And Then There Were Six

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I love this photo, and I'll tell you why.   It's candid, it's a bit vague, but I know the story behind it.  In that moment I was happy.  I was proud of myself and I liked myself because I'd just done something great for another human being, someone I admired( and still admire) greatly.
Seeing what happened, later that night, and for the last two years, it seems I've spent most of the time trying to get back to that moment, to that place of well being and contentment.   It's been a struggle.
I've written a great deal this year, about my writing, and about living with my depression.  Sometimes it's been helpful, sometimes it's made things worse.   I know some things I've said here have offended people, and honestly, that wasn't my intent at all.  I offer apologies for anyone I may have unintentionally hurt.
I'm a work in progress, as always, and so much of 'what happens next' for me is uncertain.   My faith has slipped a lot, I've lost a lot of trust in people.   I don't like not knowing what happens next, and abhor change, even though I know things have to change, or you can't move forward.
So hence the title of this post.   There are six weeks left to this less than stellar year, and while I have many things to say, I think I'll keep it to the positive stuff.  So, I'd say this year I've learned to-
-Keep my mouth shut sometimes, to not pick fights, to try to make peace, rather than creative dissension, whenever possible.
-I've learned to be more gentle with people.  To breathe, to take a step back, and to work on my patience.  After all, I need that from others, now more than ever.  I'm not saying I'm completely successful all the time, I'm still working on that.  It's a process.
-I've learned I'm not as hideous as I think I am.  I've been forgiven so much this year, and I am so grateful for that.
-I've learned to detach , with love, from people and situations who can't change, who refuse to give an inch.  The brick wall won't crack, and I need to let it go, and accept what is, and rest my aching head and heart.
To everyone who's helped me this year thank you.  I won't go through the list of names, oh, hell, I have to mention a few.
To Lisa, and Amy, and Jules.  Again, thank you all, for everything.  I know we will be friends until we're in the ground, and yes, I'm going first.  You are my true sisters.
To Amanda, thanks for hanging on so far.   I know it hasn't been easy, but I'm getting there.  You'll see.
To my wonderful friends in the writing and culinary community- Michael Ruhlman, Simon Majumdar, and Jehangir Mehta, again, for the encouragement, for being willing to follow me on Twitter, for interacting with me so frequently, a million thanks.   I love you guys so damned much.
So long, 2012.  Up the staircase to 2013.  Head up, eyes forward.  Let's go!!!

Regarding 'The Next Iron Chef'

If you follow me on Twitter, or are a friend of mine on Facebook, you'll know, that since August,  I've been posting and tweeting about 'The Next Iron Chef-Redemption' and the contestant that I've been supporting, Chef Jehangir Mehta.  Which reminds me.   Go vote for him.  Here. NOW.  I'll wait.

http://www.foodnetwork.com/next-iron-chef-fan-vote/package/index.html
Finished?  Good, then I'll continue. :P
This Sunday, 3 days (or 2, if you want to be picky )  from now,'The Next Iron Chef-Redemption' starts, at 9pm EST on Food Network.    If you've never watched it, it's really a fun show.  Think of it as combination of 'Survivor' and 'The Amazing Race' only with cooking challenges, and somewhat bigger egos, where some of the chefs are concerned. And I'd be lying if I said I won't be watching to see what Alton Brown will be wearing every week, along with the fact he makes a great host, and his interactions with the chefs are always for lack of a better word, interesting.  There'll be drama, backstabbing, tears, and of course, Redemption for one person.
  I'm hoping it's Chef Mehta, and if you'll indulge me, as there are three days left, here are three reasons -(musical fanfare)
Chef Jehangir Mehta Should Be The Next Iron Chef

1. He Loves NYC, and He Does Tons of Charity Work
2. He Has Fantastic Cooking Chops And Skills
3. He's a Beautiful Person, Inside and Out     

