at odds--working together against an unseen foe, poking their paws under the couch like little prizefighters. I sat down on the floor, trying to figure out what they were looking at, and a mouse dashed away from the cat and into the nightgown I was wearing.
Much as I like rodents, I've never been keen on having them in my sleepwear. I jumped up, and everyone scattered. And after that, of course, sleep was but a dream.
So I decided to read last week's issue of Time magazine, which has a cover story on bipolar disorder. When I saw the story, I'll admit I felt proud. It's definitely the closest I'll ever come to being on the cover of a national magazine.
The article is excellent, but I was disturbed by an accompanying piece headlined "Manic Genius," which listed several famous people who all suffered from bipolar disorder. Ever since Kay Redfield Jamison wrote her book Touched With Fire: Manic Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament, about great artists with mental illnesses, people can't get enough of this parlor game of insanity. The goal seems to be to shock so-called "normal" people into the anti-stigmatizing realization that the people they admire most had mental illnesses--so it's really not so bad!
I'd like to invent an educational board game with a similar message. Instead of "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon," it could be called "Six Degrees of Robert Downey Jr."
Here's how it would work.
One person has a card they read to the other players. Something like, "In the 1960s Lionel Aldridge was a defensive end for the Green Bay Packers. He played for Vince Lombardi in two Super Bowls. By the early 1970s he was homeless and delusional. What mental illness did Lionel Aldridge have?"
Player 1: "He was an incredible player--he had to have a powerful motivation."
Player 2: "So you're saying his energy might have been a result of mania?"
Player 1: "I think it's possible."
Player 2: "Yeah, but what about the homeless part?"
Player 1: "What do you mean?"
Player 2: "Doesn't that sound more like depression to you? It must be pretty sad to be without a home."
Player 3: "No, you guys, wait! It must be schizophrenia. It says, homeless and delusional."
Score!
Time magazine's choices of manic geniuses did not include Aldridge, because, I suppose, he didn't have bipolar disorder. Fair enough. But Aldridge's story is at least inspiring. Until his death in 1998, he was an advocate for the mentally ill who spoke frankly about his own experience.
Instead Time chose composer Robert Schumann (died in an insane asylum), Virginia Woolf (drowned herself), Ernest Hemingway (shot himself), Lord Byron (died at 36 after lifelong struggles with anorexia and bulimia), Vincent Van Gogh (shot himself) and Edgar Allan Poe (attempted suicide in 1848; died under mysterious circumstances in 1849). And who was at the bottom of Time magazine's crazy-genius list? The king of grunge himself, Kurt Cobain (which Time spelled "Curt")--and we all know how that turned out.
Are we supposed to feel empowered by knowing these artistic geniuses were mentally ill?
I'd like to see some articles about artistic manic geniuses who are different--namely, alive. Of course, most of those people don't want to talk about it. It's like being gay. Celebrities don't want to admit it until it will appear a noble and brave admission. Consider Rosie O'Donnell. From her self-congratulatory interviews, you'd think she was at Stonewall.
I wonder when it will be noble to admit you have a mental illness. "I was at Byberry!"
My nomination for living manic genius is Brian Wilson, whom I saw last Sunday at the TLA. Unlike the sad sacks in Time, Wilson is a worthy, if unlikely, hero for people with mental illness.
In terms of genius, it's a no-brainer: He was, after all, the composer, arranger, producer, singer, guitarist and writer of the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds. I'm not going to get into why Pet Sounds soared beyond anything that came before, because if I hear one more word on that particular subject, I'm going to spontaneously combust. But is it not the most exquisite instance of madness turned beautiful?
And in terms of heroism, well, just watching Brian Wilson in front of an audience--one that welcomed him with one of the warmest embraces I've ever seen--is completely phenomenal. How often do you see someone with a mental illness onstage, buffeted by supportive applause? No one's cheering like that for Margot Kidder (okay, bad example).
Wilson is up front about his mental illness, perhaps because he lacks the necessary guile to do otherwise, or maybe because the ravages of the illness--and the drugs with which he self-medicated--are still so obvious.
A co-worker told me he didn't think many people would consider Wilson "functional." I understand that. But he's such an inspiration: He's touring; he's making new music; he married fairly recently and adopted two infant daughters; he's repairing old relationships; and he's bringing the gift of his genius to all those who never lost faith. He's hanging in there, despite the struggle.
I'll take that over "Curt" Cobain any day of the week.
Okay, let me explain. Many years ago the Discover Channel did a documentary about ECT, and because I'd written about it, they included me and my family. There are some kind of haunting images in this, including suicide notes I wrote, and drawings my dad did of me while I was having the treatments.
But most of all, I think these excerpts show that from way, way back, I've had problems choosing flattering eyeglasses. Now that I see it's a pattern, I'm ready to ask for help.
The mystery death of Anna Nicole Smith's son has, it seems, been solved. Daniel accidentally overdosed on Lexapro, Zoloft and methadone. He was not a heroin addict, so it's a bit of a mystery why he had the methadone. The Lexapro was prescribed.
Oh, and for whatever stupid reason, I did care about his death. Maybe it's because Anna Nicole is so screwed up, and I feel sorry for her, and now she's going to be even more screwed up. Very sad.
It sounds so interesting and helpful and scientific.
Sometimes it's important to simply gaze upon cuteness. This is Nana of Baruchito's Homecage trying to eat a cherry tomato.
I love her.
I'm not going to get into my political attitudes regarding the Middle East because it always gets me into trouble. As it is I'm on some list of Jewish traitors, which is so ridiculous, I refuse to dignify it. But suffice to say that this report about mental health problems among Gaza residents makes me furious. There is no reason for such a devastating mental health crisis.
