Thank you for returning to Dash on Deadline. I have not posted for a while because I have been adjusting. In August I moved to the Phoenix, Arizona area from a small town in Wisconsin. Life here, in addition to the politics, is different.
There are many people in this area but little community feel, something I miss. The manner of speaking is attractive, though: it is more gentle, and the speed of conversation is slower. People take breaths between their sentences, not at all like in Washington, D.C., where I lived and worked for five years. There, individuals in their 50s as well as those in their 20s speak at the speed of light to show youth. I did a survey once and that's what it revealed.
About my friend in Austin, he moved inside in November and seems to have found a place to live that does not provoke his temper. An upstairs neighbor makes noise at 3 a.m. when coming home from work. That's my friend's biggest complaint.
What is more apparent to me than ever is my friend's mental age. At 56, he write rants to his 80-something parents like the kind I stopped writing in early high school. Today he copied me on one he sent to his parents yesterday. Seeing the voice and the anger and the resentment and a lot of other things I spent many difficult hours, days and years coming to terms with brought up a now-dim remembered feeling related to actions long-ago forgiven.
Those challenges and the way I passed through those rites of passage, learning to forgive myself and everyone else, have made me calm. I am no longer the storm. I am at peace with myself.
I have come to Rudyard Kipling's definition of a man, as described in his poem, "If," which was always a favorite. "If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you..."
My friend in Austin continues to blame his parents for all things large and small. His parents can never be good enough.
I wrote back to him and said, "There is no quick fix. One day you will be an orphan. On that day life will be different than it is today. Sit in candlelight for a bit."
I am learning from my friend's schizophrenia. It is helping me take notice and stock of myself. It is making me a better person.
Mayo Clinic defines schizophrenia as "a mental disorder that makes it difficult to tell the difference between real and unreal experiences, to think logically, to have normal emotional responses, and to behave normally in social situations."
Perhaps I landed in Arizona to learn how that definition might apply to the "group think" process as well as an individual. There are both real and imagined shootings reported here, for instance, alongside public officials smiling while talking about mass killings.
Showing posts with label schizophrenia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label schizophrenia. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Friday, April 30, 2010
Out of this situation only good will come
We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world. That observation looked out at me from a greeting card one day long ago. It stuck with me, surfacing now as I think about my friend's next adventure.
Things did not work out in Austin with the Asian grandmother, who my friend says is being kept by two loud and aggressive Vietnamese drunks. He has never been able to tolerate drunks. When they came in the house there was a confrontation, threats were made, and my friend was evicted. He has been on the street for a week, I learned yesterday. Last night they threw his belongings on the sidewalk for anyone to take.
He tried to get himself committed, not knowing what else to do. The shingles are gone, replaced by boils, and welts from bug bites. He has found a good campsite in the bushes, he said. I hope it doesn't rain much. I know he has a tarp - I sent him one. Well, he used to have a tarp, anyway. Now I don't know.
So, the books will have to wait.
There is a song called, Music Alone Shall Live. It's a beautiful round, running through my head now as I think of my friend. No one can take away his music. It is soulful and beautiful, a treat at every encounter. Playing real good for free, in Joni Mitchell's words.
Things did not work out in Austin with the Asian grandmother, who my friend says is being kept by two loud and aggressive Vietnamese drunks. He has never been able to tolerate drunks. When they came in the house there was a confrontation, threats were made, and my friend was evicted. He has been on the street for a week, I learned yesterday. Last night they threw his belongings on the sidewalk for anyone to take.
He tried to get himself committed, not knowing what else to do. The shingles are gone, replaced by boils, and welts from bug bites. He has found a good campsite in the bushes, he said. I hope it doesn't rain much. I know he has a tarp - I sent him one. Well, he used to have a tarp, anyway. Now I don't know.
So, the books will have to wait.
