Dog-Day Ennui

"Lassitude" also came to mind when I started to write this post, very late last night. I love the sound of that word - lassitude, can you feel it roll off your tongue? - and it's perfect for this feeling. One of the reasons I love language - there's almost always a word for what I'm feeling, and almost always a perfect word.

I'm not sure what it is. Call it ennui.  Call it lassitude. Call it laziness. Call it writer's block. Call it a case of The Summertime Blues. Whatever it is, it has engulfed me, and I feel like I can't really find the enthusiasm or focus to do anything other than the occasional workout at the gym; otherwise, I'm sitting in front of the computer and playing Elvenar (which is a really fun game, by the way, if you're into being an elf, a la Tolkien), or sitting in the backyard with my iced tea, staring at the hazy sun as it beats a slow path from east to west during these dog days of the end of summer.  I feel like the girl in Edward Hooper's painting, "11 A.M.," sitting staring out the window in nothing but my shoes, waiting for something to happen.

EDWARD HOPPER’S “11 A.M.,” 1926

Just sitting there, waiting for it to be noon. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone.... And while I love Hopper, I don't want to be one of his paintings. They're....bleak.

When I started all of this, first Persephone's Pen, Ltd., then Sally-Cat Content, Inc., and finally, the umbrella of GoddessVox, Inc., my dreams were huge. I wanted to not only write for people, I wanted to make my companies successful enough for us to be able to hire and train other women in recovery, so that we could help them acquire marketable skills and move on to a real job with a real paycheck. To help them break the cycle, to help them get to the point where they can take care of themselves and their families as the independent, capable, self-reliant human beings that they are. And my writing; I wanted to share ideas, I wanted to make a difference. 

As it stands at 11 A.M. on August 17, 2016, I have accomplished none of that. My writing, when I get any done, is either pointless advertising copy or corporate blog posts. I have a client with Persephone's Pen that regularly orders erotica, but it's been like pulling teeth for me to sit down and write anything of quality, anything that I'd be willing to actually charge for. I don't charge much - this guy's paying me a penny a word, which is 1/4 of what I earn writing ad copy and blogs (but he's been with me from the very beginning) - but I do take pride in my work, and if it sucks, I'm not letting anybody else even read it, let alone pay for it. He depends on me for quality, for character development. My erotica is the furthest thing from porn that you will ever read. It's hot, yup, but it's also meaningful.

Except lately. Lately, all I want to do is sit in the yard with a glass of peach iced tea and watch the sun move from east to west, wait for the fall. I feel like I'll be better when this oppressive heat and humidity is finally gone and the clear, crisp days of autumn are upon us. I'm not exactly depressed, not in the clinical sense. I just don't have any motivation.

Granted, there have been a lot of giant upheavals in my personal life lately, some of them overwhelming. But, as that well-known sage "They" is oft-quoted, "It's always something." "They" also say, "This too shall pass," not to mention, "One day at a time," and "Keep it simple, stupid." (Keep It Simple, Stupid, that's KISS, get it? Huh? Get it?) "They" have quite the pithy way with words. "They" can also be a pain in my ass.

Since I can't seem to "shake it off" like I usually do, I'm going to, for once, lean on Herr Nietzsche for encouragement. Perhaps this period of ennui is meant to give me time to dig deeper, deeper than I've ever gone, and come up with what's next to move the whole thing forward. "They" are fond of saying, "God (or the Goddess) will do for you what you cannot do for yourself." And I tend to believe that's true. But I also tend to believe in the other side of that - "God/the Goddess helps those that help themselves." In other words, God/the Goddess isn't going to do it for you if He or She deems you fit to take care of your own business.

So, I'll sit in the yard some and watch summer turn to autumn. I'll sip my peach tea, write some blogs, take on the occasional project, and do some serious drinking from my innermost fountain. It's never failed me in the past. 

Here's to the full moon tomorrow night.

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To find out how you can help people suffering from mental illness, and to help get rid of the stigma, please visit The National Alliance on Mental Illness to take the pledge, get involved, and make a donation.

For more information on mental health, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health.