I don't know, I don't know. What have I done? I went to get new glasses, and I noticed that the least expensive were vintage frames. I liked the idea of having frames no one else had, and I decided to get them. Now I'm feeling like I made a mistake. I mean, one wears one's glasses all the time. They define one's face. In my quest to be funky and original, have I erred and simply chosen to be freakish? Some personalities can get away with bold frames. Perhaps I'm not that kind of personality. Despite my qualms, I'll be wearing them for the next four days as a test. Let me know your thoughts.
And don't worry about being too honest. When I got to work I asked my co-worked if he'd go to Dunkin Donuts with me. "Sure, but can your glasses go too?" Oh, ha ha. Funny office humor.
This may seem a strange segue after the ECT video, but my landlady has decided not to merely repair the old stove and dishwasher, but to replace them entirely. Wha? It's so awesome. I've never had such a great landlady.
Anyway, the point is I have to go home and deal with that, so today will be a light blog day. Just keep watching that video over and over again for a Liz fix. That should do ya.
[Pictured: a view from my porch]
The ex-Eagle and current Dallas Cowboy took 40 painkillers in what some say was an attempt to end his life. His publicist, naturally, is telling a different tale.
To stay up to date on the story go to Philadelphia Will Do.
Terrell Owens Reportedly Tries Suicide
[Disturbingly objectifying photograph courtesy GQ.]
I got a comment from Sandy asking if I'd heard anything about the Kitty Dukakis book called Shock, which is about her experience with ECT (electroconvulsive therapy, aka shock treatments). I have heard about it, and that's what has prompted me, in fact, to talk about my own history with ECT.
There was a recent excerpt in Newsweek from Dukakis' book, and rather than make a case that ECT is destructive and spectacularly ineffective unless you do it on a regular basis through the rest of your life, as Dukakis does, I'll just quote the book directly. I think you'll see that though she may want to live her life in the following way, most people would not.
"But there are some memories—of meetings I have attended, people's homes I have visited—that I don't want to lose but I can't help it. ... I forget telelphone numbers, including ones I dial all the time. I sometimes don't know where I am supposed to go or at what time. What embarrasses me most is forgetting people's names. ... I still go to receptions, dinners and other public events, with Michael or on my own, but I am generally not on my game. I sometimes forget commitments I make to help people. ... Then I don't make the call or get back to them with the name. Promising it, then not doing it because I don't remember, is terrible. ..."I have learned ways to partly compensate for whatever loss I still experience. I call my sister Jinny, Michael and my kids, asking what my niece Betsy's phone number is, what we did yesterday and what we are planning to do tomorrow. ... I hate losing memories, which means losing control over my past and my mind."
If that's the way you want to live, by all means, sign up for ECT. But be prepared for it to lose its efficacy after a month—and some memories and cognitive functioning to vanish forever.
Thanks to Jason Reynolds, who sent me an mp3 of a podcast interview with author John Gartner (pictured). Sadly, my tech skills are lacking, so I can't post the mp3. But please do click below and listen to the interchange. It's fascinating, and for those of us with loved ones who have hypomania, it helps explain a lot.
I love those sappy stories in Reader's Digest about people who do something heroic like diving into icy-cold water to save a puppy, or running into a burning house to save a kitten. This past weekend in Phoenix the driver of a tractor-trailer saw a man threatening to jump from an overpass, and he threw him a bunny. No, just kidding, he parked his rig underneath the man so that he wouldn't be able to jump.
No one knows who the good Samaritan is—he vanished into the sunset—but I do feel like he deserves thanks for stopping and making a difference. If you know him, truckers, send me an email at lspikol@philadelphiaweekly.com. When I was a little girl my CB handle was "Half Pint," so I'm legit.
One thing I love about this job of sharing myself is that people are inspired to share themselves back. I got a MySpace message today suggesting I check out British classical composer Caroline M. Breece, whose piece Angry Concrete deals with themes I've had to grapple with in my life.
I'm glad I found her; her music is so beautiful and haunting. When I was at Oberlin, the composition students at the music conservatory were incredibly brilliant, and I envied them. Oberlin was great because being a fan of classical music didn't make you a nerd; it made you interesting. I admit I haven't listened to contemporary classical in quite some time, but hearing Breece's music has reminded me why I once loved it.
As a veteran of rehab and psych wards, I love this delightfully bitchy account from British jazz singer Amy Winehouse:
"I've been to a couple of rehabilitation centres before, whether it be for not eating properly, or drinking - everyone there just wants to talk about themselves all the time. The fella in charge said, 'Why are you here?' and I said, 'Well, I think I've come because I'm drinking a lot, but I'm in love, and the drinking is symptomatic of my depression. I'm not an alcoholic.' Although now of course I sound like I am. Anyway, he says to me, 'I'm a recovering alcoholic...' and I thought , 'You're not going to stop now, are you?' And he didn't! He just kept talking about himself... it was so boring. He goes, 'Do you want to just fill out this form and we'll see how you feel?' And I said, 'I don't want to waste your time, to be honest.'"
Carl Jung speaks the truth.
Recently a suit was filed by ex-barista Christine Drake against her ex-employer, Starbucks. The Seattle woman, who has long struggled with psychiatric disorders, felt a deep sense of accomplishment about the fact that she held her job there for two years. It was very meaningful to her to keep working, despite her illness. And we all know how important work is at a time like that.
Now the EEOC is backing her claims that she was discriminated against and that the company violated the American With Disabilities Act, which I'd like to remind everyone means you're entitled to reasonable accommodations to deal with your illness. The EEOC is filing for $40,000 in lost wages for Drake, who was fired for not being "Starbucks material."
Dear God—what exactly is Starbucks material? The frowning server who corrects your speech when you violate the coffee code and say "medium" instead of "venti" or whatever? Get over yourselves. You're making coffee.
Last night was kind of bad for me. We've talked before about doing a Liz-o-meter on this site, where I could indicate how crappy and/or happy I feel. Today I'd be pretty low down on the meter.