To elaborate on each point
He really does do TONS of charity work.  There's hardly a week that goes by that I've not seen him either tweet or post on his Facebook page about some event he's either involved in or hosting.  He's done dinners for Autism Speaks, and for Breast Cancer Research, to name two.  He's also spoken about Childhood Literacy, a cause very near to my heart.   He gives often of his time, and of his talents.
Speaking of his talents, the man can COOK.  Watching him cook and create is fascinating, but that's not all that makes him Iron Chef worthy, in my opinion. Yes, he did start out as a pastry chef, and he is still is a (pardon my French) damned good one, he's so much more than that, and he demonstrates that every day at his two restaurants, Graffiti and Mehtaphor, both in NYC.   I've had the pleasure of eating at Graffiti twice so far this year, and none of the dishes I've tasted have disappointed me.  Again, though, it's more than that.  It's the way the food is prepared, and the way it's presented, with such care and love.  You can tell that cooking is not only the man's profession, but he is truly passionate about what he does.  If and when you get a chance, go.  I'm actually headed to Mehtaphor this coming Thursday, provided the trains are running, and the world isn't set on it's ear again.
His skills, combined with that passion would make him an excellent Iron Chef.
Finally, as I said, he is truly a beautiful person, inside and out, and this is not only what I feel, but what others have told me about him.  As I've said before, I've followed his career since 2009, when he was on NIC the first time.   Throughout the competition, as the contestants were eliminated I saw them display a variety of emotions, from sadness to rage.  When, however, Chef Mehta lost to Chef Jose Garces in the final battle, his reaction was one of the most gracious I have ever seen.  It impressed me.
That's one of the reasons that, when I found out back in August, that he was returning this year, I decided to support him, and when I asked him to follow me on Twitter, I was beyond pleased that he did.  I had the pleasure of meeting him in September, and as nervous as I was, he took it all in stride.  He even followed me outside Graffiti when I left that night, and thanked me again for coming.
  This will probably embarrass him, and if it does, I apologize, but he is, as I like to say, a real person, very humble, completely without guile.   The best example of this is something that happened last week, when I was having a very bad day, and I asked him for a few encouraging words.  He took the time, not only to tweet me back, but say something that made me feel a million times better.  I am happy to call him a friend.
  Okay, so these reasons aren't exactly unbiased, but they are honest.
I wish all the competitors good luck on the show, and I look forward to seeing how it all unfolds.
Happy watching, everyone!n

A Brief, Personal Update

Sorry I haven't been blogging, or even writing these days. I've not really been in a mood to write, even as Nanowrimo is again upon us once again.  My heart isn't in it, and that's probably because...
I've been back in rehab for the past two weeks, and just found out I'm there for at least another ten days.  I'm not sure how I feel about this.  Sure, the groups help, the individual therapy helps, there are days when I actually feel like I've Learned Something, whatever that may be, but let's be frank.  I won't be in Rehab forever, I won't have all the constant supports around me in my life for more than the next week, at most, and I wonder most days, how I'll get through.
I'm also on a new med, Delpin--(which, after getting the RX filled and staring at the bottle for a week, I am finally taking).  It's too soon to tell, of course, if it works.  It's not very comforting to know that not many of the doctors or therapists I've spoken to, have heard of it.  As always, we'll see.
I suppose the bottom line is, I'm still here.  I've lived with my depression for thirty years now, and if I'm truly honest, not all of it has been horrible.   It's just with Winter approaching and everything else....well, I think you know.   Then again, maybe I'm stronger than I think I am.  Maybe.

So many things to say...

https://twitter.com/walters_furry/status/256443771678511104/photo/1

*Sigh*.   So, it's the eve of my birthday(and no, a lady never tells her age) and five days before I go back to rehab again.  I'm torn between thinking I'm a loser and knowing I'm doing the exact right thing for myself.  I need to get away, to do some thinking, and most importantly, do my work so I can better take care of myself and be the person I'm supposed to be, content, healthy and well.

  We'll see.

I've been thinking a great deal about everything, and yesterday my cousin sent me a bunch of old photos of our family.   I found the one of myself and I know there are a lot of things I want to say to that kid, so here goes.

-You're beautiful

-You're smart(smarter than many kids your age, and yes, this will be a problem because there weren't many programs for gifted kids back then)  You'll feel different, but you'll be alright.

-Some bad shit is going to happen to you, and it's not your fault.  It'll feel like it is, but it's not, really.  Trust me.  I wish I could have told you that then, but I'm telling you now.

-It's not your responsibility to make everyone around you happy.  They need to do their work.  ----Take care of yourself, have fun.  You're four, for God's sake.  A four year old shouldn't worry like you do.

-Half the things your mom is going to tell you are wrong.  You're not weird, strange, abnormal.  You are you, and that's fine.

-Keep making up stories in your head.   In a few years, you'll start to write them down.  It will serve you well.

-Keep singing.

-Finally, it gets better.  It does, and it will.

-l love you, kid.  

Well, that was cathartic.   As I begin another year, and I start again, I'm not going to make any sweeping promises to myself that everything will miraculously turn around.  But, I'm going to do my work, and more importantly, be proud of the fact that I'm strong enough to do it.

  A few weeks ago a fairly new friend of mine told me I was brave, and that blew my mind.  When I asked him why, this is what he said.