Thank you for reading. If you liked this post, or any other posts, please don't forget to like and share. And please leave a comment if you're so inclined. As you can see, I have no followers - you could be the FIRST! (Who knows, you might get a t-shirt)

My Mom's a Witch!

There's a story I love to tell people about when my kid was really little. There was a social worker involved in our lives at that time (because of me, separate blog post ENTIRELY but you know I'll write it eventually), and my kids were living with my sister. The social worker, a very unfunny woman with NO sense of humor, asked Spawn I about me.

"Mom's a witch," Spawn I said, totally deadpan.

"What do you mean, she's a witch?" asked Sorry Sally the Social Worker.

"She can make people disappear," said Spawn I.

"Who did she make disappear?" This from Sorry Sally.

Pause. Deadpan still.

"Daddy."

My daughter claims not to remember this exchange, but I sure as hell do. I was in the next room, and I nearly dropped my coffee cup all over the kitchen floor, and I damn near choked on the coffee that was pouring forth from my nose and sticking in my throat. I had to step out the sliding doors into the freezing cold backyard to keep Sorry Sally from hearing the gales of laughter that were issuing forth in a gurgly fashion, combined as they were with the regurgitating coffee. It was the way she said, "Daddy," in that matter-of-fact five-year-old's voice. 

Despite my shitty parenting, my kids have grown up to be wonderful young women.But the fact of their success as young adults has little or nothing to do with my parenting, because, due to my addiction and mental health issues, my sister had to step in and raise them for me. I won't go into personal details about the hows and whys, because I don't want to embarrass anyone, but I didn't see them again for 10 years. And a lot happens in 10 years. But they were never once, not for 10 seconds, off my mind or out of my heart. And they were never very far away, no matter where they were, and that was because of my faith.

My elder daughter was under my roof until she was five; and it was a Pagan roof. The little one was only with me for a year. I'm quite sure that neither of them remember living in a Pagan household, and my sister converted to Lutheranism from Catholicism when she married her second ex-husband, so the girls were raised in what passed for a "Christian" household. I won't chime in here with my opinion of people who rally Christ to their sides while doing all manner of clearly un-Christlike things. That's also for another post. But Spawn I seems to now be leaning toward a more naturalistic approach to spirituality. I don't abide with telling kids what they should or should not believe; I think the best thing is to let them sort through it all (and there's a lot), answer their questions as they come up, and hope that they make the best choice FOR THEM.

Spawn I believes in God, that much I know, but so do I, just not the Judeo-Christian God that looks like an aging wrestler with a gigantic beard. She moves through this world coming from a place of pure love for all living things. She respects other people, nature, and all those who come across her path, whether she actually likes them or not. And that's really all I could hope for as a parent. She and her sister make me proud, even though I have no right to claim pride in how they've turned out.

Pagans are different from other religious types because we don't proselytize. I can guarantee that no witch has ever knocked on your door trying to sell you on "signing up." We don't have buildings with stained glass to advertise our place in the community, and we don't have parochial schools (although I know of a few who insisted on home-schooling their children because they lived in the Bible-Belt, south of the Manson-Nixon line, and they didn't want their kids around that - and I can't say I blame them, but we live in NY). We also believe that everyone is on the path that they should be on at that particular moment. So while I would love for both my girls to eventually embrace their birthright (which is what the Craft really is), it is by no means my top priority. The only things that matter to me are that they love and are loved in return, that they get hurt as little as possible (I'd like them to never get hurt, but life being what it is, that's never going to be possible), to learn from it when they do get hurt, and to find and keep happiness. That's it. No riches, no fame, no glory. Just that they be happy and at peace.

When and if they approach me wanting to know more about the Craft, I will be more than happy to answer their questions and, perhaps, down the road, welcome them into the fold. In the meantime, I told you at the beginning that they were never far away, no matter where they were. That's because, on my altar at home, the contents of which come with me wherever I call "home", are two shells. I picked each one of them up during my pregnancies, and I anointed them and set them on the altar. During the day, they are enclosed in a little red cloth bag that hangs nestled in my cleavage, over my heart. At night, they are on the altar, and when the moon is full it shines in on them through the windows, recharging them. Those shells are my girls, and they will always be with me, no matter where the tide blows any of us.

