When I was in college, I was one of the founding members of the Sexual Assault Support Team (SAST), which was a rape-crisis hotline. I carried a beeper, which at that time was as large as a computer monitor. As a rape survivor, it was important to me to be an activist for the cause. In the beginning we didn't get a lot of calls. I got a few about gray-area date-rape incidences, and a really chilling one from a guy I knew. He called to tell me he thought he might have raped and sexually assaulted girls, but he wasn't sure of the criteria. He was kind of tortured, but it freaked me out. At 19, you're just not ready to deal with such confessions.

Later, a friend started dating a different guy--one I got a phone call about. The woman who called the hotline told me his name--let's call him John-- even though I asked her not to. (Oberlin is a tiny place. It's hard to keep secrets.) So when my friend hooked up with John, I couldn't tell her why I held him in such contempt. I stewed about it for months, but knew I had to keep every call confidential. They broke up soon, as people in college do. And the hotline was disbanded a couple years ago after its own membership decided it was racist. Only at Oberlin could you have a 24-hour emergency resource completely obliterated because it was "created in a white space."

Anyway, I haven't thought about this stuff for ages, but was reminded of it when EVS sent this BBC article about a helpline.

Suicidal girls calling for help

[Image from Ohio University's vintage print advertising archive]

Posted by liz at 04:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Your biweekly Trouble With Spikol column:

>> THE TROUBLE WITH SPIKOL

A Gong in My Heart

Someone should stop me, but until they do, I’m Diana Ross.

by Liz Spikol

I don’t think it’ll increase my social standing to admit this, but I was one of those kids who was always in the school play. And the choir. Actually, I was president of the choir.

It started at my wacky elementary school. For our first musical—a Mexican peasant folk tale—I had only a small part. I stood in the back layered in embroidered cotton, and dinged the triangle (the lowliest of “instruments”) every few minutes.

But the next year my freakishly high voice was discovered, and I got to do a duet. The song was called “The Silkie,” which we were told was about a beautiful gray seal. But if you look up the word on Wikipedia, it says the silkie is a variety of chicken, which makes the song less poignant.

From then on, I was featured prominently in all musical performances. My voice was so praised, I became a member of the Philadelphia All Girls Choir, and in summer camp I triumphed in Hair and Bye Bye Birdie. High school brought Guys and Dolls, Godspell and The Pajama Game. I got shut out of Pippin, though. I probably shouldn’t have done a dance routine in the audition.

My senior year I quit the choir to focus on acting, which is funny in retrospect, and my choir director was angry. So my only part in the senior musical was an awkward “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” performance, for which I had to do complicated dance steps while maintaining one line of a three-part harmony. My choir director took great pleasure in my flop sweat.

Soon the House That High C Built came tumbling down. My voice got deeper. My voice teacher moved out of town, taking my vibrato with her. The All Girls Choir disappeared into a heartbreaking no-one-cares mist. My access to vocal passion died, and I’ve been nursing the disappointment ever since.

But in my secret heart, I’ve always thought that given another shot at “The Silkie,” I could make it work. But I don’t think it’s playing on the karaoke machine.

You’d think I’d be a karaoke natural. But I can’t do it. My investment is too high. If I fail, it’ll be like the time I forgot the words to “If I Were a Bell” in Guys and Dolls. Crushing.

But everyone does karaoke. People with the worst voices in the world get up there and sing their hearts out. They alight on D-flat instead of D-sharp. They ignore glottal stops and diphthongs. They’re unmanned by key changes. Yet still, they sing.

The other day I decided to do karaoke at home using an online program called SingShot. It’s a website where 74-year-old men from the United Kingdom sing Dionne Warwick—poorly. I had to join. I turned on my iSight camera and tried a variety of songs for what I call Sweatpant Karaoke—performed in the comfort of one’s own home, unbothered by drunk hecklers and wannabe American idols.

I decided to choose songs I knew well so I wouldn’t get confused by the bouncing ball. I started with the Julie London version of “Cry Me a River,” which has been a bathroom favorite of mine for some time. I love the line, “Told me love was too plebian/ Told me you were through with me and … ” Isn’t that genius?

The bathroom, I learned, is deceiving.

Next I did “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” a classic from eighth-grade sleepover parties. I tried to sound like Olivia Newton-John, but sounded more like Steve Irwin. Delete.

Then came “Touch Me in the Morning,” a no-brainer. It ended up being my favorite because I really felt I was channeling Diana Ross, which is, as anyone who knows me could attest, an amazing transformation.

Finally, I sang “Evergreen,” that horrible Barbra Streisand song that begins, “Love, soft as an easy chair.” What does that even mean? Like a velour recliner? I kept getting stuck at that line, which is a problem because it’s the first one.

Playing around on SingShot was the first time I’d seen or heard myself sing in 20 years. I wasn’t as upset as I thought I’d be. I mean, I wasn’t good, but I wasn’t as bad as some of the other people on that website—and they were karaoke professionals!

In fact, I started to think my talent had come back. I teared up watching myself become Diana Ross. But later that evening I found my boyfriend doubled over at the computer, tears rolling down his face as he watched my karaoke videos. He was laughing harder than I’d ever seen him laugh, and there was no question of at-me-or-with-me, sad to say.

My dreams of being a soul singer or jazz chanteuse fully dashed, I decided to go with more musical theater—this time a song from the soundtrack to Fame. To get a sense of the pageantry and emotion Fame can generate, I’d suggest you go to www.philadelphiaweekly.com, where I’ve posted my karaoke debut. And I encourage all former musical-theater geeks to join me in this crusade to return to our roots. Who’s going to sing “Day by Day,” if not us?

See Liz's video here

Do you have a Sweatpant Karaoke video you want us to post on our website? Email lspikol@philadelphiaweekly.com !

Posted by liz at 02:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Clearly, this Toronto case is more complex than delusions related to schizophrenia. In fact, the judge cited "several serious problems in [the offender'] makeup" in addition to his supposed schizophrenia, including " his anti-social personality traits that include psychopathic attributes, substance abuse and sexual sadism."

It's interesting how often people conflate mental illness and personality disorders, which are not the same thing. Ted Bundy [pictured], for instance, had an anti-social psychopathic personality. He wasn't mentally ill. Seems like this case is putting the two problems together, and I imagine they can indeed co-occur.

Attacker a `dangerous offender'

Posted by liz at 09:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Or perhaps just exceedingly observant. At the same time I was writing my plea for Britney to get mental healthcare, TMZ.com (the best site for gossip) had this tidbit (emphasis mine):

TMZ has learned Britney Spears' troubles may have little to do with substance abuse. Sources say doctors at her rehab facility think the underlying reason for her trouble may be post-partum depression.

Sources tell TMZ that Britney's doctors have two operating theories -- either that she suffers from post-partum depression or bipolar disorder. The doctors strongly believe post-partum is the problem.

