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When it's raining out and I have to take an umbrella with me, I worry that I'll leave it somewhere -- like in a doctor's office, or on the trolley. So I force myself to chant: "UM-brella, UM-brella, brella brella UM" over and over again. Sometimes I mix it up, and put the emphasis on "brella," but that's rare.
[Isn't this girl lovely? She's lebonbonmulticolore, and she's from Montreal, which I hope means she has a cute French-Canadian accent.]
Thanks so much to Susan S. for sharing this chronicle of a recent bout of depression. It's such a perfect articulation of what it feels like to be depressed. Susan, we all hope you're feeling better.
This last month has been impossible. Sure, I’ve weathered more, harder, depressions, but this one seems unique. I cannot stop sleeping, and nothing makes me want to wake. I have no reason not to, it takes me away to a kinder, gentler place where I dream a million dreams and hang out with friends, long dead. In my dreams, I am model tall and thin, with legs like a Rockettes. In my dreams I am beautiful, I can get the attention of any man I wanted.Now I know I am dreaming.
A dream I haven’t had since childhood repeats. I’m flying. Flying over cities, flying over the ocean, but not landing.
My lithium seems to be working; I am not suicidal this time. This time it’s different. I am too depressed to dress, so I stay in my pajamas or sweats for days on end. My hair isn’t washed; I don’t have the energy to wash it. It gets adjusted daily in its scrunchie, but that’s about it. I’m too afraid to go outside, even to collect my mail. It lies in the mailbox adjacent to my door, all I have to do is open the door and stretch my arms. But I cannot. It’s too much. Overwhelming.
I went to the store two days ago because I needed cat litter. I came back home ASAP. Talking to the checker was too difficult, even walking a few blocks was overwhelming. I have forgotten how to drive. And when I figured out how to start the car, I couldn’t recall where the store was.
Everything is overwhelming. A daily call to my parents is overwhelming. Trying to read a book is overwhelming.
I cannot seem to write or read.
For the first time in my adult life I feel adrift, cast away from everything. Rudderless, anchorless. There is no rhyme or reason. I’m not working. The money I saved up is almost gone, and I cannot in good conscience go cannibalize my 401k and IRA. I haven’t worked in two years, I’m frightened. I know I need something to bring money in, I just don’t want to spend the next 10 years of my life working in a job where I was overqualified, underappreciated, and bored sick. I don’t want to be in a place where I cycle down, or hear voices that aren’t there, or get paranoid where I think my co-orkers want to kill me like Rasputin.
This morning at 5 a. .my eyes opened as the sun was rising. I could hear birds outside. My cat was bouncing on my chest, wanting me to wake so we could listen to the birds together. I moved to the couch, she jumped on the windowsill and meowed at them, as the sun rose. It was the highlight of my day. Simple pleasure. The cat gets the simplest pleasure out of watching birds outside, and seeing squirrels scamper.
I wish I were like her. I get no pleasure from anything anymore. I feel like I am living death. I’m too blue to even think about suicide, but nothing, not even chocolate is cheering me. I don’t have the strength to lift my arms, as I grab the pillows behind my back and neck and try to re arrange them.
I hear voices. To counteract them, I listen to my iPod, listening to various talk shows and books on tape to hear another voice cancel out my voice. Right now I am listening to Anthony Bourdain talk about food. It’s not even making me salivate.
Last night I dreamt I was flying. This time, I flew around NYC, circling the Chrysler Building. I flew into a window in a brownstone, where I saw myself sleeping in bed, only this time there was a man and my cat in there with me. Maybe there is hope for me. But right now, all I can feel is overwhelming sadness and ahenodonia.
[Photo by Kessiye]
Try as I might, I can't find any upbeat stories about mental illness. Today it's all gloom and doom. It's raining here and is one of those days that makes me want to stay home with my head in a book. Right now I'm reading The Forsyte Saga (a trilogy with an interlude) by John Galsworthy, and it's just about the best thing I've ever done with my time. The interlude -- "Indian Summer of a Forsyte" -- made me cry so hard, I simply could not recover myself for hours. I still feel sad about it.
After my talk at DBSA, the group gave me a gift card to Barnes and Noble. How could they have known how perfect that was? It calls to mind my favorite quotation:
"People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading."
That really sums up my entire existence.
[Part of this image's name is "LZZZZZ." Were I in the frame of magical thinking, I'd see that as a sign.]
The U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that a man is too mentally ill to be executed. This is a big development that I can't blog about right now because I'm in meetings all day (the inventors of PowerPoint should be executed, if you ask me).
U.S. Supreme Court blocks execution of mentally ill killer
I’m sorry to say this, but I followed Paris Hilton’s jail-time woes quite closely. This isn’t something I wanted, believe me. But I’m now working with a prison-reform organization called the Pennsylvania Prison Society, so when Hilton became one of the 2.1 million people imprisoned in the United States, she became part of my constituency. (Someone at the organization suggested we send her a membership envelope, but we’d have to change the dues to—as she would say—like, a gazillion dollars.)When I first heard she was going to jail, I’m ashamed to admit I felt a satisfaction that runs counter to my mission of fostering a just and humane correctional system. If I want others to be treated fairly, I suppose I should’ve advocated for her as well. But since most people are treated like shit, I kind of wanted her to be treated like shit too—just so she’d know what it’s like, especially for women.
Women in prison have a rough time of it. While men in prison often have mothers, grandmothers, girlfriends and ex-girlfriends at visiting hours, women’s friends and relatives have a tendency to slip away, perhaps because it’s not cool for a woman to be in prison; it’s just sad. Seventy-five percent of the women in prison have children, but those visitations fall off too—an inevitable but crushing disappointment.
