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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.