This is Spawn I in a recent photo. It's shocking that she looks so grown up, since I'm only 30.

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To find out how you can help people suffering from mental illness, and to help get rid of the stigma, please visit The National Alliance on Mental Illness to take the pledge, get involved, and make a donation.

For more information on mental health, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health.

Thank you for reading. If you liked this post, or any other posts, please don't forget to like and share. And please leave a comment if you're so inclined. As you can see, I have no followers - you could be the FIRST! (Who knows, you might get a t-shirt)

It's Nothing Personal

Before I get started, let me just say that I have no idea what happened to the formatting on my last post. It's all different fonts, and different font colors, and I can't fix it. Maybe it's black magic from another, less famous blogger. Or else I'm a techtard and I don't know what I'm doing. 

It"s probably the latter.

Moving along. For some reason that continues to escape me, still, people seem to think that when I write something, it's a personal attack against SOMEONE, usually them. 

It's not.

My last post, about Alice (she's in the hospital now, by the way, and has been for a week - I'm hoping she gets better soon because I miss the fuck out of her), seems to have ruffled a couple of feathers in the "professional" community. There are people who think that I was attacking them, their profession, their skills as practitioners of that profession...and it's simply not true. I don't know why these people didn't leave comments, since my comments are unrestricted, but whatever, that's their choice and I respect it.

I don't for one minute believe that anyone on Alice's treatment team has anything but the best intentions for her and I don't believe they want anything other than for her to get better. I just don't agree with the way it was gone about, and I have every right in the world to voice that opinion, here or anywhere else that I feel so inclined. Besides, the post wasn't strictly about Alice - none of my posts are about one thing or one person - it was about MENTAL ILLNESS and the fact that everyone is affected by it. Everyone. I was attempting to make people aware of that, to open the eyes of some who may not be aware that they could be in a position to help someone who's suffering. So if you read it, and you got upset, I'm here to tell you: It wasn't about YOU.

None of my blogs are personal, except for the ones that are about me. And I'm not as passive-aggressive as I used to be: If I really have a problem with you, believe me, I'll let you know about it, and I won't make little side comments in a blog that probably nobody reads. I'll call your ass. 

I wrote about Alice because, as her friend, roommate and fellow traveler on the road to mental wellness, I am not part of her "treatment team" and I have no say in her treatment because of that. I have told the people who ARE on her treatment team when I see things and hear things that "aren't right," but I do that when I think ANYONE in this house is decompensating (a fancy-shmancy term for getting sick). I know that they would do the same for me. But, because I'm on the other side of the mental health line, it's a rare occurrence that anyone listens to me, let alone does anything about it. Yes, it's frustrating. And that's why I write about it. Because there's a whole world of people outside of this house, outside of the "treatment teams" and the professional caregivers, and perhaps if I reach even one or two of those people, and some help is afforded to someone who needs it, that might make a difference.

So. That post wasn't about you, or your character, or your skills, or your abilities. If you were offended, I don't know what to tell you, other than that everyone who reads this blog is free to contact me via email, or to leave a comment on the post in question. Feel free to have at me.

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To find out how you can help people suffering from mental illness, and to help get rid of the stigma, please visit The National Alliance on Mental Illness to take the pledge, get involved, and make a donation.

For more information on mental health, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health.

Thank you for reading. If you liked this post, or any other posts, please don't forget to like and share. And please leave a comment if you're so inclined. As you can see, I have no followers - you could be the FIRST! (Who knows, you might get a t-shirt)

Go Ask Alice

As many of you already know, I currently reside in a community residence for people with mental illnesses. I have a co-occurring disorder: addiction along with major depressive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety disorder with panic disorder, and trichotillomania (trik-o-til-o-MAY-nee-uh) (a disorder that involves recurrent, irresistible urges to pull out hair from your scalp, eyebrows or other areas of your body, despite trying to stop). That last one took a long time to admit, but it's not the end of the world. Fortunately, I don't have any diagnoses that involve psychotic features. But one of my best friends does.