Women imprisoned in the U.S. are often supervised by male guards (against international standards), and are subject to harassment—a depressing follow-up to childhoods fraught with physical and sexual abuse. There are women in jails who remain shackled and handcuffed all day for months at a time—even if they’re sick, even if they’re pregnant, even if they’re in labor. And women in prison lack sufficient access to mammograms, pap smears and other gross and painful things women need access to.
In Pennsylvania 19 percent of the women in state and city prisons are serving time for a drug-related offense—the kind of time Hilton neatly avoided despite magazine photos of her indulging a penchant for substances. (She should also have been imprisoned for not wearing underwear when she knew she’d be photographed by paparazzi—more evidence of the legal system’s failings.)
The only thing Hilton has in common with most women in prison is that she’s part of a growing trend of incarcerating higher numbers of female offenders. Between 1990 and 2002 the number of women behind bars rose 121 percent—almost double the rate for men.Welcome to the party, Paris!
Even if I wanted to ignore her jail time and enjoy a Paris-free month, such hopes were dashed when, three days after she went in, she was released—albeit with a clunky GPS system attached to her leg. The reason for the release was some vague medical problem, which was trumpeted on TMZ.com as attention deficit disorder.
Poor girl wasn’t getting her meds, they said. Paris Hilton may or may not have ADD, but given the amount of drinking she does (hence the jail term), the medication can’t be having much of a salutary effect.
Another wrinkle is that her ADD medication is Adderall—the stimulant hard partiers take to enable them to drink longer. I’m not surprised she has a prescription for that.
Sniping aside, what’s most upsetting is that Paris Hilton wept a few cranky tears and received immediate help, while the truly mentally ill languish. Bureau of Justice Statistics research shows that fully half of state prisoners have a mental health issue, the tragic result of an inadequate healthcare system and a lack of funding for community resources.
In March the Boston Herald featured a piece by Jamie Fellner, the U.S. program director for Human Rights Watch. Writing about the mentally ill in solitary confinement, Fellner noted, “Why are mentally ill prisoners in segregation? Because prisons have become this nation’s mental health facilities.”
Most people agree solitary confinement is cruel and unusual punishment for the mentally ill, who are three times more likely to commit suicide than their counterparts in the general inmate population. But last year New York Gov. Pataki vetoed legislation against it, and it looks like Gov. Spitzer is poised to do the same. In fact Spitzer’s only concession has been to cut solitary for the mentally ill from 23 hours a day to 21—not exactly a boon for someone whose illness worsens under those conditions. It’s no wonder people with mental health issues are more likely to cycle in and out of prisons and jails.
I have a feeling, however, that despite her alleged mental problems, this was Paris’ last stay in jail. Having now found a sense of herself as a serious person, the self-described blond icon will perhaps become the Princess Diana of the incarcerated set, taking up the cause of, for example, the people of color who are disproportionately represented in the criminal justice system. After all, some of her sort-of best friends are sort of black.
Perhaps incarceration will complicate her cartoonish image, like sticking a swizzle stick into a cup of axel grease. Maybe she’ll join Bill Gates and Bono and Angelina Jolie as the newest charter member of the Hollywood U.N.
Last week her father told Greta Van Susteren, “She sees the light at the end of the [23-day] tunnel.” Just another thing that made her different from the rest of the prison population.
[Image of Paris right after her release from jail.]
Just got home from talking to a DBSA group in Princeton, NJ, and I want to thank Susan S. so very very very much for inviting me. I enjoyed meeting everyone, but I made a faux pas -- it wouldn't be me otherwise! -- because I made some kind of comment that sounded perhaps as though I was denigrating social workers. But I wasn't! I swear to god! I don't know what comes over me.
Let it be said that social workers are the true heroes of this society. They do the most important work, with the least renumeration. And the least acknowledgement.
It was my first time using Philly Car Share, and of course I got lost, and it took me a million years to get home. So I'm just taking the meds now -- several hours late. What does this mean to you? I won't be blogging till later in the afternoon tomorrow.
Today's final dispatch, from Kent R. Thanks to everyone for their participation.
I think some of what I said may have been mischaracterized slightly here. My original story about not taking drugs wasn't offered as a critique of psychiatry itself so much as a refutation of the claims by some powerful and well-funded groups that people with a psychiatric diagnosis must take some kind of medication pretty much forever, and must even be forced to do so if they don't take them voluntarily. I know that no system is perfect, but I think that systems with the power to force people to accept their treatments have more of a responsibility to do things right than systems that have no tools of force or coercion at their disposal.I don't have a lot of time right now to get into a lot of details about the evils of psychiatry, so I'll just refer you to a couple of posts from another blog (Allison Hymes' "Charlottesville Prejudice Watch") that do get into some specifics about this issue:
In What Reality is an Increased Death Rate Evidence of Improved Treatment?”
Common Myths About the Commitment Process in Virginia and Elsewhere
In our ongoing debate about psych meds, Joe writes:
The paradox is that "medication management" may be the only "care" persons seeking outpatient services can access. It is the perfect storm - an underfunded, under-resourced mental health system attempting to cope with an ever increasing service population where complex human issues are addressed by medication alone. The situation is made worse when consumer expectations including expected outcomes are largely driven by false representations. Services are often claimed to be available on demand, comprehensive, culturally competent, effective, evidenced based and predicated on the principles of wellness and recovery. One merely need reach out for help and all will be provided, not.Medication is simply a tool which is neither appropriate nor effective for everyone. (See both the CATIE and STAR*D studies.) Moreover, strict reliance on medication is antithetical to representations of consumer empowerment and consumer choice. There are too many personal issues and needs that can't be medicated away. There has yet to be a medication that cures loneliness, provides a hug when one is sorely needed, houses the homeless, resolves family, workplace or social issues, raises self esteem, fosters a sense of self worth, and so forth.