I've been trying to make a video about my experience with ECT. Yesterday, after a full weekend at the Bloomsburg Fair—where I saw an excellent Elvis impersonator and two very cute little piggies—I sat in our motel room (pictured) and talked for 20 minutes about the experience. As I was talking I noticed I was feeling a little weird and dislocated, so I was relieved when the very kind motel owner knocked on the door to give me some cookies.
Later I watched the video again, this time with Vince, and I could tell from our interaction that it was a mistake. Oddly enough, though I'm trying to package the experience in some accessible way, I'm becoming increasingly convinced that it's not something I want to relive. I mean, I'm still going to do it because I said I would and because it's important to me to make a particular point, but if I were just going to do things that would conduce to my mental health, I'd ditch it.
The funny thing about PTSD syptoms is the way they sneak up on you when you least expect it. Watching a video of myself talking about being on a psych ward and then getting ECT, I could feel myself slipping away into a dissociative haze, which hasn't dissipated entirely today. By telling the story, I started to get confused. Where am I now? Am I still that person? Am I in danger of becoming that person? Rational threads of conversation and thought got progressively harder until I couldn't wait for Vince to get out of the room so I could stop the chaos in my head from closing in.
In moments like those, my impulse is to cut myself with a knife, which achieves two purposes: It brings me back into my body and the present by causing pain; and it displaces the pain in my head, transferring mental suffering into physical irritation. I didn't do it; I hardly ever do. But I desire it in the same way I desire a cigarette even after years of not smoking. I get a fierce longing that seems to encompass my lungs.
In a strange way, a crisis we had with one of our animals brought me back to reality. She got herself stuck behind a bookshelf, but she was so quiet that we thought she was dead. I cried for her for a little while, remembering her antic behavior, then heard a vague thumping from the other side of the room. I was pretty convinced, given my mental state, that it was a hallucination, but I couldn't take any chances. I spent the next couple hours removing all the books from the bookshelf. When I saw her head peek out, I was immensely relieved. Little Rosemary. Our hamster-type baby. I was so glad to see her, I forgot all about the impulse to self-mutilate (a term I hate, but it is descriptive, I guess).
At 4:30 a.m., after sleeping for a couple hours, I woke up with an asthma attack, which I'm guessing was brought on by stress. Such attacks panic me, but again, are almost welcome compared to mental suffering. By the time I got out of bed this morning, I was refreshed, and the gruesome anguish of last night continues to fade.
It's just another example of one of the most important lessons people with mental illness must remember: It will get better. At some point. It's worth it to wait it out.
[Here's a still from a video I won't be posting. You can tell I'm kind of vacant.]
I've discovered another reader tip: this interesting article from the Houston Press—an alt weekly, no less. Sachin Karol calls it a "cautionary tale," and boy oh boy, does it scare me. Though it's about the issue of Paxil during pregnancy in general, its starting point is Lisa Collins, a woman who was told it was okay to take Paxil while she was pregnant. Now, faced with a gravely sick child, she's filing a lawsuit—and she won't be alone.
The article is both exhaustive and heartbreaking, a combination that's hard to master. Thanks, Sachin, for sending this along.
[Photo copyright Liz Spikol]
This is from TTWS reader Steve, who has personal experience, as I do, with campus psych services.
Report Faults UC's Mental Health Care: Psychological services for students are starved for funding and staff even as serious mental issues are on the rise on campuses, study finds.
I've talked at some length here about the appalling case of Christina Eilman. (Click here to get up to speed.) TTWS reader Ted sends in this comment, with a suggestion for how you can voice your outrage:
I live in Chicago. There aren't not words in our language to articulate the rage this story has produced in me. It has been woefully under-reported here. And unfortunately, it's not all that surprising. For many Chicagoans, the true feelings this story produces cannot be described outloud. This is the most horrific urban nightmare imagineable, come to life.A federal judge has just sealed - at the request of city attorneys - internal police interviews regarding this case in a lawsuit brought by the victim's family. This too is rather typical of this city. And also just as disgusting.
Please contact the Chicago mayor's office here. Let them know how you feel. Let them know how disgusted you are by the actions of this city's police force, and of its City Hall. Please. In no other city in America is the populace as impotent and without voice as they are in Chicago. The Machine is bigger than ever - it's just under the radar now. Help us!
I'm having a bit of a tough time writing these days. I just read an excellent description of the problem as articulated by writer Ian McEwan in his book Saturday:
"He prides himself on speed and a sleek, wry style. It never needs much forethought—typing and composing are one. Now he was stumbling. ... his prose accumulated awkwardly. Individual words brought to mind unwieldy objects—bicycles, deckchairs, coat hangers—strewn across his path. He composed a sentence in his head, then lost it on the page, or typed himself into a grammatical cul-de-sac and had to sweat his way out."
I've always liked Sandra Bullock. There's something natural and unhurried about her. Granted, she's not a great actress. But I feel like we could be friends. Interestingly, Bullock is suing a Tennessee mental health agency so that it's forced to alert her when a man who was stalking her is released. Supposedly, there's a restraining order against him until 2009, but she's concerned. I'm not sure I blame her. Stalking victims are frightened, and rightly so.
Sandra Bullock Sues to Ensure She's Notified of Stalker's Release
I dreamt that my parents and I were driving somewhere and we took a wrong turn. We drove slowly through a thicket and found ourselves on the backlot of a Sopranos set. Our car literally drove into a scene they were filming. We were very apologetic, and they were friendly, though most of them must have been bit players because I didnt' really recognize anyone. Tony? Carmela? Nowhere to be found.
Rupert Everett was there, though. I've always been a big fan of his, in part because I had a crush on my gay friend Alan in college, and they look very much alike. (And just incidentally, I continue to think ((delusionally, probably)) that Alan was a little crushed out on me too. He came to visit me in Philly once but it was tense and awkward. I wish I could remember his last name so we could be in touch. Alan, if you're out there, email me!)