As for substance abuse, as one source says, "No doubt about it - she likes to drink." But doctors believe the drinking is a way Spears has coped with a bigger problem.

We're told Britney, who is sticking it out at the Promises rehab facility in Malibu, is currently reading Brooke Shields' book, "Down Came the Rain," in which Shields reveals her battle with post-partum depression.

We're told doctors believe Spears' problem is complicated by an intense feeling on her part that she has lost control of her life.

There's also a poll at the site: "Do you feel sorry for Britney?" At the moment 59 percent say yes, but it's close.

[The image here is from Brit's online store, where she sells her perfume--named "In Control."]

Posted by liz at 06:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My history with Britney Spears has been fraught. (I can't believe a reasonably intelligent person wrote that sentence.) I hated her and her stupid music for years, and was offended by her marketing of herself as a barely legal sex kitten. On her reality show, she demonstrated how vapid she was; it wasn't pretty.

At the same time, I felt sorry for her. She'd grown up under a glaring spotlight, and like so many child stars, seemed to be devoid of an identity that didn't revolve around celebrity. I wondered if that's why she seemed so empty on her show. Maybe she wasn't dumb, but didn't have an opportunity to cultivate any depth or intellect. She was potential, unfulfilled. Maybe.

I do remember quite clearly an episode of female jealously and hostility, many years ago, when a boyfriend drooled over a bikinied Brit in a magazine. "I guarantee you," I said petulently, "she won't age well. Those thighs are destined for serious cellulite." I was embarrassed that I even said that. But I was angry that my thin thighs weren't being sufficiently praised--and I was even older than she was!

Now, as everyone knows, Britney is in serious meltdown mode, and she's in rehab after a strange shaving mishap. But while the media wonders about her alcohol and drug use, I'm thinking it's her mental health that's really the issue. This is a woman who had two children in two years, which compromised her career and destroyed the only image of herself she's ever had. Her husband was a partying lout who tried to get away from her at every opportunity. Her ex-boyfriend wrote a mean song about her. She tried to turn things around only to get slammed in the press for partying too much. (She's in her 20s! Her babies aren't awake at 2 a.m.) She was on the cover of Newsweek as the epitome of trash and wildness. Her new boyfriend dumped her and then sold details of their sex life with the British press.

She went from megastar to mega laughing stock. Who wouldn't be depressed after all that?

Perhaps she is abusing alcohol and drugs, but I'm going to suggest that a rehab facility without mental health treatment is a big mistake for her right now. Not all rehabs know how to handle psychological problems; I know this from personal experience. I hope they know what they're doing over there.

Anyway, that's all about Britney. I just had to get that off my chest. She needs mental healthcare, media people. And there's no shame in saying so, handlers and assistants. I wish her the best of luck.

[This photo of her was taken when she was the epitome of celebrity success. Sad.]

Posted by liz at 01:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Antidepressants and Bipolar Disorder: What Do Recent Studies Tell Us?

Posted by liz at 12:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

This comment came in from "Just a Mom":

I have a child with early onset bipolar, this story is quite shocking to me. Our psychiatrist is adamant about bi-annual labs as my child takes Seroquel and Trileptal, she wants to watch for glucose and sodium effects from these meds.

While I'm not sure who is to blame in this particular tragedy, I think some is attributable to all involved. Clearly, the parents were over-medicating with the Clonodine and had been given the back story we have about 10-day prescriptions due to "lost" or "destroyed" pills. The father has a questionable history - was there abuse? Bipolar is heritable - did mom have it too? Where was child services? And finally, given all of the above, why wasn't the psychiatrist more careful - this patient should have been being seen weekly given the powerful medication combination. Also - where was the basic education on medication interactions? I can't believe they were giving this poor child cold medication on top of everything else. It's just so tragic!

The seven fold increase in diagnosis I feel is due to the fact this disorder has only been acknowledged in children in the last dozen years or so. It doesn't mean it was never there before, its just that now it has a name. We have been seeing the same scary increases in the dx of Autism - and I personally don't believe it wasn't there before, I think its because the we now have a name to attach to the symptomology.

[Sculpture of mother and daughter by Nancy Schön]

Posted by liz at 10:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Posted by liz at 04:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The great state of Missouri (well, I'm guessing it's great; I've never been there) has been chosen to host a mental health initiative in the correctional system there. This is a good thing, because our mental health system fails people over and over again, and they get stuck in prison instead of in treatment facilities. Did you know that 16 percent of incarcerated people in this country are seriously mentally ill? Ugh.

From the Springfield News-Leader:

Missouri Chief Justice Michael A. Wolff will lead the statewide task force, according to a state news release. “There are thousands of persons with mental illnesses incarcerated in our state prisons, and there are thousands more on probation and parole who need mental health treatment,” Wolff said. “We believe this initiative will enhance Missouri’s efforts to reverse the worsening effects of mental illness by enabling the state’s three branches of government to formalize a strategic plan to help offenders deal with their illnesses and become more productive members of society.”

[Image of Missouri state flag from the Missouri State Archives.]

Posted by liz at 02:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

I love the fact that this blog even has a policy. I feel so official! But I want to clarify some things.

1. If you say anything personal about another ... person, I will not publish it. Tit for tat doesn't interest me.
2. If you say anything racist or homophobic, I will not publish it. Oh, or sexist. Or anti-Semitic, now that I think about it. You get the idea.
3. I do not publish anonymous submissions. If you leave a comment with your name and a valid email address, but don't wish to use your real name, that's fine. I understand that some of these issues can be sensitive, and privacy is absolutely allowed. But I have to verify that you exist, you know?

I guess that's all for now. Three policies is kind of weak. I'll think of more soon.

Posted by liz at 01:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Thanks to this submitter, who prefers I don't use his name, for sharing himself with us. Keep sending 'em in!

Liz, the reason I wouldn't normally write about my male experiences with mental illness is because it's so, for lack of a better word, refreshing, to read about the experiences of others and to realize I'm not alone. Kind of like being gay (which adds an interesting spice to the soup).

There must be a gene in my family which predisposes us to mental illness. My father and his niece (my first cousin) both lived or are living with depression. I have not been in touch with my cousin for 20 years because I really don't want to know what might be in store for me. Not that I'm worried, mind you – I've jumped from DSM IV-TR 296.33, “Major depressive disorder, recurring, not psychotic” to 296.xx, “Bipolar Disorder I or II”.

Working:

I'm working. Thank God. In about 14 months, I'll vest in a pension plan which will give me medical, dental, and vision care for the rest of my life. I don't care so much about the money in the plan. I just want access to decent medical care. And with my diagnosis, anywhere I go I'm a “parity” case and am not limited to 20 psych visits a year. My job also gives me lots of vacation and other leave, and I'm working very hard on accruing as much vacation and sick leave as I can so that if I have to go on disability retirement after I vest, there will be something accruing.