To protect her anonymity as much as I possibly can, I'm going to call her "Alice." She was diagnosed with schizophrenia in her second year of college. She's now 38 years old. We've known each other for three years, and lived together for two. Of all the people I'm friends with (and I have a lot of acquaintances, but not many who I count as friends), she's the most generous, thoughtful, funny, enthusiastic and supportive. I can always count on Alice to chill with me when I'm feeling blue, binge watch entire seasons of our favorite television shows (currently "Salem," we're on Season 2), co-sign my bullshit when I say that cake I bake myself has only 100 calories per (very large) slice, and tell me when my ass looks fat in a particular pair of jeans. She's a gem of a person. I've watched her struggle, and she was getting there. She was working and preparing to move to the next level of housing in this agency (the apartment program, where 3 women share a house, each with their own room, and no staff on site except for a few times a week). We've supported each other along the way, and she's just as happy about me moving to my new place (SPA housing, which is a little bit less intensive than the apartment program but not entirely on my own) as I am. 

But here's the thing with schizophrenia, and many other mental illnesses: you just never know when the shit is going to hit the fan. 

A few weeks back, Alice's medication regimen was changed. She'd been super, super sick and in the hospital for a few months (this was last year). While she was there, they put her on a completely new lineup of meds. When she got home, she was still a mess, but then, one day, out of the blue, the "Old Alice" emerged, and it was a joy to behold. She was absolutely fine. So why the doctor decided to ditch one of the meds that had gotten her back, I do not understand. That happens a lot when people with these illnesses manage their own meds - we think we're better, so we think we don't need the meds, when meanwhile, the meds are the reason we're better - but for a doctor to do it just baffles me. 

In the weeks following the change, I told staff repeatedly that I thought Alice was acting "off." She was just not herself, and it was clear that something was not right. I know that I'm not a psychiatrist or any kind of mental health professional, but I've been her roommate long enough to know when something is going on. Alice, of course, said she was fine. She always says she's fine. But she wasn't.

For the past 3 days, the girl has been gradually declining to the point where she now has almost no grasp on reality. She's talking to herself, in gibberish, she's singing to the paint, she's not sleeping. She had to quit her job. All of the staff here NOW agrees that something is wrong. Everybody thinks she needs to be hospitalized, except for the doctor, who says no. The same doctor that took away the medication that had made her stable in the first place.

Here's my thing. If we live in a house where there is staff in place to keep us safe, then shouldn't it ultimately be the decision of the staff whether or not Alice goes to the hospital? Or, at the very least, to the psychiatric emergency room, where she can be evaluated in person by a physician? Because her current psychiatrist has made this call based entirely on one telephone conversation, and not even a conversation with Alice, but a conversation with a staff member.  I mean, the girl hasn't slept in three whole days. I feel like, at the very least, they should bring her to the ER, sedate her, and force some rest on her poor, tired body.

The auditory hallucinations are probably the scariest thing, and they're the most common symptom in schizophrenia. The goal is to not only reduce the occurrence of "the voices," but to also teach coping mechanisms and reinforce that the person doesn't have to obey, or even acknowledge, the hallucinations. But I can't talk to Alice right now, because Alice isn't there.

It saddens me that her own doctor is so very adamant that she remain outside the hospital. I know why he's doing it - this particular doctor doesn't like to have any of his patients hospitalized, because it will reflect poorly on his choice to change the medication regimen that was working in the first place. Also, Alice is one of his "stars," because she was doing so well. But at what cost?

Whether you realize it or not, you know someone with a mental illness. We all do. Every last person in this country is affected in some way by mental illness, and we need to educate ourselves. Alice needs a voice right now, since her doctor doesn't seem to want to use his on her behalf. I am grateful that the staff at this house sees the need, and will probably just take her to the hospital by the end of the day. But how many are out there right now, alone, singing to the paint and not being heard? We all need to stand up and use our voices so that they can be heard.

