Sunday, December 30, 2018

Cie's Year-End Wrap-Up 2018


I love the above image. Back in the late 1990s, I went to school for one semester for graphic design but dropped out. I didn't know it at the time, but I had untreated type 2 bipolar disorder, OCD, and borderline personality disorder, three exciting co-morbid conditions which happen to feed each other in ways that are just, shall we say, really special. I wouldn't be properly diagnosed until 2004.
When I think of how many years were wasted mired in shame and stigma because I had no idea in this Universe what was going on with me, I thought I was just an attention-seeking fuckup, it makes me very angry. Granted, some of the tools available to me now simply didn't exist when I was younger. E-commerce was in its infancy in the 1990s. There were no smartphones. 
Hell, even GPS was still in its infancy. (I still have my TomTom Go.) The job I have today could not have existed in the 1990s. Back when dinosaurs and Ronald Reagan roamed the Earth in 1984, I delivered pizzas. Even the TomTom Go was as yet unheard of. How the hell my dyslexic ass didn't get lost more often, I'll never know. When I think of trying to do my job without Waze, it gives me that feeling of waking up with a start after a terrible dream and praising whatever powers there might be that the dream isn't real.
So, I didn't initially come here to talk to you about type 2 bipolar disorder, but now that I've thought about it, I want to talk about it. This is how people tend to think of bipolar disorder, and it's a reasonably accurate depiction of type 1 bipolar disorder.


The post that the image comes from is worth reading.
The late Patty Duke had type 1 bipolar disorder. She is a personal heroine of mine. Her book, Call Me Anna, helped me understand better the things that I had gone through and to help me forgive myself for some of the truly awful decisions I made while hypomanic. 
Being diagnosed with type 2 bipolar disorder helped me understand why I had seen some features of bipolar disorder in myself but was convinced that I didn't have it because I'd never experienced a full mania. I tended to go from crushingly depressed to positive and overly functional. I never flew off to Vegas and got married to a guy I barely knew or anything of that nature, although I did convince myself several times that the Universe wanted me to be with guys who raised red flags like nobody's business and who, unsurprisingly, turned out to be horrible and abusive.
When I was hypomanic, I would take on second jobs and be the world's greatest employee that everyone loved until everything came crashing down and everyone ended up thinking I was the world's biggest flake and fuckup. I would be mired in depression which felt like being at the bottom of a dark pit that there was no way out of. 
When I would finally, miraculously, find myself pulled out of that pit, I would admonish myself that from now on I would be positive and productive and would never go back THERE again. When I inevitably went back there again, I would shame and berate myself for being a worthless fuckup.

Click to enlarge. 