Jehangir Mehta ‏@jehangir_mehta

@walters_furry you are up each day and do what is expected of you, whether you want to or not. That is being brave in my eyes

After thinking about this for a while, I agree.  Thanks again, J.

I''m going to do my best.   

Wish me luck.

Look! A Post that Actually Sticks to What I Said the Theme of This Blog Is!

This is not a happy post, so you have all been warned.  If you're not interested, or if you don't care to read about the set backs and trials of being a writer, or the drawbacks and struggles of living with depression, then you're welcome to leave now, I'll wait.

Have they gone?  Alright, if there's anyone left, here goes.

Let's start with this, a small sampling of the kind of reaction all my submissions have gotten over the past few years.  Understand, a very small sample--I have at least one hundred more rejections-
DateTitleOrganizationStatus
04/29/2010AbsolutionPalooka - PoetryDeclined
08/19/2012All Saints DayFiction Fix - FictionIn-Progress
07/31/2010CrossroadsThe Associative Press - PoetryDeclined
05/16/2010CrossroadsHayden's Ferry Review - poetryDeclined
06/05

/2012Full HoneymoonLinden Avenue - Flash FictionDeclined
05/29/2012Full HoneymoonFlash Fiction Online - OTHERDeclined
07/15/2012Mikusinski-Poems Crossroads, Part One, and InterludeBlue Lyra Review - PoetryDeclined
06/10/2012PoetryA Few Lines Magazine - PoetryDeclined
05/31/2012PoetryOstrich Review - PoetryDeclined
06/28/2012Poetry SubmissionThe Boiler Journal - PoetryDeclined
06/25/2012Poetry Submission42 Magazine - PoetryDeclined
06/18/2012Poetry SubmissionHyphenate Magazine - PoetryIn-Progress
06/15/2012Poetry SubmissionBurningword Literary Journal - Poetry SubmissionDeclined
06/14/2012Poetry SubmissionCactus Heart Press - PoetryDeclined
10/08/2012Therapy/Travel AgencyParadise Review - PoetryReceived

Depressing, right?  I honestly don't know what these people want anymore.  And no, I don't submit everywhere.  Honeslty, looking for places to submit is work, in and of itself.  I'm not going to submit to a magazine that accepts horror lit, or abstract poetry, or magical realism', whatever that means--and I probably should know what that means.  

  I've been writing all my life, I can't imagine not writing something at least once a week, if not once a day.  Yesterday I wrote that my faith sustains me, but to be honest, it's writing, and thinking of stories, talking about stories and characters with my friends who understand.   Honestly, I think my biggest problem, and what holds me back the most is worrying what other people think.  I've heard so much, 'write for yourself' and that's what I do, for the most part, but the question remains, "If I'm writing for myself, and no one else wants it, how do I get what I want, what I've always wanted, and that is to be published?"  Ugh.  Therein lies the problem, I suppose, but what I need to work on is just being happy that I am writing, will continue to write, and that, published or not, I am, was, and always will be, a writer.   That's the truth.
   As to living with my depression, things have gotten really difficult lately.  Maybe it's my birthday fast approaching, maybe it's the fact that I recently got closure(and not good closure) to my twenty one year relationship, maybe it's the aforementioned rejections.   The medication I hoped would work gave me terrible insomnia and blurry vision that I couldn't tolerate.  I don't know what will help lift the weight this time, but I am headed back for another two week stint in rehab.  That's what helped the most, and I hope that I can do good work on myself as I did before, and I can figure out a better, more profitable plan for myself.  Wish me luck.

The Vast Indifference of What, Exactly?

This is one of my favorite songs of Warren's, and it perfectly describes what's going on in my life right now.  I've always considered myself a Person of faith.  I was raised strict Catholic, and it was never a problem for me.  In other words, as long as you lived in my parents house, you would get up for Sunday Mass.  When we were teenagers, even if we got in late the night before, we'd either get up for Mass, or drive ourselves to the Sunday night Mass.  Mom would wait dinner until we got home.  It was just how things were.  Unlike many kids my age, I didn't mind.   I liked going to Mass, hearing the readings, listening to the sermon.  For me, the rituals, the remembered prayers, and most important, the reception of the Blessed Sacrament gave a feeling of comfort that I didn't and couldn't get anywhere else.  

My faith was the one thing that sustained me during bad times and made me feel even better in good times, in fact, it helped me to hope for things to get better.

  When I broke off my engagement two years ago, for good reason, many things changed, and not just the obvious things, like the direction of my life, and all the plans I'd made over the past year, but my life view, period.   My faith in everything began to slip. I lost a lot of friends, and shortly after my relationship ended, I lost several family relationships that have not been able to be salvaged at all, one being my brother, who refuses to speak to me.