So in the dream I went up to Rupert and said hello. He was very gracious, though he didn't say he wanted to visit me in Philadelphia. Meadow complimented me on my cute pants, and I thought that maybe they'd let me be a regular on the show because they saw I was stylish.
I love The Sopranos, perhaps because the throughline of the show is Tony's mental suffering. Yes, he's a monster of sorts, but the series satisfies my need to understand the abnormal psychology of a person who does terrible things, who believes terrible things. The relationship between Tony and Dr. Melfi is fascinating as well. It's a very rich show, very layered. I think people forget that when they see the guys in the bar dropping their gerunds. And in terms of representation of Italian-Americans, I know the show is problematic. Yet why do we respect Mean Streets and The Godfather and deride The Sopranos for reinforcing stereotypes? Seems inconsistent to me, though of course those two films were made decades ago, and you'd think we'd have evolved somewhat in terms of our portayals of American ethnicity.
Organized crime in Philly and New Jersey have over the years been similar, so that's another element that compels me. I have a friend who says people from the East Coast like The Sopranos and people from the West Coast prefer Six Feet Under. I think that's an interesting perspective, and it rings true to me.
There was an explosion near my office, and our power has been out. Now I have to walk three and a half miles home toting my computer and other bags. Plus I have a migraine. So let's just call it a day, shall we? See you tomorrow.
This is one of the best articulations of a need for mental health evaluations I've ever seen. Superficially, the case looked cut and dry. Aaron Smith killed Henry McGlone because McGlone owed him money. But Smith's psychiatric history called his motive into question. Here's the summary of the examining doctor's report:
She said while she did declare him competent to stand trial, she had some concerns because he was not taking his anti-psychotic medication and had been doing 1,000 pushups a day at the detention center to “stop the voices.” She said the issues were resolved when Smith was referred to the Wyoming State Hospital and was started on anti-psychotic medication.In her interviews with family and with Smith, she said it was unclear exactly when he began hearing voices and exhibiting other signs of schizophrenia. .... His main problems began in 2000, she said, while he was playing basketball overseas. She said he began to believe people were poisoning his food and stopped eating at restaurants. She said Smith told her that he had an hallucination of opening a drawer at a restaurant and seeing it full of old bones. ....
Once he was admitted to Wishard Health Services in Indianapolis, she said there was a series of consistent diagnoses, including in February 2001, psychosis; April 23, 2001, acute episode of schizophrenia; June to August 2001, and December 2002, schizophrenia of the paranoid type; and June 2003 to July 2005, schizophrenia.
She said along with the incidents previously mentioned, other schizophrenic behavior exhibited by Smith include having the letter “G” burned on the soles of his feet, collecting urine in bottles, seeing dead bodies in the street, believing his family was being threatened, attempting to set his clothes on fire, uncontrollable crying and hearing voices.
Gummow also said there was a notable incident where he asked to have his right arm cut off to prevent from hurting anyone. Under cross-examination, Bohling said that Smith is left-handed and asked why he would want his right arm cut off. Gummow said that was something others asked and no one knew.Other symptoms, she said, were sexual delusions and not being able to tell fiction from reality. She said for years he believed he was developing a company and would talk to people on the phone who weren’t really there and pick up mail that wasn’t there. She said the delusion was continuing when she examined him in January.
Gummow said she diagnosed Smith with paranoid schizophrenia and a dependence on marijuana. She said while marijuana does not cause psychosis, it can make the symptoms worse. However, she said, she did not believe his marijuana use was a factor in the shooting of McCone. She said Smith told her the last time he used marijuana was about four days before the shooting, but said he used marijuana about four times a week.
Medication
Gummow said medication can help alleviate symptoms of schizophrenics but there are side effects, including making people feel drugged and that life isn’t fun or enjoyable anymore. At times it may make them jumpy and some schizophrenics on medication pace a lot.
Smith was treated with medication but didn’t always take it, Gummow said. She said that was one reason he had a state commitment in Indiana so they could keep track of whether he was taking medication or not. She spoke with a nurse who had helped treat Smith in Indiana and the nurse said he was a “volcano waiting to erupt.” Indiana authorities did not know he had left the state and would not have authorized his leaving.
She said Smith had prescriptions for anti-psychotic and anti-depression medications filled June 15, 2005. Previous testimony showed Smith arriving in Laramie on June 22.
Gummow testified that Smith could appear normal, especially to police officers or others who had not seen him before, during and after a schizophrenic episode. She said because of his intelligence, Smith would be able to recognize social situations and be able to control his thought processes for short periods of time in order to seem normal.
Bohling said, however, that by her own IQ tests administered on Smith, he was average.
Gummow said that people with schizophrenia do better with input, when being asked questions, when around people. She said symptoms become worse when the person is left alone and has no structure.
Regarding the shooting of McCone, Gummow testified that from police reports, including witness statements, it did appear Smith was still dealing with schizophrenic symptoms. The reports indicated that one witness said Smith was “acting strange,” and an officer said he was “visibly shaking.” Another officer said that Smith was vague with his answers and had difficulty understanding some questions. Other witnesses, she said, noted he wore heavy clothes which was unusual during the summer but not unusual for people suffering from schizophrenia.
Gummow said Smith’s recollection of the shooting does not coincide with the evidence at the scene.
She testified that based on her interviews and tests and Smith’s past history, he is not criminally responsible for the shooting death of McCone.
State statute states that, “a person is not responsible for criminal conduct if, at the time of the criminal conduct, as a result of mental illness or deficiency, he lacked substantial capacity either to appreciate the wrongfulness of his conduct or to conform his conduct to the requirements of law. As used in this section, the terms mental illness or deficiency mean only those severely abnormal mental conditions that grossly and demonstrably impair a person’s perception or understanding of reality and that are not attributable primarily to self-induced intoxication.”