The benefit and pension issues are huge. Most people are not as fortunate as I am. I got into the workforce early and got two government jobs, both of which paid into Social Security as well as a traditional pension plan. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of people paying into some kind of retirement plan or working for a company (OR GOVERNMENT AGENCY!) which provides for workers at some point in the future. My age (over 40) has played in my favor.

[Image (not of the author) by DirgeElucidatr via Flickr. Sorry if it's depressing, when this entry is not. But I think it's a beautiful photo of a man.]

My experience at work says to suggest that you not “come out” quickly. Get through your probationary period. See what works for you and what doesn't. If you get in and it smells bad immediately, bail right away. If you think you can tolerate your working situation, great. If you need to tweak anything based on the Americans with Disabilities Act, do so after it becomes difficult to let you go. And document everything you say or do.

Drugs:

Medication fucks me up. Luckily, I'm not on a weight-gain drug. Unfortunately, the valproic acid formulation I'm taking, Depakote, makes me look Parkinsonian and I have trouble handwriting, eating soup, carving Thanksgiving turkey, etc. People who haven't seen me in a while notice.

Take your meds. Question your doctor. Get your blood levels checked for glucose, lithium, valproic acid, liver function, etc. Your family practitioner is not going to know enough to do this, so it's up to you to figure it all out. It's hard work.

There are good meds out there and meds that aren't so good. Your body will let you know what you can tolerate. If you can handle gaining 40 pounds and you feel good, then put on the weight and feel good and live with it. I'm more anorexic. I've sent my weight down from 205 to 165. It's back up to 180 now but I still feel fat (6'2”, 34”, no “muffin roll”). Go figure.

Social life:

My family and partner have stood behind me. I would have shot me, I think, just to put me out of the misery and mood swings. I love and admire them for it. And I respect them. For my family, it helps living far away. For my partner, who has to wake up with me every morning, I give special credit. He's seen a steady deterioration over 23 years and it's just not fair to him. We've had a good life much of the time, but my job “irregularities” and health issues have been stressful and harmful to him, just as my father's were to my mother.

I've lost most of my friends. This is not a complaint. I really don't want to put them in a situation where they're constantly asking how I'm doing or if I'm hospitalized or working or someplace in-between. From what I gather, this is typical.

People at work can see me in a “normal” environment and, so far at least, I haven't managed to piss off any of my peers or people who work for my peers. My superordinates, however, are another story which I won't address here. I'm in work which puts me in contact with the public, and because I usually like being around other people, I can smile and make our clientele feel at ease when they visit my worksite.

Outside of work, we go out to dinner once every two weeks with friends who moved to this city about ten years after we did. We're home by 9:00 p.m. My other “social” behavior comes from Internet chat rooms where I can have people perceive me to be healthy and normal. This is inappropriate in itself because it reinforces the avoidance of healthy face-to-face social interaction which would make my life a lot better. It really feels good to be like other people, even if they're as messed up as I am. At least we're messed up on the same level.

The Internet chat rooms are on their way out. They provoke unhealthy and obsessive behavior. I think blogging and skill-building (i.e., learn to use Dreamweaver, etc.) tasks are more useful.

An observation:

I've seen a statistic or two which suggest that people with bipolar disorder tend to live about 15 years less than the national average. If I run the numbers, I'm not all that far off from that general block of time. My goal: outlive my mother. It is the height of rudeness for a parent to have to bury a child. My younger sister seems resigned to it (and has already told me which of the three plots we own she'll place my marker) but I don't want to put my mother through that kind of grief. That's my motivation for today. When something happens to her, I hope I'll have another motivator to keep me going.

Posted by liz at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hocking’s Ribbed Depression Glass Patterns at Cat Lady Kate’s Glass

I thought it was about hoarding.

Posted by liz at 08:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This headline seems weird to me, but then again, I'm weird. Why am I feeling a Jesus reference? I'm not even Christian. Anyway, it seems an oddly colloquial use of words to summarize a scientific study.

But the important thing is: It's chromosome 2 that's the problem when it comes to suicide attempts. Remember that the next time you're feeling down.

Genetic Link to Suicidal Tendencies Nailed Down

Posted by liz at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If there's any question that communism doesn't work, one need look no further than China. Thanks to SAchin for sending this along. It's a heartbreaking chronicle of overzealous mental health treatment--if indeed you can even call surfing the web a lot (ahem) a disease. Then again, it sounds like some of the people treated--one kid spent four straight days at an Internet cafe, not eating or drinking--need intervention of some kind, but is the so-called addiction really the problem? Or are they trying to escape from something larger? It's maladaptive social behavior, to be sure, but it seems it would be best addressed in, oh, every other imaginable way possible before using ECT.

China treats Internet ‘addicts’ sternly

Posted by liz at 03:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Come on, PA/NJ/DE residents. Show your spirit:

Congressman Joe Sestak (D-PA) invites you to a hearing on the issue of mental health parity. The 7th Congressional District will host this forum to highlight the need for and issues with health insurers to cover mental illness at the same level as they cover physical illness. Joining Congressman Sestak at the event will be Congressman Patrick Kennedy (D-RI) and Congressman Jim Ramstad (R-MN), authors of bipartisan legislation to close the loopholes that allow plans to charge higher co-payments, coinsurance, deductibles, and maximum out-of-pocket limits and impose lower day and visit limits on mental health addiction care.

Where: Elwyn Media Campus/Corporate Office, Administration Building on the 3rd Floor Conference Room, Room 317, 111 Elwyn Road, Elwyn, PA 19063

When: Tuesday, February 27, 2007, from 8:30 am until 10:30 am

Hoo, that's a little early. But kudos if you get out there by then.

Posted by liz at 01:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

You gotta sing that headline to the tune of "She's Gone" by Hall & Oates.

Prevention group helps shelve suicide commercials

Posted by liz at 09:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

From an article about a father who feels like he has to give up his parental rights so his child, Cassidy, can get help:

The situation was further complicated after Congressional cuts to Medicaid last year took most of the funds available to pay for Cassidy’s professional care. Congress cut $12 billion to Medicaid over five years.

Posted by liz at 08:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Folks, I lived in Texas for several years, and I can confirm that it is, indeed, a separate country. Oddly, I have very warm feelings about it, despite the rampant bigotry, gun love, anti-Semitism and conservatism I was exposed to there. There's something about Texas ... it kind of bewitches you, like a bejeweled Jezebel.

But the mental health care could be better. The Navasota Examiner has a blistering column by editor Steve Snyder about the state's shortfalls in this area. Good for him.

The state of Texas' mental health care: It's criminal

[This photo is of Texas flag shower hooks. You can get anything with the Texas flag there, or in the shape of the state. Er, country.]

Posted by liz at 04:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Prisons and mental illness. It's always a party in my brain. Thanks to EVS for sending this link:

An Rx to thin California prison population

Posted by liz at 02:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

A bipolar man in Canada who'd previously had amiable relationships with police officers died after a later encounter went wrong. From the Chronicle Herald:

"We were dispatched to provide assistance to a person who appeared to be mentally disturbed," testified [officer] Clement.