This is a fairly standard bipolar disorder screening questionnaire. It tends to miss people with type 2 bipolar disorder.
Was there ever a period of time when I wasn't myself? No. I was always myself, although I often didn't like it very much. 
The late Peter Steele of Type O Negative, who had type 1 bipolar disorder, describes reflecting on occasions following a manic episode where he felt that there was something he could have learned from the time in question if only he could remember it. I never experienced anything like that.
I've never presented as talking extremely fast or seeming particularly hyper. I've never slept well anyway, so the "sleeping less than usual" criteria didn't send up any red flags. The late Julia Lennon described having periods where she wouldn't sleep for a week at a time, and doctors didn't know what was wrong with her. She was institutionalized on several occasions.
I did get involved in ill-advised relationships with abusive guys, but I never flew off to Vegas to do so. I took on multiple jobs and then crashed, often losing all of my jobs. When I was good, I was very very good, and when I was bad I was nonfunctional. 
I speak openly about my mental health struggles because I would be very happy if no-one else ever had to fight the way I've had to fight. I've been told that I should keep my psych problems hidden because people would avoid me if they knew I was one of THEM. I was told I would never find a job if people knew I'd been to a therapist. 
I was also told that I was "just being dramatic," that I needed to "stop seeking attention," that I was "just being lazy," and that I brought all my problems on myself with my "negative thinking." I can tell you that none of these criticisms did a damn thing to help me improve my life or to do anything except hide my problems and hate myself because I was never able to develop any decent coping skills for dealing with them until I was in my middle years. At this point, I'm still cleaning up the messes made by attempting to hide my problems, such as a storage unit full of stuff and a mountain of debt.
We've come a long way when it comes to mental illness in Western society, but we haven't come far enough. There is still a tendency to see people with mental issues as less intelligent or less capable or as loose cannons just waiting to explode and harm others. The truth is, people who live with mental illness are more likely to be victims of violence than to perpetrate violence.
There is a tendency to see jobs such as mine as "lesser" and to believe that the working poor, unemployed, and homeless "deserve" to not have basic amenities or a living wage. This needs to end. Everybody deserves the basic amenities, whether or not they are capable of working a "normal" job or at all.
I heard the term "lazy" so many times that I ended up with a terrible complex about taking breaks or doing things that are purely enjoyable and will never turn a profit. I once read a statement from a counselor which said that the term "lazy" should be replaced with "demotivated," because asking a person why they are so lazy shuts down the conversation and thus any chance of helping the person, whereas asking them why they are feeling demotivated leaves the conversation open and may help create a plan for helping them.
Exploitative shows like "Hoarders" should not exist. Like, at all. Capitalizing on people's illness for entertainment is twisted and barbaric. Hoarding is a subtype of obsessive-compulsive disorder. It is the symptom of malfunction in a certain area of the brain. It is not "laziness." Dealing with hoarding tendencies is exhausting, time-consuming, and life-destroying. People with hoarding tendencies need help from a compassionate professional, not a bunch of lookie-loos seeking schadenfreude at another's expense.
My son is helping me deal with the lifetime of hoarding without help contained in my storage units and the closets and spare rooms of the mobile home that I hope to have in a condition where I can think about selling it by the end of next year. With his help, the storage unit, which is about the size of a one-car garage, is 1/3 of the way clear at this point, and we are hoping to have it entirely clear by June of 2019. 
My late father attempted to "help with cleaning," but his help really only traumatized me and made me feel more ashamed, which didn't lead to me keeping up with the process. My son is understanding when I tell him that I can't deal with a certain item at the moment and we'll need to put it aside. We move on to the next thing. He also suggests creating scrapbooks and art from my vast collection of images from magazines, unlike my father, who told me that "anything that lands on the floor needs to be thrown in the garbage."
My father had piles of papers and magazines all over his house. He had OCD with hoarding tendencies too, but he came from an era when one locked their mental health issues in an attic and never spoke of them. This helped nothing, which is why I have come out of the attic and am speaking openly about my struggles.
For years I refused to make New Year's resolutions because I had learned to equate them with "new you in 52" crap, which really benefits no-one but the billion-dollar diet industry. I refuse to have or promote weight loss as a "health goal." 
I spent 33 years in yo-yo dieting hell trying to hate myself thin. There is no way I'm going to endorse that behavior. I'm going batshit at this point with all the blogs in my sidebar promoting "get paid to lose weight" garbage. You'll never see me promoting these things because dieting inevitably fails for everyone but statistical unicorns.
Diets don't work. Health at Every Size works. If you want to start exercising, increase the amount you're exercising, or eat fewer processed foods, great, but do it for overall health, not for weight loss.
We'll all be a "new you in 52" anyway. We'll have new experiences behind us, and many of our cells will have been replaced by new ones. Don't buy into the "new you in 52" crap. It only leads to frustration. Instead, pursue things that will lead to a more authentic you. 
Your authentic you has nothing to do with a number on the scale or even the amount of money in your bank account. It is the you who is true to themselves, which has nothing to do with looks or status at all.

Best wishes in the coming year,
Cie







Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Cheesy Cinema Review: The Christmas Chronicles Would Have Been Better Without the Side Order of Size Shaming


I may be a curmudgeon, but I'm not unrealistic. I expect holiday movies to be trope-laden and sappy. Unless you're watching Santa Slasher 666 or, as Beavis would say, a "Christmas Classic" starring such fine quality thespians as Tiny Johnson and Bob Scratchit, you can expect either barf-inducing heartwarming romantic drama or family-friendly drama probably involving cute but weird elves somewhere in the mix. Knowing these things, I steeled myself for whatever extra helping of syrupy sweetness might be lurking in the Christmas Chronicles to raise my blood sugar levels.
First, the positives. The kids are adorable and the young actors performing the parts of Katie and Teddy did a marvelous job. Kurt Russell really hits the mark as a slightly grouchy, no-nonsense Santa. However, I was dismayed by the amount of size shaming and diet culture promotion.
Had it happened only once, I would have rolled my eyes and moved on. However, it happened multiple times, including a scene where the sleigh hits a billboard advertising Coke products with the image of a portly Santa enjoying a Coke. Santa shouts: "take that, Fat Man!"
Shaking my damn head. Not only was the size shaming not necessary, but the levels of at the very least subconscious vehemence and hatred towards larger people was absolutely uncalled for. Also, do the writers really thinks that Santa is so vain that all he cares about is being perceived as slim and sexy? I honestly find such people quite a bore and I would hope that if Santa were real, he wouldn't be a self-centered dullard.
As a curmudgeonly adult, I found the size bashing dismal and enraging. I can only imagine how it would seem to a big kid watching that movie. The inherent message they will take away is not "family needs to stick together," but "fat is the very worst thing you can possibly be. Even Santa hates fat people."
Hollywood really needs to stop with the lame-ass fat jokes whenever they find themselves at a loss for comic relief. If you can't include larger people in your story in a positive way, at the very least don't include them just to make them the butt of mean-spirited "humor".
Every kid deserves to feel like he or she is okay just as he or she is all year 'round, but I feel that a positive, family-friendly holiday movie needs to take a bit of extra care to make sure they aren't alienating and shaming certain already stigmatized populations.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~





Saturday, December 1, 2018

DESTRUCTIVE Earthquake DESTROYS Mexico City BUILDINGS





Horrific destruction caused by the Mexico City earthquake.
One tends to on first thought believe that such an event is evil.
The event is neutral although it is destructive. For it to be evil, the intent to do harm must be present.
This is not to say that such an event does not cause untold suffering or leave scars on the bodies and minds of those who survive. It simply means that there is no intent on the part of the planet to cause suffering. The Earth's tectonic plates have, simply, moved, and their movement brings havoc to the infrastructure of cities built on the Earth's surface.
It is then the responsibility of humanity to be compassionate and render aid to those affected by such cataclysmic events.