Late in Wednesday’s hearing, Aaron Smith took the stand in his own defense. Testimony will continue today with cross-examination.
I admit, my grunge tastes ran more toward Nirvana than Soundgarden. But Chris Cornell, now of Audioslave, was interviewed in Blender mag this month, and was very frank about his struggle with depression and drug addiction. He's now clean and sober and is part-owner of a fancy restaurant in Paris. He's married happily with two small children, and his life revolves more around food than any illegal substance.
He says:
“There was a time in the middle of my depression when I basically stopped eating,” Cornell says, referring to a very dark period in the late 1990s, following Soundgarden’s demise. “I wasn’t doing it to lose weight or anything — I just forgot to eat. I got down to 145 pounds, which is pretty skinny. I’m 6'3". And then I read an article in a magazine by a doctor talking about his experiences with anorexia, and everything started to make sense — the aches in the joints, the headaches, the way my bones felt as if I could bend them with my hands. I started eating again. That was much better.”
[This illustration of Cornell is by amazing painter Jack Morefield. Go to his site to see more of his unique style.]
...And you know what that means: I wrote another column—this time about YouTube. You can read it here or after the jump, but I recommend watching this video first in case you're unclear about what, exactly, YouTube is. It's a thing of beauty.
Test YouTube Baby Lonelygirl15 killed the video star.by Liz Spikol
I know everyone's saying it, but I'm going to say it too: I knew lonelygirl15, the home-schooled Paris Hilton of YouTube.com, wasn't really a 16-year-old Christian girl living somewhere in the American heartland, reading scientist Jared Diamond.The lank-haired soft-spoken “Bree”—who became an online celebrity by doing home videos for the website where clips from Jon Stewart's Daily Show typically get the highest ratings—was smart and silly in equal measures, clutching her stuffed animals (P. Monkey was a favorite) and pouting into the camera about not having any friends.
Somewhere in the background lurked strict parents, while her one friend Daniel, a long-limbed goofy nerd, was supposedly on the fence about dating her—despite the fact that if this were really high school, he would've lunged for her breast the minute he sat on her bed while she tried on funky hats. I mean, this is the age of American Pie, not The Portrait of a Lady.
But from the start, I didn't really care if Bree was a fake. She seemed to have a good time pretending, and she espoused good values: intellectual curiosity, a passion for home schooling as a viable alternative to mainstream education, the possibility that a hot-bodied, button-nosed cutie could find Richard Feynman fascinating.
She wasn't hurting anyone, but … I found her eyebrows really hard to take. They're so far apart, I simply couldn't listen to a word she was saying. I kept on leaning closer to my computer screen to see if it was overzealous tweezing or a genetic deformity. (I'm overly attuned to eyebrows, since my own fall somewhere between “fuzzy caterpillar” and “Frida Kahlo.”)
Instead of hearing her talk longingly about being invited to a party (as if she hadn't been chugging beers in a hot tub at a frat house the night before), I'd imagine the innumerable household items that could fit in the space between her eyebrows. I mean, I'm looking around my desk right now. A yo-yo would work, or a detachable computer speaker, or a bottle of Advil, about three highlighters, or a metal ruler, or the pass key I use to get into our office … The list goes on.
It's like when you see a woman at the beach whose breasts are essentially under her armpits—the space between them is so vast. It throws you. In the case of Bree, however, her breasts were on her face. So to speak.
Anyway, Bree and her alien eyes—eyes that actually belong to twentysomething actress/film student Jessica Rose—have been called out as fraudulent, and the three filmmakers who made her a star are no doubt on the way to a career of Brett Ratner-like proportions, or at the very best, Zach Braff. I wouldn't count on discovering the new Spike Lee among this bunch.
Though the story of Bree's unmasking was written about in newspapers from coast to coast, and featured on national newscasts, chances are a lot of people don't even know what the hell I'm talking about.
One of my oldest, dearest friends is a bigwig at YouTube, and I don't want to offend her—especially because I still like to have sleepovers when she comes to Philly to see her parents. But the truth is that YouTube remains a finely cut slice of our media deli-meats platter. (Can you tell I'm already thinking about the Jewish holidays? Confidential to Mom: Have you ordered the whitefish yet?)
YouTube's primary viewers are people in their teens and early 20s. Given such numbers, and given my age, I shouldn't even know about lonelygirl15 and her desertlike forehead. But these days I'm accidentally hip to new-media youth culture.
When I first started using YouTube, it was merely as a tool for uploading videos to my blog. My first foray was a test—a 44-second homage of sorts to a Dunkin' Donuts muffin. I posted it on the blog as a joke for my regular readers.
Suddenly, though, YouTubers found me. I don't know how—by searching for “muffin”?—but people responded. People I'd never met before, people I wasn't paying, people who hadn't given birth to me.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but the recognition was a rush. So I made another video. And another. The weird persona that emerged—a daffy prima donna with a beleaguered producer named Karl—was completely unrehearsed. It's just what came out of me, like Satan's words spewing from my spinning head. The Exorspikol.
People who knew me were baffled. “Where'd you come up with that?” they'd say, clearly wondering if I was taking my meds. The online persona seemed nothing like me, said friends and family, which I initially took as a compliment, and then realized was an insult.
Apparently, though I'm very funny and animated in my mind, in real life I'm somewhat less scintillating than gefilte fish. (Confidential to Mom: Don't forget the lesser fishes.) It's like a co-worker said with wonder after she read an interview with me on a mental health website: “It makes you sound cool.”
The weird Liz Spikol persona on YouTube made me seem funny and animated on the outside, so I kept doing it. YouTube is very seductive that way.
But something about the tenor of the lonelygirl15 revelations made me uncomfortable. Yes, it was kind of craven of the filmmakers to create this persona that didn't exist, but wasn't I doing something similar?