Three officers were present and they went inside the garage. To Clement’s surprise, it was the man he’d met outside the coffee shop.

But Clement said he quickly realized something was very wrong because of the way he was talking.

"He gave me directions for where to walk and where to step because I was entering a voodoo garden," said the constable.

"It was obvious to me Kevin had lost contact with reality."

While two officers stayed with Geldart, Clement went inside the home and spoke to the parents, who told him their son has suffered from bipolar disorder since he was 18 and was having a psychotic episode.

Clement testified the parents said he had to be dealt with because he was "losing it."

Things went from bad to worse after Geldart got to the ER and became violent. Three days later, in another violent encounter, the officers shocked Geldart with 50,000 volts to subdue him, but the shocks killed him. At an inquest, his sister passed around photos of Geldart, and shared stories. From the Chronicle Herald:

She talked about the fact her brother loved Monty Python and the Rolling Stones, and how he played with Lego as a youngster and got good grades in school.

But when he got to junior high, she said he began to miss classes and smoke marijuana. He didn’t apply himself in high school and developed depression and insomnia.

He was diagnosed at the age of 18 with the mental illness and would later be placed on permanent disability.

And therein begins and ends, in a sense, a sad tale. In this instance, however, I think the officers sounded very sympathetic and reluctant to use force.

Inquest begins into Taser death

Posted by liz at 09:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

But mostly. I thought this headline was about hip-hop:

Agreement Reached on NWA Mental Health Unit

Yeah, dawg. Straight outta Philly, yo.

Posted by liz at 06:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Men and depression, that's what's in the news this week. I'm always glad to see major media coverage of mental health issues. The thesis of the article is that men suffer from depression in high numbers but are under-reporters. Depression, Newsweek maintains, with some historical justification, is known as a woman's illness--associated with hysteria and emotionality. Women report depression and address it. Men, because they don't want to be sissies, try to supress it.

Also, Newsweek reports that men's depression manifests differently than women's. Men who drink too much, rage or get aggressive are often struggling with psychological problems that they don't even know they have. It all sounds plausible, yet I'm wary of relying too heavily on this notion of masculinity equated with toughness. Haven't we made any progress at all in gender politics? The article even cites the Mars vs. Venus series, which I found extremely limited in scope.

I don't know if it means anything, but I have just as many male readers as female here, maybe more. So I ask you, male readers: What's your take on this? Is it harder for you to seek help?

Moody boy blues

[P.S. Can we stop talking about Winston Churchill and Vincent van Gogh and Lincoln already? Jeez. The man pictured, Mass. Sen. Robert Antonioni, is alive and happy to talk now.]

Posted by liz at 02:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I've often tried to solicit entries from y'all--first-person accounts of your own experiences. I know how difficult it is to share oneself with the public, so I understand why most people don't write in. That's why I'd like to thank Terry Boal, who wrote a very powerful chronicle of living with schizoaffective disorder. Terry posted it as a comment here in response to another account, but I'm featuring it because I think it's well worth reading. It helps us to understand each other. Thanks, Terry, for opening yourself up to us.

Rain pelts incessantly at my bedroom window. What else is new? This is Vancouver after all. Some look on the bright side. They say all this rain makes us appreciate the sun more. The logic is flawed. It’s as if someone pounds their head against a telephone pole and when asked why, answers, “Because it feels so good when I stop”

After tossing and turning all night, I get up, pull on a sweater, jeans and cross trainers and set out to buy cigarettes. Underwear and socks seem superfluous. Not so however. Why blue jeans have been in style so long is a mystery. They offer little warmth and when wet are designed to induce hypothermia. A chill nips at my nether regions.
It’s the hour of the wolf, the hour just before dawn, when our mammalian metabolism is at its lowest ebb. It’s when wolves cut the weakest out of the herd. Insomnia leaves me vulnerable. Alone in my apartment again, I face my own predator, the black dog, depression.

Torpor sets in. I barely muster the energy to get out of wet clothes. In a bathrobe, I retreat to the couch to indulge in self-pity. The prevailing wisdom is it is the eighth deadly sin. Normally I practice good mental hygiene and, by and large, focus on the positive. In quieter moments, however, when no one is around, I let it have its way. It is a guilty pleasure, like watching long dead sitcoms resurrected in syndication over and over.

[Photo by djkubik via Flickr]

I wallow in the fact I am no better equipped to cope at fifty-five than I was at twenty. When I feel good it’s like being able to play with the big kids again.

A comrade in arms, who fights his own special demons, lives in my building. He relished in the fact a branch of his bank was a block away and a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise two. He took it personally when the bank moved across the tracks and an A&W replaced the KFC. I was delighted. Years ago, when in a funk, a girl friend would take me to the drive-in and administer two teen burgers orally. It worked like a charm.

The restaurant opens at six. Getting out again seems worth the try; better than lying on the couch listening to the clock tick. Teen Burgers aren’t on the menu yet, but what the hell, a Bacon and Egger, hash browns and coffee should do the trick. The waitress is putting her key in the door as I arrive. She greets me with a smile. I feel at ease, in my element.

I enjoy the company of friends but don’t need them to get by. I do need the company of strangers, however.

Canadians by American standards are too polite. We are not backslappers or glad handers. This is fine by me. I believe in maintaining boundaries, in being courteous. Simple eye contact and a “Hi” or “How are you?” reinforce innate ties that bind.

I don’t know the waitress’ name nor she mine, but that doesn’t matter. She greets me with a smile and says the coffee is almost ready. I sit and wait. She comments on the weather. I follow suit.

Preliminaries over, I sit in silence, eating breakfast, and drinking coffee over yesterday’s paper. I am in the eye of the storm raging around me. Other regulars come and go. The black dog sits at the door waiting, but for now all is well. You would never know it but the sun rose while I was in the restaurant. Stepping back outside, the rain is coming down even harder. My Dodgers cap and jean jacket offer little protection.

Back home I put on a pot of coffee. I’m sensitive to caffeine. There must be a better delivery system than the cup. An IV drip, perhaps? There is a thin line between a pleasant buzz and cold sweat. Usually my coffee is stone cold by the time I finish it. The university library coffee machine used to kick out battery acid thinly disguised as coffee. One cup lasted all night

In the bathroom I put down the lid and sit on the toilet and ruminate about Elvis. He was found dead collapsed next to the toilet early one August morning. I am going to die. As I’m not suicidal I can’t choose the time and place. For an instant, however, this seems as good a time as any to slip into The Big Sleep. I’m not troubled, just bored. Lassitude defines my depression. The moment passes. I rise and face the mirror. I’m reinventing myself. Before moving into this apartment, I let myself go to pot. I had an aversion to water and my clothes were in tatters. I
I scuttled down the sidewalk eyes downcast.