I started to wonder where was God in all this, if He cared at all, and on my darkest days if  He even existed at all.

  I'm sure some people, friends and acquaintances who are agnostic or atheists, might be happy for me to hear this, would tell that I'd finally woken up to the 'truth of things', that I've dropped all my fairy tales and illusions.  I'd love to party with them, but my heart's not in it. Something is missing, because, as I've said before, I need something to sustain me.

*Edit*  Something happened a few hours ago that makes me lean more towards keeping faith.  I spent some time in church tonight, praying, but I'm still not sure.  Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe, not in aliens,but in a God that truly loves me.   So many things are uncertain though.  We'll just have to see.

To be continued, I suppose.  As always, feedback is most welcome.

Writer, Interrupted.

If this is truly going to be a blog about living with mental illness and being a writer, I have to find some way to connect the two.   I've really been conflicted over the past week, wondering if I want to continue the blog at all.   Sometimes it goes days without a hit, except some random pervert looking up '50 Shades of Grey'--I wrote a post about that MONTHS ago--and that's discouraging.
  And, I hate to whine, although it could be argued that what I write is not whining. Maybe I'm not sure.   Anyway, if anyone out there in cyberspace could comment on what I'm writing, that would be helpful.  It would make me feel like I'm not screaming into the wind all the time.
Anyway, seems I'm back in limbo again.  I have a bunch of submissions I recently sent out, so I'm waiting to hear back.   I'm in love, with a few things; which is normal  for me, and as always, I'm trying to find a place in this world, and a feeling of belonging and just general peace.
  Last week, I spent the night in the psyche ER, and it was in one way a wake up call, and in another, a slap in the face.  It's been nine years since I was hospitalized.   I never intend to be on a locked ward again, but I was feeling so desperately sad and hopeless that I forgot to watch my words, and said something, apparently, that made the woman on the other end of the Helpline think she needed to call the cops to haul me to the ER, where I sat for five hours, talking to NO ONE but a nurse practitioner.  I was forced to change into scrubs and then couldn't even reason with the people who wanted to keep me there overnight.
  I barely slept but thought of some great story ideas, and kind of different perspective of my life, which, I have to be frank, is challenging right now.  Starting 10/7- I"m going back for two more weeks of rehab.  It's kind of a refresher course.  The setbacks have left me sort of shaky.  It's not a bad thing, that's what I keep telling myself.  Wish me luck, send goo
  Most of my friends have heard me say in the past weeks that I want to die.  It's not true.  I want things to be better, so I can live better, be a better person, and a better friend.  
I have so much I want to say, and I'm blessed enough to have the stories in my head to tell, and the characters to tell them with.
  I'm scared and excited, and worried all at once, and it gives me comfort to know that more than one famous writer did a stint or two(or six) in some sort of lockup.   I suppose I'm in good company.
And with that said, I'm going to get back to writing---
To quote a dear friend, "To Balance, Strength, Love, Faith, and Hope".  I've been trying to think of those things.
We'll see how it goes.  To everyone who's supported me lately--esp Lisa , Amanda, Brenda, Amy and Jules, thank you all, so much.
And to J-I still don't think I'm brave, and you thinking that blows my tiny little mind.  Thanks again.
As always, watch this space.

Inmates, in and of the Asylum, and Accepting All of It.

Okay, so I'm a great big liar.   I said I was going to not blog anymore, but I changed my mind.  I  have a lot to say, both about writing, and living with mental illness.   If what I write makes people uncomfortable, well, that's a good reason to not read it, isn't it?   If you're interested in all, as I am to support people who do live with depression, anxiety, bi-polar, what have you, then read on.  You are warmly welcomed and accepted here.  Of course that said, I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on television.  Any opinions are my own--if you don't think they would work for you well then, simply don't do them.   More importantly, if you have your own ideas, I'm more than open to hearing them here---fill up my little comment box, and I will be exceedingly grateful.
  As most of you know, I recently got out of rehab and have been looking to get into another therapy program that offers group therapy on a daily basis.  Well, I found one, I thought, which, at first look, seemed like it would fill the bill, but after visiting there and talking to some of the teachers, I'm having serious second thoughts.
  As the old saying goes, the inmates seem to be running the asylum, calling the shots, acting how they want.  When I questioned the instructors/therapists about this, they answered--well, everyone has to improve at their own pace, we don't force anyone to do anything they don't want  That makes me think many of these people come to this program because they are required to.  I'm sure some of them are prepared, like me, to do the hard work that's required, but I'm afraid some of them just go to get out of the house.
  Then again, that may be my own insecurity talking.   To be honest,  I'm pretty sick and tired, again, of being sick and tired, of having to go to 'programs', of still needing medication and therapy  It's a struggle I wouldn't wish on anyone--well, maybe a few people, but I'm not even sure about that.
  I've just been hating myself lately, and no one has been able to tell me how to get away from that.  Any suggestions, again, are more than welcome.  I need to accept where I am right now, and how I feel.  I suppose things can change, lately though, I"m not sure, and after dealing with another m
Here are some things I still think I know are true about myself
-I'm a good friend
-If I love you, you basically have me for life, and eventually, I believe you'll love me too, even a little.
-I still believe I can write,  even though I lost yet another contest, I will still enter more, even though I'm not sure why.
And that's about all I know right now.
Later, because I'm crying again.