~Dolly~

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

The Cheese Grates It: The Holiday Season Broke and Mentally Ill Style


Today is the eighth anniversary of my father's passing. I thought about that day early this morning. I didn't appear to be grieving because I wasn't wailing and gnashing my teeth. I had already grieved watching him deteriorate as he did. There wasn't anything left in me. I've felt for a long time that there isn't anything left in me. I'm not cold, which I've been accused of a lot. I just don't have anything to offer.
The memory that comes to the forefront of my mind is my mother leaving two messages on my phone. The ringer wasn't working on my phone; I would be soon to get a new one. I was sleeping with the phone under my hand, but I didn't feel the vibration. The first message was her telling me that my father had died. The second was her telling me that again, demanding that I call her back, and finishing off the message with "you're never there when I need you." She didn't apologize for saying that, which doesn't surprise me. I informed her that my phone's ringer wasn't working correctly, that I had tried to be aware if a call came, but hadn't felt the vibration. Well, she never apologizes when she says hurtful things, so I guess she and I are even.
I fucking hate this new YouTube push to force people to pay for the service by pausing the playlist every so often to ask "are you still there?" No, Bitch, I died, but my zombified body keeps responding by saying I'm still here. The joke's on you.
In other frustrating news, I guess I paid the price for thinking I could buy yarn and get away with it. I ordered three skeins of yarn to keep working on my blanket, and some payment clashed with another, so I ended up getting an overdraft charge and am now $36 in the hole. Those fucking overdraft charges should be criminal. They only ever harm people who are struggling financially anyway.
Tonight's supper will be turkey chili and baked potatoes. At least those are two things I can ensure that my son will actually eat. My mother's right that he's kind of fussy, but there again, she refuses to believe that he's actually autistic. People with autism tend to have issues with food textures far more than people who don't have the condition. But, of course, my mother is always right.
I was just talking to my son about how we are both, in spite of what has been drilled into us by members of the extended family, very productive. However, we are not productive in the ways they deem worthy. We are terrible with housework--absolutely rubbish, let's be real. We are unable to work the kinds of jobs that they deem worthy. 
If I had ever been able to make my writing pay, they might be proud of me. A little. But it still wouldn't have been the kind of work that they would truly have deemed worthy.
All I'm doing as far as holiday decorations this year is putting a string of lights up on the fence at my son's townhome. We can't have a tree because the four-legged dumbasses will knock it over. When I was a kid, my father became a kid again every December 24, because that was when we decorated the tree. He loved decorating the tree so much and went way overboard. We had so many decorations. Now they never see the light of day.
Maybe one day I will decorate for the holidays again. I don't know. The first year we had a really nice tree was when I was ten years old. That was the year my father got a good position as a professor at a small college and we moved from Albuquerque to a suburb of Denver. Everything was so wonderful on that Christmas when I was ten years old. 
I realize now that my bipolar disorder onset when I hit puberty, which is why I was an emotional wreck during the holidays when I was eleven and trying to hide it so I wouldn't fuck things up for the rest of my family. 
We always took the tree down on the day after New Year's. The year when I was twelve years old, I was once again in a tailspin but trying to hide it. We got the call that my paternal grandfather had died from a massive heart attack while he was out feeding his horses. I burst into tears. I thought it was my fault that he was dead because I hadn't been grateful enough, so God took my grandfather.
I learned a lot about my father's side of the family that year. I wrote a cheeky poem about it recently, which is titled "My Family Skeletons." You can read it here
At the time, it was actually very traumatic. My twelfth year of life was not a lot of fun. It seemed like everything was falling apart. There was a lot of contention surrounding my grandfather's will, and I was being bullied mercilessly. I started self-harming, and on one occasion, I swallowed a bottle of aspirin. I ended up with a sick stomach and throwing up. I didn't tell anybody what I'd done.
So, I guess what I'm getting to in my long-winded fashion is that the holidays are not happy-happy-joy-joy for some people. I tend to have kind of a neutral approach to them at this point, but that's because I'm emotionally numb. For some people, the holidays are extremely difficult. It's supposed to be a happy time, and people who are already struggling get added guilt heaped on them for not presenting a happy face to the world.
Please do not shame or berate people who aren't "in the spirit" during the holidays. The joy is not universal.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It Festively~