[Image of a real vintage Thorazine ad from Deco Dog's Ephemera. In the first panel, the guy is in the hospital. In the second panel, he's so frickin' happy to be home on Thorazine, he's willing to hold yarn for the woman he lives with -- probably his mom.]
This just in, from Laura:
Could Kent possibly comment on what he believes encompasses the evil side of the psychiatry industry? I get that he believes there is one, and I'm inclined to agree to a certain extent, but let's talk specifics. Just being glad one is not taking psych meds and doing reasonably well is not an actual critique. Maybe I missed a post somewhere??No system is perfect and no treatment plan can work for everyone as we are all so different. I think there are many incarcerated people, however, that would love an opportunity to experience psychiatry in its current state. It's sort of a continuum, in my mind. But let's hear some call to action points from Kent.
And from Adam:
I definitely agree with Kent - the system as it stands does a lot of damage. And surely, it does take courage to ask for help - and absolutely, there are people who HAVE been helped. But I think that it also takes courage to trust yourself and your own judgment enough to say, this is NOT helping me, this is NOT safe for me.
Here's Kent R. again, responding to some comments to his post of yesterday. These issues are live ones here, and I strongly encourage continued dialogue on them.
I don't take medications or the mental health system frivolously at all. But in my experience the mental health system in the United States is much more likely to be a source of harm than of help. (Though, as I think I indicated in my story, I see that it also has some possibility for good). In some ways, I am lucky to have survived psychiatric treatment at all, since many people who have had encounters with psychiatry similar to mine have not. Their stories are seldom told.Both the opponents of psychiatry as well as its proponents are often very passionate about their views. Usually I avoid expressing such extreme passion - I try very hard to be logical about things. That doesn't mean that I haven't thought very seriously about the things I speak of, or that I don't feel very strongly about some of them. I don't really believe in the medical model that modern psychiatry presents, but I don't object to other people believing that way themselves - because I strongly believe in the right of people to make their own decisions and take responsibility for the consequences of their decisions. Most people seem to have some kind of psychological problems, and I don't see such a sharp line between crazy and sane, but rather more of a continuum of different degrees of severity.
It's just that the overall bad of the system seems to so outweigh the good that I think it is something more to avoid than to seek out. I know some people have had very positive experiences with the mental health system. They may have never seen its evil side, but that doesn't mean such a side doesn't exist. Is it courage to run towards something that you have seen do great damage, or stupidity? When you have had a lot of experience running from a monster that is often destructive, you aren't likely to ever turn to that monster for assistance.
It's a sad day for the drugmakers. The American Society of Addiction Medicine in New York has found that addiction to video games is not, in fact, a mental illness. From Reuters:
"There is nothing here to suggest that this is a complex physiological disease state akin to alcoholism or other substance abuse disorders, and it doesn't get to have the word addiction attached to it," said Dr Stuart Gitlow of the American Society of Addiction Medicine in New York.
Gitlow spoke at a meeting of the American Medical Association. But the next DSM, which comes out in 2012, may well include it.
Here's a dispatch from one of the TWS faithful, Kent R. I really appreciate your all sharing your experiences. Keep 'em coming!
It's been so long since I've taken any psychiatric drugs I can hardly remember what it's like, but I thought I'd offer my opinion anyway (since I sometimes get the impression that not everyone realizes it's possible to be on these drugs at one time but not forever).One of my last crises that seemed to be alleviated by these drugs happened in Philadelphia, actually. It was during the Bicentennial celebration. I had come down from Boston by bus with a group to protest something. My first feeling of panic came shortly we arrived, when I found out the group might not have enough food for everyone to eat that evening. I think I eventually got a bowl of something, and things seemed a little bit better for a while. Then we drove to some church to bed down for the night. We had to sleep on the floor of the church, and it was so crowded that practically every inch of floor space was covered by people laying on it (but at least it was carpeted).
Since I had felt all right before leaving Boston, I had left my medication at home. But all this crowding and uncertainty caused me to have something like a panic attack, so the next morning I found a trolley station and took the train downtown looking for a hospital. When I got there I found a very large one (I think it was Hahnemann Hospital), and I presented my Medicaid card at the desk in the emergency room and told them what I was experiencing. I spent several hours there over the course of the next two days waiting. Eventually they were able to supply me with a small bottle of some drug - I'm not sure if it was the drug I had been taking (Stelazine), or just something similar - but I definitely felt better after taking some of it. Another thing that helped me feel a little better was that the hospital had a very beautiful chapel just down the hall from the emergency room, and some of the time I was waiting I spent there.
Within two or three years of that experience, though, I completely stopped taking psychiatric drugs. First I tapered them off, then I just stopped them completely. I believe that one of the reasons I was able to do this was that during most of that time I had a relatively stable and secure housing environment. Even though I lived in an inexpensive neighborhood, it was well-maintained and interesting (on the cheap side of Beacon Hill).
It's been over 25 years now since I've taken any kind of psychiatric drug. It hasn't been great, but I've had a few accomplishments. I put myself through college, using mostly a combination of grants and scholarships, and got a B.A. (in Communications, unfortunately). I've had a lot of different jobs, most of them short-term, but I haven't been living on the street as is often expected of crazy people who aren't taking medications. For a few years I worked at the post office, before I couldn't stand it anymore and had to quit (but a lot of people can't stand the post office).
So it's possible to take psychiatric drugs for a few months or years without having to always take them. Perhaps the quality of life isn't necessarily all that great without them - but I think it's probably not that great with them, either. I might've developed something like tardive dyskinesia by now if I hadn't stopped. I think environmental factors can make a big difference in whether or not someone has to be dependent on these drugs, and in some cases money spent on providing decent housing and a secure environment can be much more cost-effective than money spent on drugs.