Now my head is up. My hair is cropped short and my beard smooth. My clothes are clean and carefully chosen. I am vain enough to sport a moustache. I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. The morning stretches out before me like open ocean. The words “Monsters be Here” are written on 17th century maps over these uncharted waters.
My apartment is in a shambles: the sink is full of dirty dishes, the smell of garbage permeating everything, and the public barred from my bathroom.

The phone rings. It’s an old college roommate I haven’t seen in over twenty five years.
He is in town for a couple of days and would like to get together. We agree on lunch tomorrow.
I hang up the phone and frisk myself for cigarettes. I know smoking will only fuel anxiety. I light up anyway. I live in a bubble. Computer crashes or food stains and other tempests in teacups seem to portend catastrophe. Now I really have something to worry about.

Anxiety and depression are bosom buddies. Fear however is something else again.
I can face my fear and climb a mountain and yet panic when faced with paying a cashier.
I put on music. I go for Baroque. It is so mathematical, so precise, and yet majestic. Unlike the Romantic or the Classical music it is never intoxicating. It is cognitive Muzak, which isn’t very flattering except much of it was written as incidental music. It keeps my feet on the ground.

Lethargy gives way to pain. Tears well up. This is not self-pity just sadness. For the most part when I’m alone I’m not necessarily lonely, but right now I’d like to share the music and the moment. A “…tree falling in the forest….” question comes to mind. If I experience a beautiful moment can it really be beautiful if there is no one there to share it with? Of course it can. A life time of experience teaches me that. Perhaps I’m lonelier than I thought.
Ten years ago I was cognitively impaired to the point of catatonia. Crosswords helped me open new circuits in my brain and repair the damage. I download one from the internet and with the aid of the music stay focused. Now rather than a helpless cork bobbing on the stormy waters, I find my bearings.

The sadness is still there, but there is a lot to be said for sadness. Some confuse it with depression. I have been depressed as long as I can remember and only lately cried. Depression is undifferentiated pain. Sadness is more focused.

Lunchtime rolls around and once more and I venture out again. This time I take an umbrella. The rain has stopped. In the north, black clouds shroud the mountains and to the south, towards the border, the sun is shining

Posted by liz at 10:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

From CuteOverload comes this teensy baby sugar glider.

Posted by liz at 02:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Dear God. What's worse than taking money from a dying kid? Murdering a kitten? Biting a puppy? I can't conceive of a bigger crime. The perpetrator, Julie Buchanan, former president of the PTA (this is starting to sound like an episode of Weeds), stole $145,000 from a Nashville elementary school, and callously refused to give the promised money to the dead kid's family. She claimed bipolar made her behave this way, but the judge sentenced her to up to 15 years.

Someone posted this comment in response to a newspaper story: "Hope she becomes somebody's beeeotch real soon! She's disgusting."

[Photo of Buchanan copyright Tennessean.]

Posted by liz at 12:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Sorry for the late notice, but there's a ceremony honoring Barbara Gittings at noon today at the Historic Marker (6th & Chestnut Streets) across from the Liberty Bell Pavilion.

Posted by liz at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The case of Rebecca Riley, the 4-year-old who was overmedicated and died because of it, continues to be fleshed out by the media. In the article here, the Boston Globe asks if Riley's psychiatrist can reasonably be held responsible for the child's overdose (her parents are in jail). The Department of Social Services opened a file on Riley's family in 2002. You can read the DSS timeline, also from the Globe, here. And once again, the New York Times' Benedict Carey takes on the issue of children and psych drugs, using this case as an example, here.

[Image of Rebecca's parents by Gary Higgins/Associated Press/published in the NYT]

Posted by liz at 08:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I just spent a half-hour Googling an ex-boyfriend who I got so close to marrying, we had napkins with our names printed on them. I have no idea where he is now, nor am I really interested. So why am I Googling him?

Posted by liz at 04:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Here is a real question from a real social worker for a real doctor that was published in the Monterey County Herald. It all sounds completely normal (though depressing) until the last few paragraphs. Then you're like, What?

Dear Dr. Gott: I am a social worker and have worked as a case manager and counselor for more than 20 years. I was working in the system and watched the process of de-institutionalization. I do understand about mental illness and have compassion.

My son, age 22, was married for 14 months. I am sure the girl he married, age 19, is bipolar and has a borderline personality disorder. Some of her bizarre behaviors included beating up furniture with a hammer when she could not have her own way, physically beating up my son so badly that he could not work, spending large sums of money in a few hours time, sleeping more than 18 hours at a time for many days in a row and pitting people against each other by telling lies.

She was totally unmotivated and never cooked or cleaned. Her family reached a breaking point, and they could not handle the situation. This girl has been in foster homes and in juvenile detention. She has never held a job for more than two days. She did achieve getting her driver's license during the marriage.

My son had never seen such behaviors, and I am sure he was shocked. I am concerned he will continue to be attracted to people with mental-health problems. He is not open to help at this time, but I believe his pattern of behavior in relationships will not change without help.

Is there anything you can suggest I can do to influence him to seek help? I have been married for 40 years, and I believe I have provided a stable environment for him and my two daughters. One daughter has a developmental disorder; however, she is very independent and motivated. I am sure this has also influenced his pattern in relationships.

Recently, I was reflecting with a colleague. She said that my former daughter-in-law was possessed by the devil. This is a very educated mental-health worker who has a lot of experience treating mental illness. I was shocked by her statement.

I have heard this many times before in other situations. Is there such a thing as being possessed by the devil?

For the good doctor's answer, jump it.

[Image of devil and imp by Cinnablythe via Flickr]

Dear Reader: I believe your son could use some therapy to help him understand the problems he faced in his marriage. I am sure that he has taken a great deal of knowledge away from his marriage and will try, in the future, to steer clear of similar women and situations.

I don't believe you need to worry about him continuing "to be attracted to people with mental-health problems," unless this is a pattern. I cannot comment further because you do not say whether he has had other relationships similar to his failed marriage.

However, counseling may help him to see that what happened within the marriage was not his fault and that he could not have done anything to stop his ex-wife's behavior. He needs to understand that to be able to move on and to ensure he doesn't fall into a similar relationship.

The young lady needs to be evaluated before she does harm to herself or others. Her family should be involved. There are many resources they can use. I suggest her parents call the local hospital and ask for doctors or facilities they can contact for more information.

Then back off. And consider some short-term therapy for yourself. No, I'm not kidding. You are stressed and rightly frustrated by a problem over which -- thus far -- you have had little control. You could be helped by discovering ways to handle this unfortunate situation.

Also, I am confident that your therapist would have methods to help you deal more effectively with your son. He or she might even agree to meet with him to explore options.

With respect to devil possession, this is an issue of faith. Science (including medicine) and the legal profession do not honor such a "diagnosis." I suspect that your colleague was taking a shortcut by referring to the devil as a cause of mental illness.