Saturday, November 24, 2018

Deep Thoughts With Cheesy and Barack


I wish there wasn't so much onus placed on being perfectly healthy. Nobody's perfect. Everyone has shit that goes awry, even those people who have supposedly "perfect" bodies. For instance, my cholesterol readings are actually stellar. You could frame that shit and put a blue ribbon next to it. But my endocrine system is a fucked-up mess, and my triglycerides are elevated. 
None of this shit says anything about my mind, my soul, my work ethic, my devotion, or anything else that I think is truly important. But a lot of people act like shit like blood sugar levels, abnormal labs, or a number on a scale defines a person on a moral level. It doesn't and can't.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~



Thursday, November 15, 2018

Relaxing Celtic Music - Autumn Forest

The Cheese Grates It: Ending the Stigma: Hoarding Disorder


This is a response to a post on The Mighty about what gifts to give and what gifts to avoid giving to a person who is struggling this holiday season.
Do not give a person who struggles with hoarding disorder (a subtype of OCD, NOT laziness, and if you think it is laziness please unfollow me now) things, unless it is something like socks which everyone can use and which are going to wear out. I appreciate money (helps to pay down debt or maybe buy some yarn for my craft projects), gift cards, and socks. Oh, yeah, I wouldn't mind some organizational bins either.
I don't know why I wear out socks so quickly, although, admissibly, some of them do fall victim to the Sock Gnomes. I have a whole bagful of socks which have lost their mates, and I've never figured out where they've gone.
My son and I are working on getting rid of the huge amount of stuff that I accumulated through my years of hoarding disorder which was only treated with blame and shame by those around me, and thus became even worse because it made it a bigger source of anxiety and so my reaction was to stuff things away and not deal with them. We have the storage unit about halfway cleared out and are aimed at having it entirely gone by early next year. 
This has been an enormous struggle for me, and it has pretty much destroyed my life. I'm trying to get my life back so whatever I have left can be spent doing things that are worthwhile rather than struggling with a surplus of stuff.
I still have a shed full of stuff and three spare rooms full of stuff.
I've known people whose hoarding disorder, probably combined with depression, was so severe that even doing basic cleaning was impossible for them. I've been down that low a few times. What didn't help one bit is hearing things like "lazy," and "disgusting." These television programs that exploit people with severe problems for the entertainment of assholes wanking to schadenfreude make me sick. To me, it's like watching someone being tortured or raped to watch those programs. It's disgusting the lows to which people will stoop, where instead of trying to help someone who has a serious problem we point fingers and ridicule them.
Many years ago, I rented out a townhome to a woman who had severe hoarding disorder. I was getting Section 8 payments from the government for allowing her to stay there. She wouldn't allow the inspectors in, and the HOA eventually wrote me a letter threatening to have me thrown in jail if I didn't evict her because there were huge numbers of flies in the windows.
When I got in, the place was beyond a nightmare. There were a few bags of things which were salvageable and which I took to give to the local thrift store to sell. Other than that, everything was trash and there was also dog feces everywhere. For reasons unknown, she had disconnected the pipes under the sink and had slime-covered dishes soaking in two basins in the sink.
This woman had two sons. One had a predilection for violence and eventually ended up in the Fort Logan state mental health center. The other one wasn't violent but he seemed totally "at sea." 
I never hated this woman for what she did. I felt sorry for her. I knew she had a serious mental illness. There was a housekeeper who was sent by the county to help out. (I did have to pay her, but it was at a reduced rate.) She was very disdainful, said she'd been here to help the tenant before, and that all said tenant did was "lie on the couch on her fat lazy ass and apologize for the condition of the place.) The tenant had a heart condition, which is why she was on section 8.
Being disdainful and hateful and exploiting rather than assisting people with a serious disease helps no-one. It is a barbaric society which turns people who are suffering into sideshow entertainment.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~


Sunday, November 11, 2018

Reiki Music: emotional & physical healing music, Healing reiki music, he...

Caregiving Techniques: Slide Sheet + Sly Speaks: Devalued Professions


SMART Slide Sheets, Patient Not Able to Assist

This series of videos from MedCo Technology is helpful for both professional and home caregivers. They offer techniques to minimize the likelihood of injury to the caregiver.
Most injuries in both institutional and home settings happen because the caregiver is rushed. Institutional settings, particularly long-term care facilities, are often understaffed. Many times at-home caregivers are without help and may be caring for other children if the handicapped loved one is a child, or for children as well as an aging parent.
Caregiving tends to be a profession/skill which is devalued. It is seen as something which uneducated people do, and tends to be seen as a “woman’s profession.” “Women’s professions” tend to be paid less well than so-called “men’s professions.”
Modern society will remain mired in misery until people in all walks of life and in the devalued helping professions and situations are seen as worthwhile, contributing members of society, which they, in fact, are.