[Image of the Bicentennial quarter.]
![Rock-Candy-Main[1].jpg](http://trouble.philadelphiaweekly.com/archives/Rock-Candy-Main%5B1%5D.jpg)
Yesterday, for my birthday, I decided to allow myself not just to eat whatever I wanted, but to binge. Here is the list of stuff I ate:
corn muffin
rock candy
cornish hen
bagel with whitefish
stuffed artichokes
asparagus
t-bone and ribeye steak
birthday cake
When I went to bed last night, my stomach was so full, I was having trouble breathing. I was drowning in my own corpulence. It was sort of freeing, oddly.
Today, however, I'm barely sentient, so I'm signing off. I'm going to eat more rock candy and birthday cake tonight. So there!
[Image of my fantasy meal -- 'cause I like my shit pure, homes! -- from Jordan Almonds.]
This is a photo of my colleague, Jeff Barg, who is the managing editor of Philadelphia Weekly. He is gazing fondly upon his nephew, Samuel, who was born just a few months ago. (Side note: Jews aren't allowed to name a baby after a person who is still alive; it's considered bad luck. So if they want to pay tribute to a relative, they have to wait till the relative is dead. This means the names often seem kind of old-school. God forbid I should want to name my baby after a grandparent -- their names were Yetta, Eddie, Manny and Bloomie. No matter what happens, in a world of Dakotas and Britneys and Harpers, "Yetta" will never be cool.)
So that's the Cute Fix. I am breaking all the Cute Fix rules by posting a photo of a human being because Jeff, with whom I have a brother-sister-get-on-each-other's-nerves-but-love-each-other-anyway relationship, has started a GRAMMAR PODCAST. Is that not the coolest/nerdiest thing on the planet?
The podcast is an adjunct to his PW column, the Angry Grammarian -- a column I thought was completely insane. Who, other than me and Jeff and readers of Copy Editor Magazine -- would be interested in the proper use of semicolons? Lots of people, as it's turned out. And the podcast goes one better. It's totally awesome.
Check it out here! (Scroll to the bottom of the page for the link.)
EVS sent me the latest news about Mary Winkler, the woman who shot her husband, a preacher, in their home. The murder sent shock waves through the religious community of Selmer, Tenn. Everyone wanted to know why she did it, but there was no clear answer for a long time. She was very reticent.
She got an unbelievably light sentence for that murder -- 210 days and three years probation -- because she was ultimately convicted of voluntary manslaughter, which has a maximum in that state of six years. She's now moving to a mental health facility, which was a condition of her sentence. When she finishes her 60 days there, she'll be able to go home.
MARY WINKLER FULL COVERAGE & BREAKING NEWS
From Adam B.:
I've stopped my meds before either because I missed the "highs" of my bipolarness, or because I begin to view them as a form of evil control that is turning me into something other than my natural self. I try to tell myself, I'll feel fine once the withdrawal lets off. But I always go back on them because I find the cost of those things I think I want ("highs", mind-freedom) are still to dear for me.I can definitely relate to thinking it will be OK and then finding (again) that it won't, and the not-so-faint grief that its true I still need to take my meds.
Masale.Wallah asked who Terry -- the guy who wrote the latest First Person, Singular (below) -- is. That's Terry Boal, and he's a faithful reader and writer for this site. He writes about his experiences with schizoaffective disorder, but whatever your diagnosis, we can all relate.
Unfortunately, Simon Nielsen -- another faithful reader and someone who has brought a lot of humor and joy into my life -- is having trouble much like Terry's:
sadly, this has been my existence for the last 3 nights. after such a long period of wellness i can feel myself slipping again. i foolishly stopped taking my medication 2 months ago believing i could go it alone and travel onward into the sunset sane and happy. now i'm spending night after night awake and mindlessly googling the hours away. my mind feels numb and disconnected. i'm isolating myself from everyone and yet believing it's okay. reading the above entry by terry reminds me i probably should see my psych. again.
Simon, I'm sorry you're going through this. How many of us have stopped taking meds because we felt better and believed we could go it alone? I know I have. How about the other readers here? I'll bet a lot of people.
But you are worth taking care of, and we're all pulling for you. Please do see the psych. again if that has worked in the past. The sunset will seem a lot closer.
[Photo by Melita]
Another entry from Terry. Of all the things he's written, I feel like this is the one that most hits home with me. So much of it resonates as my experience as well. Thanks, Terry, once again, for your honesty.
Ten past two, the fridge cuts out; the silence is so tangible, it’s like a blank slate, punctuated only by the ticking clock. It’s time to move, move from the couch to bed, turn out the lights. Take my meds, brush my teeth.But no, paralysis sets in, symptomatic of the dread of going into my darkened room, the empty bed. At least on the couch here there is the illusion of well being: Sports Illustrated lays open on my chest and Springsteen only just left the building.
I’m passed the point of no return, no sleep tonight; I’m officially up; it’s now tomorrow; Starbucks opens at seven. Somehow the five hour gap must be filled.
Mindless surfing seems in order. I put an Etta James CD in the slot and open up the browser. I google myself just to make sure I still exist in cyberspace. The science fiction writer William Gibson coined the term while watching stoned teenagers play video games. He has never owned a computer.
The cursor mesmerizes me; I rub three days worth of stubble, for some it’s fashionable; for me it’s a sign of decomposition. That gets me off the couch; I shower and shave.
Back at my work station, I google Google there are 265,680,000 hits.
Yesterday I was in siege mode; didn’t get out of bed until three and didn’t go out, except for a brief foray to Subway. My hunger is fueled by elanzopine so I keep no food in the apartment or I could eat a week’s worth of groceries in a day.