In fact, my personality in the videos had become so divergent from the real me that I stopped posting the videos on my blog. There no longer seemed to be enough crossover between fantasy and reality to satisfy both audiences. And what was I trying to do with the YouTube audience anyway?
At least the blog has a mission. The YouTube videos were merely self-indulgent and fun. And who needs fun when there's work to be done?
So last week I posted a video on my YouTube page—and on my blog—called “Big Change.” I proclaimed that from now on I'm going to take YouTube seriously, and talk about issues that mean the most to me—particularly mental health. Enough bullshit, quoth I, though I was later chided by a viewer for my potty mouth.
I told faithful subscribers like Latinlabel and DaleATL2 that I'd understand if they decided to unsubscribe, as my describing my experience with electroshock therapy wasn't exactly what they'd signed up for. But so far everyone's chosen to stick around, which gives me hope: the triumph of substance over style—well, as much style as a person my height can generate.
So yes, lonelygirl15 did interrupt my flight to stardom. Who knows where I could've gone next—Saturday Night Live, maybe, to replace Tina Fey. Instead it's just going to be regular old Liz Spikol talking about what really happened to a real person in real life.
If you're not into that, lonelygirl15 is still broadcasting as usual—with bigger numbers than before. Just watch out for those eyebrows.
From Reuters:
This is the weirdest site ever. But I try not to denegrate maverick approaches to mental illnesses. Is this one of them? The techno music is blurring my critical faculties. I have to go clubbing right now. I'll let you know after I sweat my mascara onto my cheeks.
This is ridiculous, I know, but I'm going to confess that I feel a little wounded right now. I posted my second video, as you all know, both here and on YouTube. It's hard for me to post these videos because they make me feel more vulnerable than hiding behind a blog or column. It brings out all my neuroses about my appearance and eloquence, or lack thereof.
This morning the video was top rated in two categories on YouTube, and I was giddy, practically jumping up and down. Seven people gave it perfect ratings! Literally four minutes later 22 more people had watched it and given it the lowest rating possible, turning my joy into sorrow. That's how capricious YouTube is; four minutes can change your world.
I guess I have to stop being so sensitive. My subscribers have doubled, and that's a more permanent record of being liked or not. But most importantly: WHY DO I CARE?
Thanks to my colleague, D-Mac, who really did make me feel better. Dan, you're the ... puppy.
Sometimes people who live here in Philly have amazing experiences they want to share. They don't have a good idea of how we at Philadelphia Weekly might or might not be able to use the story, but they send it along anyway. The below comes from Kimberly DiJohn, who owns a cute store in Philly called Hip-e-chick (which is having a sidewalk sale this weekend, so stop on by). Last year the store suffered a fire, which was very hard for all involved. This year DiJohn—with the aid of her German boyfriend—was able to be a good Samaritan when a fire right across the street from the store erupted. It's a poignant tale of neighbors looking out for one another.
My boyfriend from Germany, Harry, and I were just getting ready to walk into the hip-e-chick store, since we are having a Sidewalk Sale this weekend, and noticed smoke coming from the top of the house, across the street. It was about 12:30 am, and I panicked, fumbling for my cel phone, wondering if we should run to the 26th district (half block away), and then I found the cel. We ran across the street, and started banging down the doors of the house on fire, and the homes attached like lunatics. FIRE, FIRE, FIRE, GET OUT OF YOUR HOMES! FIRE, FIRE, FIRE, Mrs. Casey, get out, FIRE!!!!!!!I knew the one home was vacant on the left, but the other one on the right was Mrs. Casey’s home! Mrs. Casey is one of my favorite people! She is this little old lady, that is so smart, and so tough, when she comes home from the grocery store with all of her bags, she never needs any help. I have asked her numerous times, if she needed me to help her, and the answer is always no. She dresses so nice, and drives her own car, and is so independent for her age. She was a Real Estate Broker with her husband, right in the house she lives in today, on Girard Avenue. She owned the Hip-e-chick store, and sold it to me, right in her living room, years back. Whenever I would see her driving, and working on her home, I would say to myself “I hope I will be like that, when I grow old!”. She is loved and adored by all of the neighborhood. I knew, when I saw all that smoke, that she was in big trouble! I banged, and banged, but she did not hear me.
The cops came, and told my boyfriend to break down the doors, and that is what we did. We broke down the door, and a police officer went to get her in bed, and carried her out. Meanwhile my boyfriend ran in the burning house, and could not get in 2 feet because of the smoke, and ran out. It was the most amazing thing I have ever been thru, and immediately hugged Mrs. Casey, and kissed her, and started to weep. The fire trucks came shortly after, and we got Mrs. Casey to a safe location, where there was no smoke. She told me right then and there, that if it wasn’t for my boyfriend & I, she would have never made it. Then she asked me to go inside her house, and try to find her cat. She said that all I would need to do is call out- kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, and I started to laugh.Then as brilliant as she is, she started to speak to my boyfriend in German, and they both had a brief conversation in another language. No one was in the house, that caught on fire, and everyone got out of there homes safe. I feel like we saved them, and at the same time, I was so sad to replay the horrific fire that I had at the hip-e-chick, but so happy to see that little old lady that I adore. I had to compose myself, because I was trying to console Mrs. Casey, and make her feel a little better. She told me she did not want to leave her house, and didn’t realize she would not be able to go back in for a long time. I knew, since I have been thru this, with my own tragedy! She was also very distraught about her kitty, and I just hugged her, and rubber her back, like I would do to my grandmother, to make her feel better. She reminds me of my grandmother- so strong, but yet so fragile. Her small little hands, felt so nice in my hand. She was sitting in the cop car, and the lights were flashing above, so I asked the police to turn them off (since they were bothering her eyes). She also told me, she thought her cute little pajamas were see thru, and that she wanted a blanket, so I got her one. She held my hand, and would not give it back, and I knew what she was going thru.