~Sly Has Spoken~

 Image copyright juliahenze
Purchased from 123rf.com

Thursday, November 8, 2018

The Cheese Grates It: Why I Wouldn't Take a Cure for my Bipolar Disorder


Now, here is something that will blow y'all's minds.
If there were a cure for bipolar disorder, I wouldn't take it.
I know a lot of folks are saying "but why wouldn't you want to fix this thing that is wrong with you?"
First, you may have heard about people who have had procedures done to restore their sight or hearing after years of being blind or deaf, and they have trouble adapting to the world with this new sense. They have learned to "hear" by feeling vibrations, or to "see" by touch and sound. The new sense throws their perception off. 
I would not know how to think and feel without bipolar disorder. I would have a lot of trouble adapting. I might even become suicidal. 
Further, I have come to believe that this anomaly doesn't make me "wrong." It makes me different. The world is too quick to deem difference in cognition or physical ability a bad thing which needs to be repaired. I think it would be a better world if we embraced people who deviate from the norm rather than shaming them into conformity or isolation.
Would I take a cure for my endocrine problems?
In a heartbeat! I would love to not have to stab myself in the abdomen with a needle before every meal. I would love to not have to worry about whether I will one day develop diabetic neuropathy or start losing my vision because of diabetes. I would love to not have increased risk of vascular malfunction because of this dumb disease. I would love to have a thyroid that actually works. I would rather not have had polycystic ovarian syndrome. My endocrine system is a cluster fuck. If someone could cure this mess, I would be thrilled.
If someone could cure my glaucoma, I would be over the moon.
I don't want my bipolar disorder cured. I have navigated the world with it for pretty much my entire life. To completely change the way my brain works would be frightening and, I think, detrimental. 
But if someone could start working on cures for my physical ailments, I'd really appreciate it.

 ~The Cheese Hath Grated It~


Friday, November 2, 2018

2 Hours of Celtic Music by Adrian von Ziegler - Part 2

His Mercy is More - Matt Boswell and Boyce College Choir

The Cheese Grates It: The Effects of Bullying Last a Lifetime


I'm now almost 54 years old, but the bullying that I endured all through school still affects me to this day.  I have always felt that I was hideously ugly. If I'm completely analytical about my appearance, I'm actually fairly ordinary-looking, but when one lives in a society which has a very narrow view of beauty and constant bullying is added to that, one learns to loathe one's physical appearance. I honestly don't like it when people compliment me on anything because my initial thought is that they are just trying to get something out of me.
When I was in the third grade, I was sexually assaulted by two of my female classmates. I was too ashamed to say anything.  Later, a boy in that same class pinned me up against the wall and told me that he was going to kill me with his pocket knife. I wet my pants, and when I went to the school nurse, she laughed at me and told me that I was being silly. This boy was very popular, and he was never punished.
Throughout school, the bullying that I endured often had sexual overtones. There were horrible rumors that I would have sex with any boy who wanted it. In fact, I was so naive that I thought a "bl*w j*b" was blowing in someone's ear, and I wondered why anyone found that sexy.  Boys would often grab my breasts or buttocks. The adults never did anything about it. In one math class, the teacher was sitting right there while my classmates said things like "she plays with herself" and "she'd play with her t*ts if she had any." Up until I turned 18 and realized that my breasts tended to get in the way when I was doing things, I hated my "flat chest." I actually have rather average-sized breasts, not that anyone should be bullying someone with smaller than average breasts.
I have never enjoyed sex, but once I got into high school, I allowed my boyfriend to take my virginity. He dumped me after that, and I ended up in the mental hospital over the weekend with a slew of unkind doctors and nurses looking down their noses at me. One nurse even told me that I was a freak and I would never be normal. To this day, I'm proud of my sixteen-year-old self who told her: "better a freak than a b*tch like you." I don't know how I found the strength in me, but I stood up to those jerks, and I tried to be helpful to the other patients who were in there with me. My roommate was a woman in her 50's who was so severely anorexic that all her bones were showing. She had trouble voicing her needs, so I tried to be her voice.
Remembering these things makes tears of anger come to my eyes, but they won't last long because the message that crying is weak was so deeply internalized. I have a lot of trouble crying. I didn't cry after the deaths of some of my close relatives. I didn't cry when I had to have my beloved rescue cat put to sleep on his sixth birthday due to kidney failure. It's not that it didn't matter. I've never recovered from it. There's a gaping wound in my heart that will never be filled. I get accused of being cold and uncaring because I don't cry, but I simply can't. Crying was a weakness that my bullies would exploit, so I never let them see me cry.
I have major mental illnesses (type 2 bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder which manifests as hoarding objects, not animals.) Any coping skills I have with these diseases have been developed on my own. "Mental health professionals" have only tried to medicate me into normalcy even though I do not respond well to psych meds. They make me manic and psychotic. Family members offer wisdom like "just stop being like that," "just stop thinking like that," "just stop looking for attention," and "just act normal."
I have been completely unsuccessful in life, and, if it weren't for my son, the honest truth is that I would have been long gone. My life has been a series of loss and disappointments. With the psych conditions I have, it would have been an uphill battle anyway, but with the self-loathing I learned from being bullied all through school, the battle became impossible.  
When my diabetes worsened, I became unable to work the difficult jobs and long hours that I had always prided myself on being able to work. I am now living in poverty. If it weren't for my son, I'd be homeless. I do not have hope for things getting better.
Bullying destroys lives, but all I ever heard is that it was my fault that I was bullied, and if I would just "act normal" and "ignore it," I wouldn't "bring it on" myself.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~