For more information, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health's page on schizophrenia.  And for ways you can help to end the stigma and help give all mentally ill people a voice, please visit the National Alliance on Mental Illness and see how you can get involved. If you won't do it for me, do it for Alice. Or for the Alice that you may not even know you know - and love.

Update Time!

I know, I know, I promised to update this blog every couple of days, but what can I say? When given the choice between writing a blog post or sitting in the air-conditioned living room with my roommate, a bowl of buttered popcorn and Season 2 of "Salem" on DVD, I'm going for Option B. Every time. Because I'm lazy.

So, in between daily workouts at the gym (go Planet Fitness), trying to write erotica to order, living in a house with nine other adults (all with some form of mental illness), going to AA meetings, going to therapy, and other fun stuff, I have actually gotten the GoddessVox, Inc., website online. You can find it by clicking here. We're currently published by GoDaddy on a free trial, and I'm desperately trying to raise funds to pay for the first year (it's only $189, but I'm totally tapped right now, because I'm doing this by myself). I did the site myself, and I'm pretty proud of the way it looks. Please go check it out when you get a minute; any feedback or suggestions would be appreciated.

I'm also doing a fundraiser (and if anyone has any better ideas than GoFundMe, I'd love to hear them). My goal is $2,500, just enough to pay for the website publishing and the costs of filing the government paperwork. I want to make GoddessVox a 501(c)(3) non-profit, so we can hire women in recovery and put them to work, while training them and giving them marketable skills to move forward from GoddessVox. This will allow them to secure a job in the outside, brick and mortar world, that will pay enough for them to be able to support themselves without relying on anyone else. I believe that everyone has the ability to take the reins and get it done for themselves; many women in recovery simply don't have the marketable skills to get themselves out of the situations that they're in, which keeps them bound to unhealthy relationships and puts them at a greater risk of relapse. GoddessVox is here to help change that. I know it's a big dream. But dreams are supposed to be big, right? Go big or go home.

GoddessVox also now has its own Facebook page, under the name Persephone deHades. You can find it here: GoddessVox Facebook Page

Finally, I am also looking for some full time work in the private sector, as an executive assistant or something along those lines. I just can't finance all of this other stuff without a steady income, and, since I'm looking to move out of this house and into SPA (Single Point of Access) housing in October, which charges 1/3 of your income for rent (and I don't get any assistance from Social Security Disability or Supplemental Security Income), I'm going to be needing a lot more than the penny a word I've been getting off and on from the freelancing. I'm kind of hoping that if I get something soon, I can just get rid of the fundraiser, but my free trial with GoDaddy is only a week, so it's going to be a bit of a crunch to come up with $189 between now and next Friday. But I'll make it happen. 

On that note, off I go to write a post that has something to do with witchcraft. Stay tuned. And thank you for reading.

If you liked this post, please like and share it. And please consider donating to the fundraiser. You can find the widget on the right sidebar. All donations are tax deductible.

"Are you a Good Witch, or a Bad Witch?" "I'm a Sand Witch. Eat Me."

I've been watching season 1 of Salem, and I gotta tell you, I love it. I'm kind of over zombies. But I'm a little pissed off about some of the inaccuracies about the Craft, and my biggest bitch is the whole Satan thing.

Here's a quote that sums it up:

The major misconception about Witchcraft today is that Witches worship Satan, which is just not so. We do not believe in Satan. That is a Christian creation. We don’t worship evil. Indeed, to give evil a name is not a real intelligent thing to do, because then you give it power.
~ Silver Ravenwolf ~

The term "Satanic Witch" is a pernicious epithet used by those who wish to demonize practitioner of the Craft. Satanic worshippers are not witches; Traditional Witches do not worship Satan as this is a Christian concept not recognized in traditional pagan beliefs. Accordingly, the labels "white witch" and "black witch" (popularly meaning a "good witch" as one who practices "white magic" and a "wicked witch" as one who practices "black magic"), are also misnomers, as Traditonal Witches practice a "natural magic," drawing on the forces of Nature, and they refrain from attempting to manifest any form of black magic and the drawing down of negative or demonic energies.