There is a song called, Music Alone Shall Live. It's a beautiful round, running through my head now as I think of my friend. No one can take away his music. It is soulful and beautiful, a treat at every encounter. Playing real good for free, in Joni Mitchell's words.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Makng a Difference
Thanks to all who sent hope and good wishes for my friend in Austin. Last week a miracle occurred. He took a permanent room in a home-turned-boarding house. It is run by an Asian grandmother who also lives there. He shares a bathroom, and can store his dissolving trailer on the property. He's planning to sell it for scrap as soon as he can sell the contents. The home is not near crack and heroin dealers. The neighborhood is safe, though to get there by bus he must travel through some threatening areas.
Within a day of moving he checked out the busiest corner nearby for business. My friend's income supplement to social security depends on how much air he can blow through his flute, and how much the street traffic will yield. In some neighborhoods that's $20 and $30 per hour, he said. In this one it's around $10. He works the afternoon rush hours.
Although he talked about getting another dog, I discouraged him and he agreed he wasn't in a hurry to do that. After a month on the street with shingles, the disease almost has run its course. He's no longer in pain - severe or otherwise - yet still a bit debilitated and recovering.
Within a day of moving he checked out the busiest corner nearby for business. My friend's income supplement to social security depends on how much air he can blow through his flute, and how much the street traffic will yield. In some neighborhoods that's $20 and $30 per hour, he said. In this one it's around $10. He works the afternoon rush hours.
Although he talked about getting another dog, I discouraged him and he agreed he wasn't in a hurry to do that. After a month on the street with shingles, the disease almost has run its course. He's no longer in pain - severe or otherwise - yet still a bit debilitated and recovering.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Shingles and the Street
In Austin, Texas, it costs at least $40 per day to stay in a clean hotel room in a safe neighborhood where it's easy to score reefer and crack. Liquor stores nearby are of the small variety with as many pints as fifths. The hotel rooms echo, but they have a bed, shower, toilet, telephone and some furniture. The sparseness of the sound is what makes the place scary.
Coming inside after living on the street or in a barn or where your senses constantly are stimulated takes courage. Desensitizing what makes one feel alive is slow death, a kind of decay by disorientation.
That is what my friend who I have been writing about is experiencing. About 10 days ago he was evicted from the property he thought would be a stable place to live. It wasn't. The person who told him to come hadn't paid the electric bill for a long time. There was no juice for anything, and also no water. So the toilets didn't replenish. He wasn't too sad about having to leave. He would have stayed, but the landlord wanted everybody out. Wanted just to clear everybody out.
That Monday my friend was diagnosed with shingles. That Wednesday he had no place to live. So he stored his trailor, gathered up his Futon mattress and hit the street looking for a place to lay his head and ride out the awful pain. He couldn't afford the three prescriptions given to him by the hospital doctor. One would have cost $100. The other two maybe $50 each. So he bought a bottle of brandy and found that $40 per night hotel room. It was weird hearing his voice echo in the room when we talked on the phone.
The room did not have a tub, making it impossible to soak his now-raging case of shingles, which bloomed on his belly right at the belt buckle and on his back at the waist. It was too painful to wear pants. Anyone who has had shingles or has seen anyone with the disease will never forget it. Gritting teeth through the pain and moans of misery remind that one is no longer young. This is, as my friend called it, "an old person's disease. I'm now officially old," he said. He is toothless and 55.
He managed enough social security dollars to pay for a week at the hotel, and watched TV, something he has not seen for a long time, except for occasionally in a store. The programs, he said, lacked good stories. They didn't make him feel good. He wanted to feel better.
He went out every day, played his flute on the street for as long as he could stand the belt buckle on his shingles, made a little money then went back to his room in excruciating pain.
Today he is out on the street again. No more money for a hotel room; no word from his social worker with possibilities; only potential relief in the bushes where a guy he trusts lives and might be willing to let him stay for a while. But he doesn't want to give that friend shingles. Last night he was hoping other friends would allow him to stay in their barn, a garage-like place without hay. Just a floor on which to lay his Futon, remove his belt and relieve some of the pain.