Thursday, November 1, 2018

I Am Grateful


As someone with a rather chaotic life, everything is catch as catch can. I've tried meditating, but I have trouble doing so. This video is brief enough that it allows me to focus fully on it and to help myself with the brief, encouraging, but not sappy affirmations.

Sunday, October 28, 2018

OctPoWriMo 2018: Day 28: Schism


Demanding that one
Who has been repeatedly broken
Must make the choice
To appear whole and happy
In order to bridge the chasm
Between rejection and belonging
Only serves to foster
A life built on a lie
The schism remains
And the least misstep
Means falling back into the abyss

~Cie~



Of Fairness, God and The Universe

Recently a person I have known for over fifty years and whose health is not the best complained that it all seemed so unfair. Their lungs failing them, their damaged hip plus my cancer are all somehow judged by them as wrong in the scheme of things, a little too much for one person to have to bear. This implies a greater power, perhaps a deity, that has for reasons unknown selected the pair of us to contract these hideous diseases or afflictions. There is no God or deity who would do such a thing for there is only one power in the universe able to utilise disease as a way to balance life. It may seem cruel if judged by those who believe in a personal deity but when seen it how it is, the universe ensuring the balance of life is maintained then the idea of fairness becomes redundant. All the diseases we as a species face, all the diseases any of creation encounter are there for a purpose and that purpose is to, as I now repeat myself, add balance in the circle of life. In short, those diseases we face are there to kill us. It is only by humankind's benign involvement with their ever-growing knowledge of science applied medicine coupled with their incredible intelligence that holds those diseases at bay. 

Belief in God doesn't mean that the God being believed in has any direct involvement with the pain people suffer as a consequence of a disease being suffered. You cannot pass the blame of pain or of disease onto another even a deity. To do so implies a level of wickedness on the other you are saying is responsible. God is not like that. If there is a God then surely he created nature, the universe and all that lies within it. He is not a wicked deity but neither is the universe or nature itself. Blaming another for the state you are in is just a call for help. Aside from friends and family, neighbours maybe, there is no one else to help you. Only you can help you. The fault doesn't exist. There is no fault. What is ailing you is beyond blame. As harsh as it sounds you simply have to get on with it. My cancer is not the fault of anyone. Cancer is part and parcel of life. It just is, Life just is.

Saturday, October 27, 2018

The Cheese Grates A Tale: When the Driver Met the Douche-Lord: A Tale of Entitled Customers


Last night I had to run an order over to Entitlement Palace, a nightmare high-rise known for its bad-tempered valets and stuck-up, entitled, rich-bitch customers.
The service I work for delivers food curbside, not to the door. This is made clear a couple of times in the app: once at the beginning of the process, and when the order is placed. After the order is placed, a message appears which says “delivery is on us, but it is your responsibility to meet your driver at the curb.”
Offering curbside service means that the driver does not have to find a place to park in a city which is notorious for having little in the way of available parking. The driver pulls up as close to the customer’s address as possible and puts on the hazard lights. If all goes smoothly, the customer is either waiting there or comes out quickly after the driver hits the “arrived at customer” command on their app, which alerts the customer to the driver’s presence in their app.
I’ve had customers who somehow failed to realize that they were supposed to come out before (or were hoping that we’d make an exception for them because they’re soooo special), but none of them ever acted like the absolute tosser that I encountered last night. At worst the huffed a little, took their food, and were on their way.
There are occasions where the driver will make an exception. On one such occasion, the customer was a clerk in a liquor store who had a broken leg and was confined to a wheelchair. There was a convenient parking lot, and he was nice, even tipped cash.
On another occasion, a security guard couldn’t leave her post. But there was a nice, convenient loading area in front of the building, and she was right inside at the front desk. Again, she was pleasant and apologized for any inconvenience.
Not so Lord Cantankerous Wankerous.
His Douchiness put “lobby” in the special instructions area on the app. My thought as I drove off? “Not happening, Bitch.” Customer service contacted him sometime during the process. I pulled up to the curb as I always do, dreading the inevitable unpleasant interaction with the miserable valet. The valet told me I’d have to move across the drive, which I did, and sat waiting for His Douchiness to grace me with his presence.
When the seven minutes were almost up, I attempted to call the illustrious Lord of Douchebag Manor. The line was still ringing when I got a text from customer service, asking if the customer was picking up. I replied “no,” and in that moment, Lord Wankerous deigned to appear.
“I said lobby!” he snapped, shaking his finger at me.
“Service is curbside, Sir,” I said calmly.
He huffed away. I sent a text to customer service which read ‘he was a dick. He left without taking his food, and I’m not going to chase after him.’ I then marked the order “undeliverable” and went back to the kitchen.
In the meantime, the kitchen remade the order and was going to send one of the bicycle couriers with it. However, Lord Wankerous complained to customer service that I should be fired for my insolence towards him. They said that wasn’t going to happen. At that point, the assistant manager in the kitchen decided he’d had enough and told customer service that he wanted them to 86 Lord Wankerous.
Thus, the bicycle courier and I both got free meals, and Lord Wankerous can no longer order from us.
The moral of this story: 
Don’t act like an entitled bitch. Just because you live in an overpriced high rise with miserable valets doing your bidding (they’re probably miserable because they’re treated like trash) doesn’t make you superior to the peasants who make your life easier, your Royal Douchiness.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~