I’ve put on forty pounds and now have high blood pressure, cholesterol and blood sugar. My GP prescribes exercise (I ride a bike 15 miles three times a week) and she wants me off elanzopine. Cycling is fine. Endorphins induce well being and relaxation, finally drugs without side effects. My psychiatrist wants to at least lower the dose of elanzopine. It’s only me who’s digging my heels in. It’s a delicate balancing act. One more psychotic break and I don’t think I’ll come back, but neither do I want to shorten my life or affect its quality.
[Painting is by Belarusan artist Vera Asiadouskaya. It's called Sleeplessness, and can be found at Snowbarsk online gallery.]
When I isolate myself people truly are strange so I must get out everyday. If I sleep during the day and don’t leave my apartment for too long thing will go south and I’ll come to in an isolation room with only vague memories of how I got there. But enough negativity, back to Google.I type in Bedlam. I knew it was an English mental hospital around the time of Shakespeare and its name was bastardization of Bethlehem, and of course gives us a word for chaos.
It turns out it was a Priory known as Saint Mary of Bethlehem that was turned into an asylum in the 15th century. People would visit, not so much relatives, but those who came to be entertained: talk about a stigma.
I’m tired of Etta James, but still must battle the silence. I turn to a favourite podcast. This one is about the battle between AC and DC power for mass consumption. It’s macabre.
Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse battled it out to see whether DC power, Edison’s invention or AC, Westinghouse’s would win out. AC was more practical, but Edison claimed it was dangerous and proved it by electrocuting animals and then a man was accidentally electrocuted by an AC generator. Regardless, AC won out, but not without Edison putting up a fight.
At the same time the New York state government was looking for an alternative to hanging. Edison was all in favour of electrocution using AC power, Westinghouse said it would be cruel and unusual punishment and refused to supply a generator so Edison did. For years going to the chair was known as being “Westinghouse”
Sleeplessness’ side effects set in. I think I’ll just lie down for a minute….
Kent R. said soon I'd be getting into hamster towels and sinks and all kinds of other bathroom accessories. I can't find any of that, but in looking, I did discover the Sanrio character Coro Coro the hamster. Pictured is a drawstring pouch with an image of the sweet thing.
In less cheerful news, EVS sent this fascinating article about familicide -- when the member of one family takes the lives of all the others. Though it's tempting to draw conclusions from murder-suicides, some experts fear making generalizations. From the San Francisco Chronicle:
Levinson said a homicide-suicide scenario within a family is uncommon because most people who are capable of homicide won't kill themselves, and the majority of people who commit suicide are not homicidal.
Looks like there's been a crackdown on bootleg copies of Sicko, Michael Moore's new movie about the healthcare industry. A studio exec told E!:
"From our research it is clear that people interested in the [healthcare] movement are excited to go to the theater so they can be part of the experience and fight to reform health care."
How does going to the theater reform health care? I think seeing it at home -- away from bacteria, panic attacks, claustrophobia, and a flickering, seizure-inducing screen -- is much more healthy. Nor do I believe that giving money to Weinstein and co. will reform the system.
Michael Moore doesn't care one way or another. He told E!:
"I don't agree with the copyright laws and I don't have a problem with people downloading the movie and sharing it with people as long as they're not trying to make a profit off my labor," he said.
I'm not telling anyone except you guys, but I've discreetly started a blog for the Prison Society. It's called Correctional Forum, and though I think it'll be less fun than this blog (my PW bosses have a good sense of humor), it will be interesting nonetheless.
Covered topics will include the death penalty, sentencing, crime, prison conditions, re-entry, overcrowding, prosecutorial misconduct, international justice, solitary confinement, supermax ... you know, fun stuff like that. And Paris Hilton!
You'll recognize some strategies, like Tuesday's International, which has some TTWS echoes. On this blog, I've preferred to keep things flexible so we can disregard the categories if we want to. There it'll be more regular, so if you're sick of my inconsistencies, it'll be the perfect place for you.
Yesterday I bought Tinsel the hamster a Hamster Potty, and I'm so happy about it, even though so far Tinsel hasn't paid the slightest bit of attention to it.
King Lear has never been one of my favorite Shakespeare offerings. And as far as mental illness goes, I prefer Hamlet because you get two for the price of one--Hamlet and Ophelia (pictured here, in a beautiful painting by Millais. I've been waiting for an excuse to use this image).
Thanks to Masale.Wallah for the below link. I love it when shrinks get literary.
Diagnosing Lear
I have such a hard time writing short, but this editorial, from the Salem (Oregon) Statesman Journal, really shows you how it's done:
Jail time is no solution to mental illnessImprisoning the afflicted only perpetuates the cycle
The Marion County Correctional Facility is supposed to be a jail, not a mental hospital. But many of its inmates are there in part because of mental illness.
They can't afford private mental health care or won't accept what little public assistance is available. And they wind up in jail because they commit crimes.
Chris Hoy, Marion County's jail commander, can't say for sure how many of the 19,000 inmates jailed yearly have mental illnesses -- he guesses about one inmate in three. His small staff can only evaluate the "worst of the worst," he says. Psychotropic medications to treat the inmates cost taxpayers thousands of dollars each week.
Marion County's situation is not unique. In a guest opinion in Friday's Statesman Journal, Bob Nikkel of the Oregon Department of Human Services described the need for better funding of community-based mental programs.
By financing more programs, the state could help Marion -- and other counties -- break the cycle that lands so many mentally ill in jail or prison.
Hoy says the cycle starts when a mentally ill person has a crisis and does something that alarms people -- trespassing, taking off his clothes, stealing something. People call the police.