She could not remember her nephew’s phone number, her only next kin, and I just wanted to take her home with me. I felt her pain, losing your house or business by fire is quite devastating- I know. And for it to be right across the street from my fire, to a beautiful person like Mrs. Casey, made me so scared. It was supposedly started by a cigarette, and it turning into a huge fire within 5 minutes, destroying a few homes, and Mrs. Casey’s home too. Later in the evening, I looked at my boyfriend a completely different way, and loved him even more. He came from Germany, and left his life, and child to be with me, and marry me, and live with me forever and ever. At least now, he can now say to his friends back home, it was for a reason, he’s my Hero! He really was the hero, and the first one to see the fire, and break down the Mrs. Casey’s door!
Check out the latest NYT article about Dr. Wayne Fenton (pictured), whose tragic death at a hands of a psychotic patients we've been discussing on this site for a week or so. Two things jump out at me that prove the tenor of the conversation is deeply empathetic:
• This quote from Dr. Thomas H. McGlashan, a psychiatrist at Yale and a close friend of Dr. Fenton’s: “Yes, there is a risk of violence with some patients, and no, it’s not black-and-white, like some would want you to see it. It’s not just that Wayne is dead, but that the kid’s life is ruined too.” [emphasis mine]
• Last paragraph of the article "But the need was urgent, [Fenton's wife Nancy] said. The need was urgent, the [patient's] family was desperate, and that was enough for her husband, as long as she had known him. Someone wanted his help, so Wayne would go."
From TTWS reader July:
When I was at the Mayo Clinic, I was greatly ‘encouraged’ to have ECT. Mayo doesn’t provide long time care, but they said if started ECT, I could stay on the ward for several more weeks. About half the patients there were receiving treatments. I went there hoping for state of the art, but that was all that they could offer me. At twenty-seven and a lawyer, though, even with my ‘intractable’ depression, it didn’t seem like a risk I could afford to take. Or that I was willing to, as long as I still days I was able to go on living. I watched my mom go through ECT more than a decade ago. I didn’t think it was a good idea before she did it and thought it was an even worse idea once she finished. She lost part of herself.Nonetheless, in different circumstances, I wouldn’t have had the strength (which was at an all time low for me as it was) to have refused. It did excellent things for one my friends there. She left the hospital no longer suicidal, able to imagine a future again. Yet once home, I had to be one to call her. When she picked up the phone, she no longer remembered how to dial it.
Thanks for NYT link. I’m with Hemingway here [who killed himself after having shock treatments]: “what is the sense of ruining my head and erasing my memory, which is my capital, and putting me out of business? It was a brilliant cure, but we lost the patient.”
Fawning article today in the NYT about how great ECT is. The piece completely downplays the negatives. Normally, I'd offer a point-by-point refutation, but I'm planning to do a video this week about my own experience, which should offer some evidence of the problematic nature of the treatment. I did the whole video yesterday, but the sound got erased, despite the fact that I spent the entire day trying to retrieve it. I guess I have to start over again today, but we're on deadline, and I have a doctor's appt., and yadda yadda. I hope to have it up by tomorrow.
I've been in and out of touch with Juli Lawrence for years. Her website ECT.org is an excellent resource. If you're at all interested in the subject do some looking around there. It provides a much-needed foil to pieces like the below. Also, keep in mind, the person who gets ECT has to wear a bite guard to protect him or her from the convulsions. You can buy one here!
I know Anna Nicole isn't exactly an intellectual powerhouse. And I know she's made an ass of herself more times than seems possible, even in the American pop-cultural landscape, which allows for so much self-ass-making. But I feel deeply sorry for her now that her son passed away. Anyone who watched even a little of that disturbing reality show will remember how crazy she was about her son, and how devoted they were to each other. In a life filled with tumult, Daniel was her anchor. His death remains mysterious, but now the doctor has learned that he recently started taking antidepressants. Could that be the reason he died suddenly? It remains to be seen.
Here's a rambling prose poem from the crazy days. I was in a Texas bus station, waiting with my boyfriend at the time, who I knew hated my illness so much he had come to hate me too. I was deeply invested in him and thought, delusionally, that he might marry me in Mexico—when I got better. At the same time I was struggling to find a way for Judaism to save me from my sickness, and in the habit of magical thinking, I saw religious signs in simple everyday things. My boyfriend wasn't religious, and I consoled myself by thinking if he left me, I could give myself to God.
Losing GodI sat in a plastic yellow chair, the hard curves suited to a body larger than my own. Next to me, present
but facing straight ahead, was a Mexican man who smelled like night time. Was it cologne or colonial imaginings? Next to us, this untethered pair, was another plastic yellow chair, empty except for two day's ago newspaper. And this fingerprinted black & white—this version of how large is our world—is all that kept me apart from the man in the next chair, the devout Jew.Waiting at the bus station I had seen him, the ebony glint of the yarmulke on his red hair, the pendular drift of his tefillin, hanging from beneath his shirt like something intimate, mistakenly exposed. And in his hands, the Torah, I supposed, worn, leather cracked, a much-used tool for prayer, or escape perhaps.
You stood at the ticket window waiting for the piped-in announcement to finish before you spoke again, eagerly planning your departure, fleeing, again, my feelings, my need, my worship. And so, as you surely would have wanted, I walked away from you, trance-like, to that other true part of myself, to a primordial connection that clenches the muscles in my thighs, to that more familiar worship. I walked until I reached that man, until I was brave enough to use him as my pope-mediator, leaving a crumpled world between us.
Clearly, art bore life and not the other way around. So, in a perfect filmic moment, I sat, head tilted, eyes shut, hearing the whistled "s" and wrenching "ch" of his Hebrew as he prayed. And suddenly, no warning (or only the foreknowledge of moments called perfect like these) the door opened and shut, pushing the sun's perfectly directed tube of orange-yellow like a hot bar across my eyes.