Friday, October 26, 2018

My Musings through life: The Fading Breathe

My Musings through life: The Fading Breathe: Day-26 OctPoWriMo-2018 Prompt: Inside Out (Form: Sonnet) Image: Sneha Faking, the plethora of emotions, The dirge of thoughts...



I have had days like this. After my father died, there was much left unsaid and much that couldn't be said. He had vascular dementia at the time of his death so there would have been no sense saying certain things. However, before his dementia developed, he wouldn't have listened. He always had to have the last word.

Similarly, I'd like to clear the air with my mother, but she won't listen. She'll jump to the defensive straightaway. When she passes, I will have the same remorse and everything will remain unsaid.




OctPoWriMo 2018: Day 26: Mixed Messages


I need to be more open, I am told
Not to keep my truth a secret, to be bold
Not to be introspective, to reveal
Every thought I think and feeling that I feel

But when I follow this advice, then all I find
Are those who say: don't be quick to speak your mind
You must maintain an air of mystery
Don't be in a hurry to set your secrets free

Have an open heart but don't wear it on your sleeve
Don't let the sun catch you crying, no-one wants to see you grieve
Be real and true and honest, but don't be an open book
Don't keep your light hidden inside, let the world have a look

With all this conflicting information
I just want to catch the train and leave the station

~Cie~


Wednesday, October 24, 2018

My Musings through life: The Song of my Desires

My Musings through life: The Song of my Desires: Day-24 OctPoWriMo-2018 Prompt: Opening (Form: Free Verse) I am a flowing stream Don't bind me In worldly tangles. ...



This is an amazing piece, and the photograph fits with it perfectly. I often wonder what I could have become if I had been allowed to BE.

OctPoWriMo 2018: Day 24: Out of the Attic


Outside
Unlock
Fling
Freely
Gape

The madwoman has escaped from the attic
And cut through the red tape

Unlock
Fling
Freely
Gape
Outside

She stumbles out into the sunlight
No longer will she hide

Fling 
Freely
Gape
Outside
Unlock

The people hide in the shadows
To see her in the open is quite a shock

Freely
Gape
Outside
Unlock
Fling

How dare she try to approach the good people?
She's such a hideous thing!

Gape 
Outside
Unlock
Fling
Freely

Surely she doesn't fancy herself equal to us
Who does she think she is really?

Outside
Unlock
Fling
Freely
Gape

The madwoman has escaped from the attic
And cut through the red tape

~Cie~


Note:
I have type 2 bipolar disorder which was not properly diagnosed until I was 38 years old. I first noted symptoms of bipolar disorder, then termed manic depression, in myself when I was taking a psychology class in high school. I approached the teacher with my thoughts, and she told me that I couldn't be manic depressive because manic depression was a psychosis, and I evidently wasn't psychotic.
Bipolar disorder has since been recategorized as a mood disorder rather than a psychosis.
Bipolar type 2 can be difficult to diagnose because it presents with hypomania rather than full mania. Bipolar 2 does not have psychotic features. Bipolar 1 may or may not present with psychosis.
I have experienced mania and psychosis when they were triggered by SSRI's, the darlings of the psychiatry field. It was terrifying and upsetting. While taking Effexor, a patient in the long-term care center I was working for at the time asked me why I was so happy. I wasn't happy, I was manic as fuck and felt completely out of control. I never experience mania if I don't take SSRI's. 
Just another reason why people suggesting that I should "try medication" makes me want to go all Norman Bates on their ass. I did, and the cure was worse than the problem. Having a psychiatric anomaly does not make a person stupid.
I realize that sometimes it can be difficult when dealing with people who do improve with use of medication and who then feel as if they have been cured and quit taking the medication. Psychiatric dysfunctions are not one size fits all. 
I do best using a low dose of Lithium Orotate. It short-circuits the irritability that is part and parcel of my condition.
I once had a doctor tell me to "just stay on" a medication (Zoloft) which made it feel as if my brain had developed tiny hands and was trying to pick its way out of my skull. To this day, I would like to know how the fuck he thought that was an improvement. That was a psychotic reaction to the medication. I normally do not experience psychosis. I knew it wasn't really happening, but it sure as fuck FELT as if it was really happening, and who the hell knows what I might have done to stop it if it kept on. 
These medications are not "happy pills." They change the brain chemistry. Some people are helped by them. For some, they don't work at all. For others, the cure is worse than the disease.
I think that one thing which desperately needs to change is the idea of making people who live with neurological or psychological differences into "normal" people, and to stop acting as if those of us who live with these conditions are "broken." 
It would have been nice to learn how to live with a brain like mine from the time I was in my youth rather than being told that I had to be "fixed," to be "normal." 
I will never be normal.
I will only be me.
Stop the stigma.