Here in Wisconsin it is pouring rain in the small city in which I am planted for now. Unemployment here is down almost two notches to about 17 percent. We're all just hanging on.
Coming inside after living on the street or in a barn or where your senses constantly are stimulated takes courage. Desensitizing what makes one feel alive is slow death, a kind of decay by disorientation.
That is what my friend who I have been writing about is experiencing. About 10 days ago he was evicted from the property he thought would be a stable place to live. It wasn't. The person who told him to come hadn't paid the electric bill for a long time. There was no juice for anything, and also no water. So the toilets didn't replenish. He wasn't too sad about having to leave. He would have stayed, but the landlord wanted everybody out. Wanted just to clear everybody out.
That Monday my friend was diagnosed with shingles. That Wednesday he had no place to live. So he stored his trailor, gathered up his Futon mattress and hit the street looking for a place to lay his head and ride out the awful pain. He couldn't afford the three prescriptions given to him by the hospital doctor. One would have cost $100. The other two maybe $50 each. So he bought a bottle of brandy and found that $40 per night hotel room. It was weird hearing his voice echo in the room when we talked on the phone.
The room did not have a tub, making it impossible to soak his now-raging case of shingles, which bloomed on his belly right at the belt buckle and on his back at the waist. It was too painful to wear pants. Anyone who has had shingles or has seen anyone with the disease will never forget it. Gritting teeth through the pain and moans of misery remind that one is no longer young. This is, as my friend called it, "an old person's disease. I'm now officially old," he said. He is toothless and 55.
He managed enough social security dollars to pay for a week at the hotel, and watched TV, something he has not seen for a long time, except for occasionally in a store. The programs, he said, lacked good stories. They didn't make him feel good. He wanted to feel better.
He went out every day, played his flute on the street for as long as he could stand the belt buckle on his shingles, made a little money then went back to his room in excruciating pain.
Today he is out on the street again. No more money for a hotel room; no word from his social worker with possibilities; only potential relief in the bushes where a guy he trusts lives and might be willing to let him stay for a while. But he doesn't want to give that friend shingles. Last night he was hoping other friends would allow him to stay in their barn, a garage-like place without hay. Just a floor on which to lay his Futon, remove his belt and relieve some of the pain.
Here in Wisconsin it is pouring rain in the small city in which I am planted for now. Unemployment here is down almost two notches to about 17 percent. We're all just hanging on.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Schizophrenia + Support Your Local Library
"If someone with multiple personalities threatens to kill himself, is it considered a hostage situation?" - George Carlin
A life-long friend of mine started doing crack around Christmas. He is 55. He also is schizophrenic. He has been drinking alcohol to quench his thirst from the crack. He hates liquor. He hates drunks. He is showing his mastery of self-loathing with this act. He is no beginner.
The roof leaks above his bed and several windows are blown out on the small, rusty, filthy, infested, water-less hitch trailor he calls home. He is unable to fix any of it or get a new one. Mold, mildew and dirt are under his fingernails and covering skin that's usually naked in the Texas heat and winter rain. Someone stole most of his belongings when my friend was in the psychiatric ward in the fall. Shortly after he was released in November, someone poisoned his dog. The dog was his everything. They both carried fleas. The dog was staggering toward him and just keeled over.
My friend has become afraid. His parents are in their 80s now and both have cancer. They send him care packages sometimes, and disability covers rent, electricty, phone and a P.O. box. He lived in the same trailor park for years near Austin, but the county condemnded it for the public good to restore it as a flood plain. My friend, who plays a soulful flute and saxaphone as a street muscian, spent more than a year trying to find a place to tow his trailor and call home. His search ended with a clydesdale breeder who gives mercy to social outcasts. There is a woman there, too, a crack addict and alcoholic who is abusive and mean and comes on to him sexually. My friend, who is a bible thumper, sometimes becomes enraged and violent.