To give you related information, I am sending you a copy of my Health Report "Mental and Emotional Illness."

Other readers who would like a copy should send a long, self-addressed, stamped envelope and $2 to Newsletter, P.O. Box 167, Wickliffe, OH 44092-0167. Be sure to mention the title.

Posted by liz at 03:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Have a friend in a psych ward? How about a friend who's making herself throw up? Now Hallmark has a new line of cards, Journeys, that addresses issues like depresson and eating disorders. There's even a card to encourage a friend who's coming out of the closet. Life gets stranger every day. Seriously. (Thanks for the tip, Sachin.)

Hallmark Releases New Line of Cards [ABC News]

Posted by liz at 02:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I forgot to share this week's column with you! And it's so beautiful, so moving, so overwhelming ... well, get your hankies ready. Here it is.

The Object of My Perfection

“You have no standards.” I’ve heard that a lot in my life, and to some extent it’s true. But I like to interpret my lack of standards as an ability to appreciate small things. I’m delighted by almost anything.

“Oh, look at that,” I’ll say. “The Police are going to be reunited at the Grammy Awards!” Or, “A mini flashlight came in the package with the larger flashlight. It’s a keychain!”

My lack of standards extends, most significantly, to big-ticket items like cars. Several years ago I was thrilled when I inherited my grandfather’s 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass—despite its sagging interior and cruise-ship dimensions. I drove that car constantly, ferrying drunken friends across town—until the Philadelphia Police Department ran into it during a chase.

I’d parked it on a side street in Old City so I could go to a Fringe event, and when I came back the car was all puckered and hinky-looking. The PD left a form letter on my windshield. Something like, “Your car was damaged during the commission of law enforcement. Call us.”

I called and learned that no matter how many times you’ve donated to the Police Athletic League (or, like, thought about it), you’re dreaming if you think the PD will give you enough money to fix your car. The Olds had to be junked.

Last year it seemed my car luck was looking up. My boyfriend’s mother generously sent a sparkly clean 1993 Honda Accord from California to Philadelphia. I’d never owned a Honda before, but I noted with some delight—okay, a lot of delight—that it was really the perfect car. So much so, in fact, that I started to call it the Perfect Car, making my voice deep to convey capital letters.

I liked everything about it: power windows, a sunroof, soft upholstery, cup holders, a fold-down armrest, cruise control, an adjustable steering wheel … Honda thought of everything!

I especially liked that you could just touch the driver’s side window button, and it would go all the way down—very convenient for toll booths. I felt unaccountably grown-up when I used that function.

I was even grateful for the cassette deck—another delight—because, dude, I’ve got some great Todd Rundgren tapes left over from high school.

When I saw other green Honda Accords of a similar vintage, I pointed like a child playing a travel game: “Look!” I’d say, cheerful as ever. “The Perfect Car!” There was something kind of sad about my enthusiasm, but I felt proud I could value something so unexciting. No Lexus or BMW for me, no sir. I went to a Quaker high school.

Then, on Jan. 14, a day like any other, I walked out of my apartment with a jaunty step, car keys at the ready, and found a bulbous orange vehicle in the spot where the Perfect Car had been. At first I chalked it up to forgetting where I’d parked, though I never do that. I walked down the street, up the street and then all over the neighborhood before it sank in: The Perfect Car hadn’t, in fact, metamorphosed into an orange car. Nor had it gone for a joyride. The Perfect Car was judged so perfect by someone else, it was stolen.

I called the one detective I know, Joe “the Fuzz” Murray, whom I wrote about a couple months ago. He’d said to call him anytime—which I’m sure he now regrets. When I told him what kind of car it was, he said, “Oh, man. That’s gone.”

Apparently—and I’ll give you this tip for free—Honda Accords from the ’90s are frequently stolen because the parts are so desirable. The Perfect Car was probably already sitting in a chop shop.

Thereafter things got very boring. Insurance. Titles. Insurance. Claim numbers. Police reports. Insurance.

I woke up in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat: “Shit! Didn’t I leave [blank] in the glove compartment of the Perfect Car?” And the to-do list just got longer.

Finally, we said goodbye, emotionally, to the Honda, and decided to find a new used car we could care for almost as much. This was also extremely boring. Consumer Reports. Edmunds. Kelley Blue Book. NADA. Credit union. Loan rates.

Calendar pages flipped by, and I got older and grayer with each flip.

But ultimately a decision was made: the Subaru Baja. It has a truck license plate, and enough toting capacity to help during a move—though, um, not yours because … I’m busy that weekend.

It has leather seats, which is a new idea for me, and the owner’s manual says it has a “moonroof,” which sounds more alluring than the Honda’s sunroof. It has cup holders and cruise control and yes, the automatic window function. But it’s a 2004, and in great shape, and unlike the Perfect Car, it’s not an underdog. It’s perfect, but not in spite of itself. It’s, well, smug.

Then again, maybe I’m romanticizing a bit. As Confucius once said, perhaps in a fortune cookie, “Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.” Or as I would say, better a Baja with a Club than a Honda without. Trust me.

[Photo of my new car by me.]

Posted by liz at 01:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Barbara Gittings (above left) was a gay pioneer. She was, as Equality Forum executive director Malcolm Lazin says, "our Rosa Parks." Gittings died this week at 75, survived by her partner of 46 years. From an Equality Forum news release:

Barbara Gittings began her career in activism in 1958 when she founded the New York chapter of the Daughters of Bilitis (DOB), the first lesbian organization. She edited DOB’s national magazine The Ladder from 1963 to 1966. Describing those years, Gittings said, “There were scarcely 200 of us in the whole United States. It was like a club; we all knew each other.” In 1965, Gittings marched in the first gay picket lines at the White House and other federal sites in Washington, DC to protest discrimination by the federal government. She joined other activists in the pioneering annual demonstrations for gay and lesbian civil rights held each July 4 from 1965 to 1969 at Independence Hall in Philadelphia. These seminal yearly protests laid the groundwork for the Stonewall rebellion in 1969 and the first New York gay pride parade in 1970.

In the 1970s, Gittings campaigned with other activists to remove homosexuality from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental disorders. She recruited “Dr. H. Anonymous,” a gay psychiatrist who appeared, masked, on a panel at the 1972 APA conference to tell his colleagues why he couldn’t be open in his own profession.

Gittings also crusaded to make gay literature available in libraries. Though not a librarian, Gittings found a home in the Gay Task Force of the American Library Association, the first gay caucus in a professional organization. She edited its Gay Bibliography and wrote a history of the group, Gays in Library Land. Her campaign to promote gay materials and eliminate discrimination in libraries was recognized in 2003 by an honorary lifetime membership conferred by the American Library Association.

For her lifetime of activist work, Gittings was selected as one of 31 leaders for GLBT History Month in October 2006.