Affairs, Familial and Otherwise

My mom visited recently, and it taught me a few important lessons about, well people in general, and my family specifically.   Seeing as one of the things I said during the visit was (and yes, this is verbatim) "F**k, F**k, F**k, it's just a word, that's all!!!!!!!!!!",  I suppose you can all guess how it went.  At this point I'm pretty sure the relationship between Mom and I is over, in the sense that it will never be anything good.  I've tried so hard, and she's not tried at all.  She says she does, but it lasts for such a short amount of time it doesn't matter.
My brother and I do not speak   He has a block on his phone for my number and he and his wife despise me because, in their words, they 'don't deal with emotional people'--apparently they enjoy the company of robots or something.
.  I just don't know, and honestly, I don't want to think about it, blog about it, or talk about it anymore.
  Next topic please, and quickly.'
Affairs of the mind-  I had said to myself, when I started this blog two years ago, I was going to make it about two things, writing, and living with mental illness.  In the past few months, I've strayed off those topics, I know, and I need to get back on track.  I know some of what I write may be uncomfortable for people to read, they may wonder why I talk about it, but it's what I choose to do.   Change can only be affected when people speak up.   All the great social reforms were championed by people who weren't afraid to speak up.
Did they get grief for it?   You bet.  Some died for their causes.   All of that doesn't really scare me in the slightest.   I believe in educating people about mental illnesses, especially things like anxiety and depression, which the majority of the world seems to believe can be 'snapped out of" or looked on as personal flaws that  people can help themselves out of.  It's not true.
  Living with it is a struggle, but it doesn't mean that people who do  live with it are miserable constantly  Even though I'm going through a really bad time right now, I can still manage to get up and do what I need to do.  I still have things that make me laugh, I still can go out to a movie, or our to dinner by myself like I did last week, but I know that even though I may have fun, I'm not enjoying those things as much as I could be, and that's what makes things difficult,  I would give anything in the world to get back to the person I used to be, the one who didn't have panic attacks, who could sleep through the night, who had her moments of absolute bliss-although I did come close last Thursday night. I want to get back to that person more personally, someone who's able to do the Snoopy Dance again, head back, feet moving, beaming, arms out, embracing life again.
  As this is Suicide Awareness and Prevention day, I just wanted everyone to know that anyone who's ever struggled with suicidal feelings and spoken about them is not weak, or looking for attention,   They are looking to end the pain that has been their almost constant companion for how ever long it is.  I pray that none of you ever experience such pain.  Please, if you have a friend or loved one who mentions taking their own life, take them seriously.   Do the best you can to get them to seek help.  Go with them to an appointment if that's the only way they'll  go.  Love them and hug them, and tell them you need them, even if you think they won't believe it.  They need it.
  Finally, affairs of the heart.  When  I love someone, I love them completely, and most likely, a friend will have me for life, if they're willing to bear with me through the hard times.  I have a few that I am thankful for-so to Lisa, and Amanda, and the two Julies, and Jess and Amy, and Brenda, all far away but ever close in my heart, THANK YOU.    I would surely have lost it this year without you guys.
And to Mr Brown, and to J-and dear Stanley--you'll never understand, but I love you.  Be well.
To be contnued, I suppose, and I hope

My Excellent Culinary Adventure At Graffiti

Before I proceed, I should inform my readers that I am not, by any means, now, nor have I ever been, a food reviewer, or a restaurant critic. I don't have the skills or the impartiality to effectively rate an establishment.   I'm a writer of poetry and fiction, so this will not be a 'normal' restaurant review, by any means.  

  I like to cook, and I like to eat, and bottom line, I know what I like.  So, with all that said, I want to tell you about my experience at Jehangir Mehta's restaurant Graffiti.