Early last year when he talked to me about not having a settled home for himself, he told me that in the past he knew he could control his manic violent outbursts (he becomes incredibly strong during them). At age 55, he was afraid he could kill someone by accident while in a rage. In the past he has been able to stop himself from going to that point. He felt that ability weakening. So far, he hasn't hurt anybody. He just complains a lot.
He's desperately lonesome, and afraid one day he may be alone with only his illness to talk to.
He won't take medication because it takes away his feelings, he says. It makes him afraid to not know how he feels. It makes him feel out of control. I think he is doing crack and drinking because he wants to kill himself, or get someone to do it for him.
I have been reading author and L.A. Times columnist Steve Lopez's book, "The Soloist," about another schizophrenic. Nathaniel Ayers and my friend share much in common. Perhaps I will send my friend the book. He loves to read. It focuses him. It relaxes him. It helps him feel and experience ranges of emotions he can't locate through any other means as a social outcast. He swallows books whole, instantly.
For him, a 250-page book is a nice morning read. He's half blind now, reading through glasses that are the wrong prescription, still taking in every story with excitement, and eager to discuss them. There is no library in the blink-and-you-miss-it town where he's parked. Only a post office a long walk from there, his long blonde and gray nappy head, toothless smile and lanky form puttng one foot in front of the other.
We need libraries. They are threatened by the Internet. Support your local library in person.
A life-long friend of mine started doing crack around Christmas. He is 55. He also is schizophrenic. He has been drinking alcohol to quench his thirst from the crack. He hates liquor. He hates drunks. He is showing his mastery of self-loathing with this act. He is no beginner.
The roof leaks above his bed and several windows are blown out on the small, rusty, filthy, infested, water-less hitch trailor he calls home. He is unable to fix any of it or get a new one. Mold, mildew and dirt are under his fingernails and covering skin that's usually naked in the Texas heat and winter rain. Someone stole most of his belongings when my friend was in the psychiatric ward in the fall. Shortly after he was released in November, someone poisoned his dog. The dog was his everything. They both carried fleas. The dog was staggering toward him and just keeled over.
My friend has become afraid. His parents are in their 80s now and both have cancer. They send him care packages sometimes, and disability covers rent, electricty, phone and a P.O. box. He lived in the same trailor park for years near Austin, but the county condemnded it for the public good to restore it as a flood plain. My friend, who plays a soulful flute and saxaphone as a street muscian, spent more than a year trying to find a place to tow his trailor and call home. His search ended with a clydesdale breeder who gives mercy to social outcasts. There is a woman there, too, a crack addict and alcoholic who is abusive and mean and comes on to him sexually. My friend, who is a bible thumper, sometimes becomes enraged and violent.
Early last year when he talked to me about not having a settled home for himself, he told me that in the past he knew he could control his manic violent outbursts (he becomes incredibly strong during them). At age 55, he was afraid he could kill someone by accident while in a rage. In the past he has been able to stop himself from going to that point. He felt that ability weakening. So far, he hasn't hurt anybody. He just complains a lot.
He's desperately lonesome, and afraid one day he may be alone with only his illness to talk to.
He won't take medication because it takes away his feelings, he says. It makes him afraid to not know how he feels. It makes him feel out of control. I think he is doing crack and drinking because he wants to kill himself, or get someone to do it for him.
I have been reading author and L.A. Times columnist Steve Lopez's book, "The Soloist," about another schizophrenic. Nathaniel Ayers and my friend share much in common. Perhaps I will send my friend the book. He loves to read. It focuses him. It relaxes him. It helps him feel and experience ranges of emotions he can't locate through any other means as a social outcast. He swallows books whole, instantly.
For him, a 250-page book is a nice morning read. He's half blind now, reading through glasses that are the wrong prescription, still taking in every story with excitement, and eager to discuss them. There is no library in the blink-and-you-miss-it town where he's parked. Only a post office a long walk from there, his long blonde and gray nappy head, toothless smile and lanky form puttng one foot in front of the other.
We need libraries. They are threatened by the Internet. Support your local library in person.
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