Haiga copyright The Real Cie
You are welcome to use it with a credit back to me.

Sunday, October 21, 2018

The Weak and The Strong



The weak seek leaders to lead them, to follow them, to be ruled by them. 
The strong seek inner strength and the ability to be responsible for their own actions.
The weak seek to control.
The strong relinquish control.
The weak seek power.
The strong don't need power they are powerful unto themselves.
The weak seek possessions.
The strong are in possession of all they need.
The strong know love does not possess it empowers.
The strong know love doesn't control it liberates.
The weak fear change.
The strong embrace change.
The weak fear the other.
The strong know there is no other.

Friday, October 19, 2018

My Musings through life: Silent Stream

My Musings through life: Silent Stream: Day-19 OctPoWriMo-2018 Prompt: What do you want? (Form: A chant) I know you want to say a lot more And still, you don't s...



Sometimes we learn to be quiet because we're always shot down when we reveal our true selves.

I think now to be quiet: Under the Bridge (for Paul)

I think now to be quiet: Under the Bridge (for Paul): I watch the fire. what do I want like a burning desire what do I want the coals glow red what do I want so does my head what ...



In my younger day, I wanted sex, money, and excitement.

These days, I'll just take the money. ;-)

Nice chant poem! It's one of my new favorite forms.

OctPoWriMo 2018: Day 19: Suicide Ideation

Flowers and a Grave
Copyright Raivn_70

Is it death that you desire
Or do you wish to escape from your troubles
Are you questioning whether to end it 
Or do you wish to escape from your troubles
Do you search for a means of suicide
Or do you wish to escape from your troubles
Do you doubt your will to live
Or do you wish to escape from your troubles
Will you fulfill the threat to end it all
Or do you wish to escape from your troubles

~Cie~


Notes:
The form is a chant poem.
I am aware that the go-to when one believes that someone is suicidal is to tell them to go to the emergency room or tell them to call the suicide line.
Please don't tell me to do either of those things.
I have lived with suicide ideation for as long as I can remember.
If I went to the emergency room every time I felt suicidal, I'd have to live there.
If I may be so bold, fuck that shit.
I'm afraid that in my experience, suicide hotlines are, well, not that helpful, if I'm to be blunt. I had one asshole who laughed at my distress. I had one kind but not at all helpful fellow who wished me luck. So, that has been my experience with suicide hotlines.
Suicide ideation is in a different class than someone threatening suicide, particularly if they have the means and a specific plan to complete the act.
A person may have a high degree of suicide ideation but a low level of planning, which tends to be my case when my suicide ideation flares up.
A person like me is not likely to telegraph it if they are actually going to commit suicide. If I were to commit suicide, no-one would know until after the fact. Thus, telling someone like me to go to the emergency room if I say I wish I was dead isn't going to accomplish anything except for wasting my time. With someone like me, it works much better to ask what's going on to make me feel that way. I might say that I'm on a downswing, or it might be something more concrete. But asking why I'm feeling as I am will make me feel as if you care rather than causing me to make a mental note to myself that here is yet one more person I can't tell anything because they just don't fucking get it.
It is a fact that people who experience suicide ideation are more likely to complete suicide than people who do not experience suicide ideation. It also is a fact that people who experience suicide ideation over the long term tend to have mood disorders such as major depression or bipolar disorder. A lot of us do not respond well (or at all) to the "magic medications." For people living with a chronic mental illness, it tends to be unhelpful and demeaning to suggest that we "try meds" or "seek counseling." Many of us have had bad experiences with "mental health professionals" and will avoid them like a bad case of athlete's foot.
If I could find a therapist who did cognitive behavioral therapy and whose services were covered by Medicaid, I might consider it. Such beasts, however, are rare as the proverbial hen's teeth. I find artistic pursuits to be a far more soothing balm than spilling my guts to someone who a) probably doesn't give a fuck, and b) will frustrate me by just not fucking getting it. I can find someone who fills those criteria by walking out onto any street corner and yelling "hey, come talk to me!"
That is your psychology lecture for the day, class. Thank you for attending the Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Academy!