Towleroad obit

Posted by liz at 11:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Though people like me tend to downplay it, mental healthcare professionals do have cause to worry about aggression from their clients, if only because their client base is likely to be more volatile, or at least unpredictable, than, say, that of a dentist. This point was nicely made in an article in Psychiatric Times, the most widely read publication in the field of psychiatry. It's a journal I rarely read, but my psychiatrist lent me a copy because he thought I might be interested in some of its content. When I took it from him and started to read the cover story, I quickly realized that I was quoted in the cover story. I held it up and shook it. "Did you see this?" He hadn't. Nor had he seen the fact that he was also quoted in the story. Nor had he noticed that his father, also a psychiatrist, was mentioned. Oh, the incestuous world of psychiatric pundits.

That weirdness aside, the article by Richard A. Sherer is worth reading, and it's timely: A new report suggests that the 19-year-old who killed his psychiatrist is not criminally responsible for his actions, in part because he wasn't taking his medications. He is now competent to stand trial because he's on the meds again.

Violence Against Mental Health Professionals: Fenton Death Highlights Concerns

Report: Teen Not Criminally Responsible for Killing Psychiatrist

Posted by liz at 02:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

TTWS reader Laura gives us her point of view:

I was in SF in November when this first came out. I saw it and was agitated for weeks. When I got home, I was convinced (and convinced my husband) one Sunday morning that I thought I saw somebody jumping from a bridge near our house. Turned out to be a bridge construction worker coming to look at the bridge expansion project; he did seem to appreciate our concern though.

The filmmakers actually did try to intervene with at least one attempt, but they had told bridge officials only that they were there to do a "documentary on the bridge," not about suicides particularly. Further, from where they were filming, it was nearly impossible to get to anyone after it was clear they were jumping. The profiles were brilliant and compelling.

The movie did cause the Bridge officials to come up with $2 million more to "study the problem." I don't know what to think about that exactly -- Great that they delegated some money, but do they really need to "study" the problem anymore? They know they have a jumper every other week, on average. They know that people that pace a particular area without a camera in hand and return several times within an hour are likely to jump. They can monitor all this with cameras they have. What is left to study? With 2 million, I'm think more security on foot and bikes would be more helpful than any further studies.

According to the filmmakers, they already know why people come there to jump -- the drama of the final impact makes an impact they feel life didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't allow. If you have suicidal ideations at all, you probably should not see this film. If you want to get motivated to start your own suicide prevention hotline, this film will probably do it.

Posted by liz at 11:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Putin and Germans Pushing for a Bipolar World

Posted by liz at 11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Thanks to Kay O and her gloriously named Gimp Parade for tracking down the VW ad, which even a detective was unable to find. In case you can't click on it, Kay O explains it all for you.

Now for my verdict: stupid but not offensive.

Posted by liz at 08:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Always a lovely topic. EVS sends the link to a trailer for the film The Bridge, which I haven't seen because I'm afraid to. It was done over the course of a year; the filmmaker staked out the Golden Gate Bridge, which sees an incredibly high number of suicides, and watched people fall to their death. Naturally, the whole concept has caused controversy, in the same way biologists and anthropologists are sometimes criticized for watching nature take its inexorable course instead of intervening and changing the way things happen. But if you intervene, can your data and resultant conclusions possibly be correct? Can your observations be scientifically substantiated? Does all that matter when a life is at stake?

Oh, how I wish I were still in grad school and able, therefore, to meditate on such thoughts all day. But I'm not, so you'll have to decide for yourselves. Maybe we can do a screening and discussion group here in Philly. Stay tuned.

The Bridge

Posted by liz at 06:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Amber Alert Issued for Menatlly Disabled Michigan Teen

Springfield, IL, February 15, 2007 --(PR.COM)-- The Pontiac Police Department and The Michigan State Police has issued an Amber Alert for a 15-year-old boy, Deon Love (pictured), who was last seen in the 100 block of South Paddock in Pontiac, Michigan.

Deon’s twin brother went to look for him in his room and could not find him. His 35-year-old mother called police after family members could not locate the boy. Deon has bipolar disorder and schizophrenia.

Posted by liz at 03:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Though I watched the SuperBowl (for reasons I still don't understand), I must have missed the commercial that featured a suicidal robot. It was a car commercial from GM in which a robot who's been dismissed from the assembly line is so despondent, he wants to die. In the original commercial, the robot jumps off a bridge in a dream sequence. After mental health advocates objected, GM edited the commercial so that the robot goes to the bridge in the dream but doesn't jump off of it. He's suicidal, but he doesn't ultimately commit suicide.

Business Week columnist David Kiley doesn't think GM needed to change the ad.

Only Weak Advertisers Fold To Special Interest Ad Baiters.

GM Agrees To Edit Super Bowl To Appease Offended Groups

[This image is of a Fujitsu robot. I want one.]

Posted by liz at 03:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Despite repeated efforts, I can't find the VW ad that's got mental health advocates so pissed off. Apparently, the ad features a suicidal man standing on a ledge of a tall building, about to jump. He decides not to kill himself after he hears there's a sale on VWs.

What is it, precisely, that mental health groups are worried about? That people will be spurred to throw themselves off of buildings because of a TV commercial? The Suicide Prevention Action Network USA (SPAN), the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, American Psychiatric Association, Mental Health America and National Alliance on Mental Illness have all condemned the ad. SPAN explains its objection on its website:

"Suicide is a major public health problem and it should not be trivialized. Commercials that portray suicide in this manner makes light of the anguish and tragedy that kills over 31,000 Americans each year. Help us take action on this 'Teachable Moment.'"

I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that while this may be a teachable moment, it makes little sense to ban it. But then, I don't like the idea of banning any form of freedom of expression, including stupid advertising. Granted, VW wouldn't make an ad trivializing cancer, probably, but aren't there more important battles for mental health advocates to fight?

If anyone finds the video of the commercial, I'd very much like to see it. Perhaps I'm wrong about this.

Mental health groups slam Volkswagen ad

Posted by liz at 11:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

First of all, PW now has audio on the website, and this week there's a track by Flo & Eddie, aka the Turtles, aka the band that did one of the best songs ever: "We're Happy Together."

Secondly, the website also has gobs of great video, including footage of a Philadelphia Paris Is Burning-style gay/transgender ballroom competition that is written about by Kate Kilpatrick, who now has my ex-office. Kate, you did a great job on the article; sorry I didn't vacuum enough behind the desk.

Now that I've promoted PW, allow me to denigrate another media outlet: New York Magazine, which I only buy for the crossword. The prose in there can get beyond purple, and I'd like to just give you a little sample. Mind you, the following sentence is not tongue-in-cheek. The writer seriously thinks this is good writing. Comparing Joe Namath to possibly mentally ill Pete Maravich (pictured):

"But Namath occasionally tasted some recognizable version of the good life, while Maravich's warped, single-minded pursuit of perfection hardly seems like a life at all--it's like a Greek myth wrapped in a Bible story plagiarized by an Afterschool Special translated into a cautionary pamphlet about child abuse."