    If you have no idea what I'm talking about, here's a little background.  Back in 2009, I was watching the second season of 'The Next Iron Chef' and I noticed that one of the competitors was a little different than the others.  He had his own idea about how he wanted to compete, he broke rules, and what was even more interesting was he didn't seem to be particularly rattled by either the judges, or the program's host, Alton Brown (and I know first hand, how intimidating Mr. Brown can be).  Seeing all these things put together both impressed and intrigued me, and even after the show had ended, and Jose Garces had defeated Chef Mehta in the final(btw, he was ROBBED) I wanted to know more about him and when I read about Graffiti, I knew I had to go there.

  Shortly after that, life got in the way of those plans, as it often does.  Two weeks ago I made my reservation, and finally that day arrived.

  Before I bore you  my impressions, please watch this video.  I believe Chef Mehta can describe his place FAR better than I ever could. :)

  http://blip.tv/1stLookNY/1st-look-ny-graffiti-425178

The  first thing that struck me, when I walked in the door was "Yes, is is that small." Still it was small in a good way.  I was greeted warmly by the hostess and immediately ushered to one of the front tables, where two other women were seated.  All the tables here, are communal, whether you are dining solo or with a group.  This was a welcome surprise to me, a woman who regularly dines alone and is therefore regulated to the back table in the farthest corner of the restaurant.  Here, I felt welcomed warmly, and instantly at home in this cozy space.

  Anyone who reads this blog and knows my situation understands I don't go out to eat as often as I'd like to.  My one concern about going to Graffiti, as it is a well known place in NYC, was 'what's it going to cost me?"  When I looked up the menu online, however, I was pleasantly surprised and I'm sure all my readers will be too, check it out!

http://www.graffitinyc.com/menu.html

I had the watermelon salad with mint sorbet and feta cheese, the pickled ginger scallops with the candied red chili, and for dessert, the warm truffle almond strawberries, with the pepper ice cream.

  Everything was wonderful, and artfully presented-it was almost too beautiful to eat.  I have to say the scallops were the best I've had anywhere, and the dessert, well, now I understand why everyone raves about truffles, and that's a problem because now, I'll want them all the time ;P.
   All in all this was a fantastic dining experience.  One thing I definitely want to mention was the quality of the service.  Both the hostess and servers were attentive and willing to explain anything you didn't understand.  They didn't hover though, like some do, and that was a plus.

  I also was lucky enough to meet Chef Mehta, who was extremely warm, and incredibly gracious. He is a truly lovely man.  I plan on returning very soon.

So, in closing, I just want to say, if you want a pleasant, non rushed, dining experience in a place with great ambiance and fantastic food, get to Graffiti as soon as you can.  You won't regret it.   I mean seriously.  Go.

NOW.  

 

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab, I Said...

alright... Cue music, anyway.
Being a Young Adult of the '80s, a movie I remember with quite a bit of melancholy is that cinematic classic 'St. Elmo's Fire'.  One of my favorite scenes is when Andrew McCarthy--and where the f is he, now- tells one of his friends, "It's not easy bein' me'.

  Regular readers of this blog know that I've been going through a very hard time lately, and that I finally gave up, gave in, and decided to go to Rehab, in my case, Psyche Rehab, called Partial Hospital. It was a two week program of intensive group therapy for six hours every day.   I didn't have much faith in it, after all, what could be accomplished in two weeks, that would un-do all the crap and angst I'd been through in the past six months.
 I was wrong.
Still for the first few days I was there, I sat in group with my arms crossed, occasionally making a snarky comment (or six)  I alternately(in my head) made fun of the the other patients, thinking that they were way more messed up than I was, I told myself I didn't belong there, that this wouldn't help me at all.  I spent most of the morning of the third day I was,there, crying in the hallway, and promising myself I"d never come back,
Again, I was wrong.
After lunch, I came back, and I don't know what happened, or how it happened, something had changed.  Many of the things the instructors were talking about sounded less like BS, and more about things that I could apply to myself.  More frightening was the fact that I knew many of the non-productive behaviors they talked about changing were things I had done, some of them that had actually caused me to lose friends, and remain as desperately unhappy as I was, which was what had brought me to rehab in the first place.
  I started to learn better ways of dealing with my situations and emotions.  It wasn't easy, and it certainly wasn't enjoyable most of the time.  But I had the support of my staff and my peers, and the bottom line is was and is, that now it's over, I came out a different person I was when I went in.  The jury's still out on whether that's  better person, but different, definitely,
The day I left they told me I had done everything the right way this time and they were proud of me.  It felt good.
Now, back out here, in the real world, I have a whole toolbox of skills to use to help me when things get hard.  To be honest, I'm still learning to use them.  But at least I know what they are now.
What happens next?
Watch this space.