Police have no information on the person's history and no meaningful alternatives. So they arrest the person and take him to jail. Once the person is in jail, his Oregon Health Plan coverage stops. He's housed with criminals. The jail isn't equipped to treat his mental illness. If he agrees to take medication, fine; if not, he won't be forced to do so. Either way, it's likely someone else -- possibly a criminal -- will have to be released to make room for him.
Eventually the person gets released, often after serving more time than a person without mental illness arrested for the same offense. Without the Oregon Health Plan, he has no medication. Getting a community mental health appointment can take weeks.
While he waits for that appointment and the needed medications, the person has another crisis -- the police are called ... And on it goes.
That cycle doesn't serve taxpayers, police or people with mental illness. It's time to stop it by providing more mental health care in the community.
I don't think I said it lately, so I'll say it again: I don't believe small children can be properly diagnosed with mental illness and then treated appropriately. It's not possible. It's hard enough to get a diagnosis and medication protocol correct in adults, who are no longer growing and developing and whose behavior is much more stable and comprehensible. In kids? Come on. That's why I'm feelin' Larry Diller, author of the below article:
The new Michael Moore film about the healthcare industry in the U.S. is online in its entirety here. Thanks to Brian M. for letting me know.
UPDATE: It's vanished!
It's interesting to me that someone in Thailand can be famous for being a tutor, but perhaps the word has different connotations there. Here when I think of tutor, I'm picturing the sleepy-voiced nerdy test prep guys who wanted to shoot themselves in the face every time they had to go over the material again.
My shrink recently told me that he didn't think I should live alone. I know he's right, but I was still disappointed somehow. You can know something about yourself, but it always becomes more real when someone else points it out.
Anyhoo, I think it's weird how there's an ad for a bariatric surgeon on the same page as this article. Or not weird, actually. Just kind of depressing.
EVS sent an article today about the Puget Sound Veterans Administration quickly cleaning up two mental health wards that not only failed inspection, but noted that the patients were in danger. I can only imagine how difficult it is for residents of these facilities. From the Seattle Times:
Within 24 hours of the inspection, said Dr. Robert Barnes, associate director of mental-health services for the Seattle division, the hospital had started tearing out grab bars, removing side rails on beds and unbolting pictures from the walls.Barnes said these actions upset many patients, who rely on such homey touches as bulletin boards with notes and pictures above their beds.
The issue is one of suicide prevention. Inspectors who saw similar conditions three years ago didn't cite the hospital similarly. But I imagine that increasing reports of veteran suicides have made changes in the hospital environment more urgent.
Of course, the real solution would to stop sending people to fight in pointless wars. But whatev.
VA mental wards getting fast redo after flunking inspection
If we all agree that the greatest sacrifice a person can make for their country is military service, how can we justify treating our veterans so terribly? It disgusts me. From the AP:
Michael O'Rourke, assistant director of veterans health policy for the Veterans of Foreign Wars national organization, said that of the 686,000 veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan who have been separated from the service, more than 39,000 have been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, a risk factor for suicide, at Veterans Affairs facilities.O'Rourke said there is a potential for far more to be diagnosed, and he worries what will happen when some 700,000 additional veterans mustered out of the service.
The Veterans Affairs system acknowledged in a May report shortcomings in its mental health programs and is bracing for a rise in mental health needs.
Oh, I'm tired. Migraine city last night and early today. But I'm awake now, and at work, and rarin' to go.
One thing I've been wanting to say is that sometimes we get a little judgemental about the course of treatment others have chosen. I do it, the commenters here do it -- I think it's only natural. But we should respect each other's decisions: If you take meds, and you feel that works for you, great. If you don't take meds, and you feel that works for you, great. My mother used to say, rather wryly and sort of out of context: "Whatever gets you through the night." But there's something to that. Isn't that what we're all trying to do here? It's like rock climbing -- we move from one foothold to the next, and each step is challenging and sometimes draining. But each time our foot connects successfully, we feel we've achieved something important. Maybe you rock climb in a gym. Maybe you go to Patagonia to do it. Is this metaphor crapping out on me? Hmm.
My point is ... well, you know my point. Like, if you think cod liver oil will ease your depression, who am I to say no? I'm not Norwegian:
Cod liver oil may help with depression
“Romantic love is mental illness. But it's a pleasurable one. It's a drug. It distorts reality, and that's the point of it. It would be impossible to fall in love with someone that you really saw.”
About a week ago I was looking at my knee and saw a brown fleck of cereal. I wasn’t looking at my knee with purpose, but with that googly-eyed blankness that gets you into trouble when you realize your eyes have been focused for 10 minutes on a large frowning man across from you on the bus.
I realized the fleck of cereal had clung to me for hours—since breakfast. What a tenacious little flake! I almost admired it.
I leaned in closer to see how, Newtonianally speaking, the flake had held on, and then had a horrifying realization: That brown spot was no flake of Special K Vanilla Almond. It was an age spot.
I don’t like to curse in print, but my first thought was, “Are you fucking kidding me? An age spot?”
I’m 38, and apparently my liver is already preparing to jump ship.
The age spot is just the latest in series of sickening revelations.
Not long ago I went to the dentist because it felt like I’d lost a tooth. “See this big hole?” I asked my dentist, working my pinkie into the gaping maw that had once been a tooth. “I lufost a toofth, I finkf.”
“Nah,” he said, rolling backward on his weird little dentist stool, “you didn’t lose a tooth. They’re just crowding toward the front. It’s part of the aging process.”
I wanted to stand up, rip off the stupid bib and spit a plastic cup’s worth of Scope in his face. Aging? I had braces and glasses at the same time for nothing? My straight teeth—achieved after so much medieval torture—were temporary?
It’s just too much.