He's also a riddle wrapped in an enigma.

Posted by liz at 06:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Thanks to the technical expertise of PW blogger D-Mac, I can post the below mp3 for your pleasure. It's a sound recording of my sugar gliders purring, which they do when very, very content. It's rare to hear.

Here's how to listen: At the beginning you'll hear a whoosh sound--that's me putting the voice recorder in their little pouch. Then you'll hear some jostling, which you can ignore. After a bit, it'll get quiet except for what sounds like intermittent clicks, and those clicks are the purrs.

Nothing pleases me more than the purring. Knowing they're happy--it's all a mother could ask for.

Little Champ and Rosemary delight

Posted by liz at 03:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It's really snowy here in Philly. All the schools are closed, and so is my office. I had a doctor's appt. scheduled for 9 a.m., and I don't mind telling you it was an OB-GYN appt. that I'd waited months to finally get. So to wake up and see a white blanket was less White Christmas and more Oh Shitmas. How would I get to the doctor?

I called her office several times, trying to reschedule and to determine if she had arrived or was arriving late or whatever. Her office assistant, C., was an unbelieveable bitch to me, both yesterday and today. She was rude and apparently exhausted by my stupid questions, such as, "Is the office open today?". Yesterday I thought maybe she was in a bad mood. Today, after dealing with her with so much difficulty, I realize her mood only has one channel: bad.

Look, C., I wanted to say, we're not negotiating over anything personal. We're literally talking about a very simple thing: Can I see the doctor? It's a yes or no question. No ’tude required. No harrumphing and abrupt hang-ups. Is she in? Is she not in? When will she be in again?

When I told C. I wasn't able to get to the office in time for the appointment because of the snow--not unreasonable--I was told I had to be held accountable for canceling the appointment and therefore wouldn't be seen until March 28--even though I had an urgent matter to discuss.

Ultimately, I begged to be seen today even though she didn't want me to come in after the given hour. She made it sound like they were incredibly busy, but when I got there I was the only patient and C. was on the phone ordering take-out food. She wouldn't even look at me. My doctor, a super nice person, apologized for C.'s behavior without my mentioning it, but that doesn't excuse it.

Here's my message for C.: I have healthcare needs. You work in a doctor's office. This isn't rocket science. You're not the gatekeeper to anything that belongs to you. If it makes you feel superior to keep people from getting the care they need, you're in the wrong job.

Of course, I'd like to talk to my doctor about this further, but I won't. Why? Fear of retribution. C. could prevent me from seeing my doctor again. How effed up is that?

[This image is a public service: Women, don't forget to do breast exams. Men, if you're titillated by this poster, you need to get out more.]

Posted by liz at 01:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Thanks to Sachin Karol (who hasn't been heard from in quite a while) for sending along an article about the impact of evolutionary biology of the field of psychiatry. The notion that depression serves an actual purpose, rather than senselessly robbing our lives of joy, is appealing. Witness this example from an article in the L.A. Times

Psychiatrist J. Anderson Thompson was treating an 18-year-old college freshman whom he describes as "intensely depressed, feeling suicidal and doing self-cutting."

A few years before, Thomson says, he would have interpreted her depression as anger turned inward. But instead he decided that her symptoms might be a way of signaling her unhappiness to people close to her.

He discovered that his client's parents had pressured her to attend the university and major in science, even though her real interest lay in the arts. In the course of therapy, he helped her become more assertive about her goals. When she transferred to another school and changed majors, he says, her depression lifted.

Voila!

The mind, as it evolves

Posted by liz at 08:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I'm going to try to post this one to YouTube and then here, but I can already imagine that it might take longer than a day. So if you just can't wait for the fifth installment of Liz Spikol's Philadelphia, edited by the amazing Jess Fuerst, go here.

Posted by liz at 08:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

So the big news is that THERE IS SOMETHING YOU CAN DO TO CHANGE THE WORLD. Impressive, no? (I love the infrequent yet judicious use of all caps.) From a news release by NAM:

On February 12, a bipartisan group of senators, led by longtime NAMI allies Senator Pete Domenici (R-NM), Edward M. Kennedy (D-MA) and Mike Enzi (R-WY), introduced legislation to require employers and health plans to equally cover treatment for mental illness. This legislation, known as the Mental Health Parity Act of 2007 (S 558), would expand an existing 1996 federal law and prohibit employers and health plans from imposing durational treatment limits and financial limitations on coverage for mental illness that do not apply to all other medical conditions.

Action Required

Advocates are strongly encouraged to contact their Senators and urge them to support and cosponsor S 558. It is critically important that strong and immediate bipartisan support be demonstrated for this legislation.

When contacting Senate offices, it is critically important to remind them that:
• Mental illnesses are real
• Treatment works
• There is no justification for a health plan to impose limits or conditions on coverage that do not apply to all other illnesses, and
• After nearly 15 years of delay, it is time for the Senate finally pass parity legislation.

Want easy instructions for how to act? Hit the jump, people.

How to Reach Senate Offices

We recommend that NAMI advocates use a range of methods to reach Senate offices.

• E-Mail and Regular Mail – Use NAMI's Legislative Action Center, a web-based tool, to immediately send a letter to both of your Senators. This tool also allows you to print the letter to mail or fax to your Senator.

• Phone calls – All Senate offices can be reached through the Capitol switchboard at 202-224-3121 (this is NOT a toll-free call) or avoid long distance charges by getting the phone numbers of each Senator’s state offices in the Blue Pages of your local phone book.

Immediate Senate HELP Committee Action

Senator Kennedy, the Chairman of the Health, Education, Labor and Pensions (HELP) Committee, is planning to move S 558 out of the Committee and to the full Senate on February 14. This effort is supported by Senator Mike Enzi, the Ranking Republican on the HELP Committee. This plan for quick action clearly demonstrates the strong commitment that all 3 senators have for bringing this measure forward in 2007.

It is especially important that all Senators on the HELP Committee hear from NAMI advocates both before, and after, the Committee acts on February 14. A list of Committee members can be found at: http://help.senate.gov/./About.html.

NAMI Supports S 558

NAMI has been pursuing insurance parity legislation at the state and federal level for more than 15 years. While these efforts have contributed to enactment of 41 state laws, the 1996 federal law and parity for 9.5 million federal workers, retirees and their dependents, the job is not yet done. It is critically importance that federal law expand to include a meaningful parity standard for the estimated 82 million Americans enrolled in self-insured health plans that are exempt from state parity laws. Enactment of S 558 will ensure that people living with mental illness (and their families) no longer face arbitrary limits on inpatient days and outpatient visits, or financial limitations that do not also apply to all other medical conditions.

Already, 21 senators have agreed to sign on as original coponsors of S 558. NAMI advocates are urged to contact their offices to thank them for support the bill. Click here to view the list of original cospons