My Own Manifesto, of Sorts.

Which I'm sure, will lose me the rest of my friends, and garner me all sorts of grief, but guess what?  At this point, I don't care.  I'm tired of people telling me they can't deal with me, like I can help the way I'm acting.  Granted, I'm not the nicest person right now, I know, but when you think about it, have I ever been a 'nice person?'  I think not.
I am, even on my best days,
-jealous
-sarcastic
-opinionated
-outspoken
-brutally, frankly honest.
Nothing much scares me.   With me, what you see, basically is what you get.  I lost that part of me for the twenty years I was with someone who I thought I could trust, whom I thought I could love, who repeatedly hurt me, this last week for the last time.  I know, now, never to give myself away like that again.
I've spent the last three years trying to to get back to myself, which varying results.  I lost a lot of friends because of it.  Today I lost my last two. I have nothing for all my efforts.   I don't see the point to this anymore.
No one thinks I care about them, I matter to no one.  I tried to make a difference.  I even shared the story of my struggle with a mental health website-they didn't even post it.
People say I push them away.  Maybe now they can understand why.  The truth of the matter is, I will never be able to have a normal relationship with anyone.  I'm too damaged.   I have to be alone, even though I don't deserve it.  I just wanted to hear an unsolicited "I love you' every now and then.  I wanted someone to just sit with me.

A Fairy Tale---Of Sorts

Once upon a time there was an little show on Food Network called, "The Next Food Network Star" .  The concept was that amateur cooks from around the country would send in their videos, telling why they deserved to have their own show on the network.  If their videos were selected, they would be asked to come to New York to audition, and if they were chosen, they would be one of a number of contestants on the actual show.
The contestants would be put through a series of rigorous cooking 'challenges' all meant to gauge how well they would do in all the areas that a cooking show features-speaking, presenting on camera, the ability to teach, and the ability to do one (or more ) of these things at once.  An interesting idea, which struggled its first season-and unfortunately the winners of said first season are long forgotten.  (although I remember them; a good looking gay couple who did something along the line of "Easy and Elegant Entertaining":--and GOD no, that wasn't the title of the program, so that can't be blamed for its failure.
For some reason though the ratings were good enough that they brought the show back for a second season.    The winner that year was Guy Fieri.  And at that point, things went rapidly downhill.
Sure the show was sometimes fun to watch, if you enjoy bloody train wrecks.  Apparently, a lot of people did.  Seasons went past, some with scandal, others with blandness.
IMHO, the best season ever was the one where Alton Brown guested on a few episodes, and uttered the line,  in frustration-"Can't we just send them ALL home?"  Now that, was brilliance on tv.
Time went on,  and the show remained popular.   Some of the staples on the network loved the show and guested every year, some people voiced, quietly and snarkily, their negative opinions.
Flash forward to this year.  Perhaps the franchise was dying because low and behold,  a new formt was announced for the show's 8th season.  Instead of the contestants being on their own, there would be
-teams
and
-mentors
Three to be exact. And joy of joys, the winner would not only get their own show, but have it produced by their teams mentor.
The mentors were: Giada DeLaurentiis, Bobby Flay, and --wait for it---Alton Brown  Yes, you read right, Alton Brown.  Not the same Alton Brown who seemingly loathed the show from its inception?
you ask in horror.  Yeah, that Alton Brown.  Although, if you read what he said about it in January, it doesn't seem like he's especially thrilled.
http://altonbrown.com/2012/01/463/
Now this was written months ago, and perhaps the Great Man's mind may have changed, but I don't know.   He tweets about the show each Sunday, sounding sad and beaten down at least once.  His body language is stiff, and if he cracks a smile--especially in the later episodes, it looks like it hurts him to do so.  In fact, in the previews for the the next to last episode, he's crying.
Oh, Alton.  It worries me.   Giada and Bobby seem happy and encouraging, but you?  You seem to be acting as if you're the captain of a sinking ship.   And the remaining two team members, esp Justin, who for some inexplicable reason everyone loves, are unwatchable.
I wonder why you agreed to do the show at all.  And I wonder if there will be a happily ever after-for you, even if your team wins.   What about the shows you were promised?   I see so many others on FN get new shows, most of them insipid, but never you, dear man. :(
I guess it remains to be seen.
Mr Brown, if you've read my blog before you KNOW where my heart is concerning you.   Please don't take offense.
And instead of "The End", let me just leave this at
"To Be Continued"
Peace, Alton.  Always.  In the most non threatening, and kindest way possible, I love you.

It Started with A Tweet

A simple thing I said, expressing my opinion.  I had no idea what would happen after that.  I said it Friday evening.