In the last couple years I’ve gone from not aging at all to being like an adult with progeria—aging 10 years for every one that passes. This suddenness of hips, of flaps where there once were triceps, has been so traumatic that every time I see a twentysomething woman on the street I want to grab her and shake till her belly button ring pops out. I want to send out a message in a bottle—so urgent, it’s basically a Molotov cocktail:
If you’re in your 20s, the total package of who you are will never be better than it is right now. Sure, maybe you’ll get a cute yoga butt when you’re 40, but you’ll have crow’s feet or veiny hands or an age spot above your right knee.
You think you know where your nipples are, girlfriends? You know nothing.
I wish someone had said all this to me even before I was in my 20s. In high school and college I wore billowing shirts and baggy vintage dresses to hide what I called my “pot belly.” I dieted and dieted. I kept a notebook listing every morsel that passed my lips. I went to Weight Watchers, then binged on ab-exercise books that gathered dust on my shelves.
Many times I had sex with the lights off because I thought my little belly would horrify the young men I slept with. They were probably just grateful, as boys that age are (another thing to remember, ladies).
A whole decade of my life was marred by time spent mooning over why my body wasn’t right. I hungered for answers, following every tidbit of advice burped up by Oprah and Geraldo. I spent hundreds of dollars: sports equipment, Cosmo by the cartful, diet pills that cost $30 a bottle.
At no point was I satisfied with my body. At no point did I look in the mirror and say, “I’m a beautiful girl.” But I should have. I should’ve known I was beautiful and young, and how ephemeral that is.
I hear young women all the time talk about diets and bikinis and fat thighs. I want to tell them they should enjoy themselves now and forget all that—there’s plenty of time for self-absorption and depression. Why start so early, and at the top of your game?
I don’t mean to sound preachy. But I wonder what we achieve by torturing ourselves this way.
My mother has been on a diet since I was a child. None of them has worked for more than a couple months. She’s spent decades trying to reach a place that was apparently off-limits to her from the beginning.
She weighs the same now as she did when she was 40—maybe a little more. And she spent all those years dieting, feeling deprived, frustrated and exhausted. For what?
I feel sorry for all the women who stand in front of the mirror, turn sideways and hold their stomachs in; all the women who buy jeans that don’t fit so they’ll have a goal to reach; all the women who turn down delicious food because they’re afraid to have an appetite. I myself actually spend hours each month being gloomy because I’m an apple shape instead of a pear.
Hence my message. Young women, you look wonderful—all of you. Please don’t spend your time criticizing yourself. Please understand that time is short. Enjoy your beauty now, because before you know it, you’ll have an age spot where your nipple should be. And that, as I used to say ad nauseam in my 20s, is wack.
Thanks to Jonathan S. for sending me a link to the following list from Omni Brain:
Top Ten Annoyances to People with Bipolar Disorder
10. Free unsolicited pharmacological advice from everyone met.
9. Bi-Polar gratuitous hyphenation. It's not two words!
8. Scars on wrists ending dreams of career as hand model.
7. Endless personal stories about side effects in support groups. They can already see the fat.
6. Manic irritability.
5. Credit card bills from buying a dozen pairs of shoes at once.
4. Hypersexuality is a good thing, no outdated morals please.
3. Positive recovery wellness self-determination Pollyannaism.
2. Unfinished past manic projects strewn about blocking path to door.
1. Stigma. That's not funny.
Susan S. sends in another funny headliine, which I can't resist posting:
Iowa Woman Named Butts Charged With Theft of Court's Toilet Paper
Oh, and yes, I am in fifth grade.
This is from Sarah Watson:
When I moved to Philly, I was able to find fantastic psychiatric and psychological care fairly quickly. I did have run-ins with people who shouldn't be practicing medicine, but those were rare and I could find someone to advocate on my behalf. While my insurance company was pretty useless for paying for things, I was fortunate enough to find professionals who were willing to work with me (and parents who were willing to help out when I couldn't afford bills.)Now that I moved to small-town America, I've been absolutely stunned at how crappy the care is. While I know there are some gems in the rubble, those serving areas that aren't necessarily wealthy tend to
fall into the category of NEXT.In my case, I'm willing to pay out of pocket for a psychiatrist, but they just don't exist. I've even tried getting in with a practice in a town where the only major medical center in is located (an hour-and-a-half drive each way) but they don't return calls. I've been reduced to begging my primary care doctor for my pills and hoping a neurologist will work with me.
I fired the one psychiatrist I was seeing because of numerous things, including not listening to me and making pharmacological decisions based on what a slick, well-dressed drug company rep was pushing the day before.
While I'm not sure I want to return to a major metro area because of my career, I'm wondering if I'm going to have to move back to a big city just to find a competent doctor who actually lets me make my own decisions rather than acting as an uninformed dictator.
Do you know anyone in similar situations? Additionally, has anyone had doctors who don't listen to patients and believe their patients can't possibly be smart enough to know how to handle their care?
[Photo by moi.]
Why do mental health facilities so often confidently assert that someone is not at risk of suicide -- mere days after he tries to kill himself? This happens all the time, even in England, as this article demonstrates.
Brain Holds Clues To Bipolar Disorder
I thought it was the elbow!
Former India Cricketer Maninder Singh Denies He Committed Suicide
I, for one, believe him.
I have no idea who Amy Sky is, but according to this article, she's a beloved Canadian singer-songwriter. Sky suffered postpartum depression twice -- both time with psyhcotic features. When her third episode of depression hit, she finally got help. Now she's outspoken about her troulbes, which can only be a good thing for people who actually know who she is.
Despite being progressive on correctional issues, New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer is less enlightened on the subject of mental illness. Cara Matthews of Gannett writes:
A bill to end the practice of placing seriously mentally ill inmates in solitary confinement passed the Senate unanimously Thursday and is likely to breeze through the Assembly.This would be the second consecutive year both houses passed the measure, but it appears likely that Gov. Eliot Spitzer will veto it, just as his predecessor, George Pataki, did.