And I sat like that, praying in my fashion, warmed by sun and ancestry, until I finally felt the vibration of your steps on the bus station tile. Looking up, your face a dark scowl at my silly pose, I thought, "I have lost God at your side. But I will be returned, if to a different sort of praise."
[Illustration by Paul Ryersbach]
I have a strange feeling they're not getting much work done.
Some of us like to get our news from the New York Times, CNN or (God help us) Fox News. I prefer the Kuwait News Agency, which brings us the news that sleep-related breathing disorders increase the risk of depression. From the article:
Frequent pauses in breathing, labored breathing or reduced breathing during the night are hallmark signs of sleep-related breathing disorder, according to background information in the article. .... Compared with patients without sleep-related breathing disorder, those with minimal cases of the condition were 1.6 times as likely to be depressed; those with mild cases, twice as likely; and those with moderate or worse, 2.6 times as likely. Individuals whose breathing problems worsened over time increased their risk for depression.
Previous studies have shown that depression decreases when sleep apnea is treated successfully. Confidential to Snoring on the Couch in Philadelphia: Read this study. Learn. Live anew.
Breathing problems during sleep increase risk of depression, study finds
Another football season in Philadelphia, another disappointment. I don't even care about football in general, but I'm ridiculously faithful to "my" team, which of course I never go to see or indicate in any way that I care about them.
Yesterday I was informed that the team was playing against the Giants, a great rival, and were crushing them like little balls of foot. Despite myself, I got a thrill. The fantasies started up again: "Maybe we'll be really good this year, and win all the games, and go to the Super Bowl and win it. And then there'll be a parade."
Needless to say, this kind of daydreaming is dangerous in Philly. The Birds lost in overtime, and I felt sad. Then I was mad at myself for feeling sad. "Why did I get my hopes up?" I actually said to myself aloud.
I think people with bipolar disorder are simply too prone to mood swings to follow Philly sports. From now on I'm ignoring them.
A man in Germany has been indicted for selling medication online, advertising his mixture as a "suicide" pill. Apparently, he found buyers on an online bulletin board about how to commit suicide. Six people died as a result of the medication he sent them; 13 more were in comas for days, but they are all coming out of it now.
I wonder how he'll be punished, and what the charges will be. Murder? Involuntary manslaughter? How culpable should he be for these deaths and injuries? Would they have tried (and succeeded) in taking their own lives without his magic potion?
I don't know anything more about the story, but if anyone is a German speaker and wants to do a search, I'd be curious what turns up. Were the people who bought the pill depressed? Mentally ill? Terminally ill? Ich bin ein berliner!
[Ilustration courtesy striatic]
These two youngsters (one of whom looks like Bruce Jenner during his heydey, no?) created this tune for their psych class. Best line: "We like psychology/ Pirates not sodomy..." Well, uh, sure. Who doesn't like pirates better than getting it in the booty? Get it? Booty?
Kids these days. For the full lyrics, click here.
Okay, kids, don't get excited. It's not hot new songs by CocoRosie or anything. I just got an email telling me the following articles (including some by recovery expert Courtenay Harding [pictured]) are available here.
Ellison, M.A., Russinova, Z, Massaro, J., Lyass, A. (2005). People with Schizophrenia Employed as Professionals and Managers: Initial Evidence and Exploration. Schizophrenia Research, 76(1), 123-125.Harding, C. M. (2003). Changes in Schizophrenia Over Time.
In: Carl I. Cohen, Schizophrenia into Later Life: Treatment, Research, and Policy. American Psychiatric Publishing.Harding, C. M. (2002). Beautiful Minds Can Be Reclaimed.
New York Times, March 10, 2002, Section 4, Page 9, Column 1.Hutchinson, D. (2000). The journey towards wellness.
The Journal of NAMI California, 11, 7-8.DeSisto, M. J., Harding, C. M., et al. (1995).
The Maine and Vermont Three-Decade Studies of Serious Mental Illness: I. Matched Comparison of Cross-Sectional Outcome.
British Journal of Psychiatry, 167(3), 331-342.DeSisto, M., Harding, C. M., et al. (1995).
The Maine and Vermont Three-Decade studies of Serious Mental Illness: II. Longitudinal course comparisons.
British Journal of Psychiatry, 167(3), 338-342.
Doesn't this site look serious right now? With all the citations? Just a mirage, I'm afraid.
I just can't stop writing about this woman. Is it because I can see myself doing the same thing in a manic state? Well, no, although I think anyone who's ever been profoundly manic knows how inappropriate the sexual behavior gets. But where does a person draw the line? Can such behavior be blamed entirely on mania? I don't think so. Don't we each have a finely developed sense of morality that, ultimately, kicks in and defies the mania's bidding? Either way, LaFave is going to continue to milk/blame the bipolar for her bad behavior, and popular culture is going to be forced to listen to her.
Now her husband (pictured) has a new book out, and he actually sounds like a reasonable person in interviews. When asked if her bipolar disorder had anything to do with her behavior, he tells MSNBC, "I will say there were definitely some red flags. She did have an eating disorder. But I never in a million years thought she would act like this. I definitely knew she had issues, but I underestimated how big those issues were."
In fact, he goes on to talk about other factors: a distant father, a neurotic attachment to her mother. We have to remember that bipolar disorder is not the same as wanting attention from men because your father wasn't affectionate enough. That's a psychological explanation. But bipolar disorder is a psychiatric illness.
I've decided to use my YouTube powers for good. My prior videos have been funny, but now it's time to get serious. This is the first entry in the mental-health-themed videos for YouTube. The audience that's been watching me and not reading this blog will likely be a little thrown, but oh well. I'll get new subscribers.