So the whole going off into the woods and deeding your very soul to the Dark Lord is hilarious to me on one level, but on another level it pisses me off. The Salem witch hysteria was just that - hysteria. Many of the men and women hanged or burned (yeah, we burned witches here, it was a shameful time in a country founded on the desire to be free from the religious oppression of the Old Country, about as shameful a time as the one we find ourselves in today) weren't even witches at all; the large majority of the women were merely midwives or women with some kind of voice, a rarity in those days and thus viewed as some kind of an allegiance with the devil. There were also little girls playing games with forces they did not understand, and that invariably leads to trouble (Ouija board, anyone?), but that doesn't mean they were in league with the Christian devil, or Satan, or whatever you want to call that Christian invention. Mercy Lewis was probably half crazy due to her father's treatment and abuse of her mind, soul and body, and her little friends were undoubtedly just hysterical.

I will post more in other articles about various types of witches and their traditions (including a piece about Wicca, which is a new age amalgam of a religion and has nothing to do with the Craft), but for now, please know that I don't worship Satan, and neither do any of the true witches that I know (I don't know about Wiccans - they're not witches). Because we don't believe in Satan.

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Bye, Felicia

Or, as I should say, "Bye, Suboxone." 

I've been down to 1/2 mg of that nasty shit for a week now. I still have a few weeks' supply left, but I've decided that this morning's dose will be my last.

I've made some drastic changes in my life and my health since June 1. I started eating healthy foods, low in fat and added sugars, and I've been going to the gym every day. I do yoga daily. And I drink water like it's going out of style. I've been meditating and praying to my Higher Powers every day as well. And I feel wonderful.

Except for this lousy buprenorphine flowing through my system. It's done its job. I'm off opiates, and my plan is to stay off of them forever. And the bupe does not fit in with my new life choices. It's not healthy. It can't be good for my teeth or my mouth in general to be melting a strip of bupe and naloxone under my tongue every morning. And the bottom line is, due to my daily cardio workouts, I don't feel like I need it anymore.

When I dropped from 8 mg to 4 mg, I felt like I wanted to drop dead. It was a drastic decrease, and I felt terrible. But then I started changing my health habits. Eating better. Getting even just a little bit of exercise every day. Utilizing my other meds to ease the withdrawal symptoms.

And it worked.

Now that I'm down to 1/2 mg, I'm at the point where I feel like, really, what's the point in dragging it out? Yeah, my bowels are very enthusiastic right now. Yes, my legs are a little twitchy, and yes, I have screaming anxiety almost all the time. But I hurt my pectoral muscle a few days ago, and the doc at the emergency room gave me a five day script for 5 mg. Valium. So, since the pec feels better, I'm going to be using the remaining Valium to get me off the subs. I have 4 left. That's enough for 4 days, because I only take them when I feel like I'm gonna go out and punch a kitten.

I know, I know. I'm not supposed to be taking benzos, either. But every reliable study I've read has said that short-term use of a light benzo like Valium is key in getting you through the hideous anxiety that comes from bupe withdrawal. I can't use the kava because it gave me that disgusting shedding rash. But bupe has a crazy-long half life (37 hours). So it will take like two days to get the last of it out of my system, and then I will be totally, absolutely drug-free. No opiates or opioids, no benzos, nothing.

I'm making LIFE CHANGES. I don't want to be one of those people that has given up on life. I have gone through a lot of loss in the past couple of years. My daughter, my mother, my father, and my soulmate. And I thought I needed some kind of buffer to cope. But all the buffers did was keep me stuck in a state of non-feeling, and I haven't dealt with any of those losses. Hell, I haven't even dealt with my miscarriage from 10 years ago. That's a lot of shit. But I think maybe going to a bereavement group is a little healthier than sitting on the couch shooting dope and snorting bars, don't you?

So, here we are at the end. Thanks to everyone who has supported me on this journey. This blog will not be all about drugs anymore. I'd like to add a little more humor, since that's how I write, and maybe some sex, if I can get me some. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'll see you at the gym. Or a meeting.

Namaste, bitches.