The governor’s Budget Division said in a memo the state would have to treat an estimated 1,500 to 2,100 inmates based on the bill. Shifting prisoners and building new treatment centers would leave excess capacity equivalent to two prisons, so the state would have to pursue closing existing facilities, it said.
That's certainly one way to torpedo legislation -- make the public think they would have to pay for it. But ...
Advocates said they believe the number of affected inmates would only be about 600 inmates. The legislation would be for people with serious mental illness and whose behavior was directly related to that, said Harvey Rosenthal, executive director of the New York Association of Psychiatric Rehabilitation Services.“With the passage of this bill, we think that New York will have taken all of the steps necessary to properly reform our prison mental-health system,” Rosenthal said.
That sounds a bit rosy, but the guv isn't buying it. That's a shame. Says the sponsoring legislator, Sen. Michael Nozzolio (a Republican):
“With this bill, New York is recognizing that there are certain forms of punishment for inmates with serious mental illness that are inhumane and counterproductive."
I have to say, I have a little bit of a weakness for Mandy Moore. Not like I have a crush on her or anything (she's no Jeremy Northam), but she's always struck me as honest and sweet and authentic. Knowing that she struggles with depression has just made me all the more fond of her, but some of her most recent quoted remarks make me wonder if she'd rather not have disclosed this stuff after all. From Tittle-Tattle in the Post Chronicle:
Singer/actress Mandy Moore says, "I'm a pretty positive person, but about a year and a half ago, I felt like someone dimmed the lights. I've said depressed before, but it wasn't that I was incapable of going on about my day. I just felt sad and confused. I was asking, 'Am I really the person I want to be? Am I really fulfilled?' I noticed that my posture was sort of hunched over, and that I wasn't good at taking compliments. I came to terms with that through writing this record."
Emphasis mine, because that struck me as something you would say if a publicist told you to stop talking about being depressed. But Mandy, if you ever want to dish about mental illness, you know where to come. We're waiting for you!
In response to yesterday's mention of Chihuahua Puppy medication:
Warning, patients on Chihuahua Puppy(TM) have experienced periods of sleep apnea followed by blurred vision and general difficulty in depth perception. Patients have reported episodes of slurred speech that is heavy with a totally disgustly-offensive-stereotypical "mexican" accent. Changes in personality include disorientation and vivid nightmares about "Chalupas" and various dollar menu items are common, (this can be followed by Diarrhea, Constipation, Nausea and oh sorry! that's for the "dollar menu" items not Chihuahua Puppy (TM)!.See your doctor if you experience Jaundice, Tachycardia, Bradycardia or general affection for Vicente Fox as this could been signs of a serious problem.
Only you and your doctor know. So inquire about Chihuahua Puppy (TM)today!
"Yoawl Bea Glawd Juu Deed Senyour!"
[This post allows me to post another photo of a Chihuahua puppy, so let's keep it going!]
Today hasn't been a good day for me on a personal level. Nothing especially fascinating, but persistent enough that I haven't been free of anxiety enough to blog. So instead of an Ativan, I'm taking a dose of Chihuahua Puppy (TM), which is just out from AstraZeneca.
From ttq:
"Depressed man on bridge slows speeding cars down to a safe rate of speed during a recent foggy day. After being talked down, speeding commenced."
From HS, who says, "May not be PC, but:
"Man Hears Voice of God- Establishes Christianity"
Again, regarding the idea of positive headlines about people with mental illnesses:
"Depressive frees the slaves."
Genius, Alison Hymes. Pure genius.
From HS:
"Recovering Addict Runs Country"
I love it!
In response to the post and associated comments regarding the Fox headline about the "bipolar mother," Mark writes:
It's so true its funny. "Bipolar man saves family from fire" -- you never see headlines like that. Or "Schizophrenic homeless man helps woman with flat tire."
How about "Manic woman does yard work for everyone on her block."
Any others?
[Image from the National Talk Show Guest Registry ("When only the best guest will do")]
I'm experimenting by wearing my part on a different side today, and it's making me really anxious.
I've noticed that since I got my new hamster, Tinsel, my mood has been much better. He's such a sweetheart. Great personality, and the way he runs around in his hamster ball is just too cute for words.
The fact that pets are good for depression is kind of a no-brainer, so it's no surprise that Eli Lilly has decided to jump on the animal-love bandwagon. From the Indianapolis Star:
Eli Lilly and Co. today is touting its sponsorship of Support Partners: Canine Companions. The program is designed to help people incorporate dogs into people’s recovery from depression.Actress Linda Dano, who won a Daytime Emmy in 1993 for her role as Felicia on Another World, leads the program. Indianapolis-based pharmaceutical giant Lilly is a co-sponsor with Psychiatric Service Dog Society. The nonprofit works with mental-health consumers who wish to train their dogs to assist with the management of depression.
“Taking your dog for a walk can help you get some exercise,” said society president Joan Esnayra in a statement issued today. “Teaching your dog a new trick can give you a sense of accomplishment. Even petting your dog can help with your recovery by relieving stress and anxiety.”
No mention of hamsters, but jeez, why not? Check out this photo (via Baruchito.com) of a bebeh hamster. It leaves me speechless -- and happy.
Always funny in my book, but you may feel differently. Thanks to Kent for sending this, and sorry it's taken me (cough) about a year to post it.
Susan S. sent me a link to the sensational headline on Fox News (isn't that redundant?) about a woman, Malekah Rankins, who abducted her son. The headline reads "Desperate Search Continues For Boy Abducted By Bipolar Mother," and Susan questions--as I do--whether it's necessary to trumpet the mother's illness in the headline like that. Take away