Anon_AMouse ‏@Anon_AMouse

Before @EatFellowHumans, there was @altonbrown. Sad so many seem to have forgotten that. No one who follows me, but the unwashed masses.

Just an expression of opinion right?  Cue music-

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pX-zICUycUo

As Scott Bakula says, repeatedly, in Quantum Leap- Oh, boy.

No sooner than I'd tweeted it, well, the deluge-first from Justin Warner(@EatFellowHumans) one of the contestants on Food Network Star, then from all his fans.

OH

MY

GOD

It got worse from there.  I was insulted, harassed, called any number of names, from 'hater' 'unstable' and my VERY PERSONAL favorite- 'stalker'.  It went on all weekend, and sadly, it's still going on.  The saddest thing is that people un-followed me on twitter.  People whom I've seen say MUCH worse things to people they've disliked. People who I considered friends.

  I don't get it.  Well, maybe I do.  When the majority rules, the minority gets its ass kicked.  Forget freedom of speech, and there's a great song about that, but it's loaded with f-bombs and after my '50 Shades' post, I've learned my lesson.  But if you're dying to listen it's by Ice-T(yes, the little white girl listens to rap) and it's called  Quel Suprise, "Freedom of Speech"  you can find it on youtube.   In fact, I think I'll listen to it after I finish this post.

The voicing of an unpopular opinion on social media makes you automatically a target, and I'll confess, this is NOT the first time it's happened to me.   I guess, as I suffer from Anne Frank Syndrome ("Above All, I still believe people are good at heart') I think it might not happen this time.

But it did.   And it may make me a little wary from now on, or---it may not.

And if nothing else, it's a great story.  :)

Splendid Isolation Ain't That Pretty At All

One of the best things about having Warren Zevon as a principal muse and DH is that you've got a plethora of song titles to use as subjects for blog posts.   I love you, dear man, wherever you are.

  When I was a psychology minor, I loved to learn how the human mind worked.  What made us tick, and what made us do what we did.  The brain really is an amazing organ, which is a rather limited and juvenile statement, but true, nonetheless.   

Unfortunately, things happen.   And sometimes, the brain doesn't work the way it should.  There are tumors, and aneurysms and blot clots and strokes.   All medical problems.  When someone suffers from any one of these things, people will be supportive of the person, rally around them, and help them any way they can.  It's seen as tragic.

   And then there are other things that could go wrong with the brain.  Things like chemical imbalances, a lot of which fall under the category of (ominous music) mental illness.

There are few words that clear a room faster than those two.  Alright, maybe not clear a room, exactly, but cause people to shuffle their feet, look away, change the subject.  No one wants to talk about it, and it's sad.  It's proven fact that one in ten people in this world suffers from mental illness, in some form.  Some worse than others.  

Let me get to my point.  If you look in my file that my wonderful therapist Scott has on me, you'll see my first diagnosis is 'Major Depression,(recurrent).  Ah that 'r' word.  I've had it since I was thirteen, which means I've lived with it for thirty-five years.  

Major Depression is a funny thing.  It comes and goes.  The last bout I had of it occurred two years ago when my 20 year relationship broke up.   I was pretty sure that one would have killed me, but I bounced back.  I was on Zoloft for a while, and that helped, but the constant weight gain, the carbohydrate craving and the inability to cry proved almost as bad as the depression.  I tried Cymbalta, that made me sick to my stomach.  Lexapro and Welbutrin gave me miserable headaches. I was on an anxiety drug for a while, and that seemed to fix my anxiety.  

In short, I've been on five medications, and none have 'worked' whatever that means. For a while, I was fine, meaning I cared about stuff, I was in a pleasant mood, I got things done.  Last October, my godmother, who I love dearly, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.  She's now in assisted living.  I was not allowed to help or make any decisions about her care.  Because I spoke up about that, I am now disowned from most of my family.   I fell into another depression, which has been hanging on since then.

Depression makes you mean.  Depression makes you tired.  Depression takes the good-natured person I used to be and turns me into someone who cries all day and screams at everyone, at parents, at friends, at God.   I don't want to do anything go anywhere.

I wake up crying and I go to sleep the same way.  This is NOTHING that I've chosen.  If I could feel any other way I would.  This is not 'feeling sorry for myself'.  I go to therapy regularly.  I have a psychiatrist.  Some days, when I'm up to it, I do go out.  I do eat, I do clean.  The worse it gets the harder it is to do daily things.  

As I've said, no one wants to deal with it.  

Today I made the decision to go into intensive treatment.  Instead of being happy, I feel like the biggest failure in the universe.

I'm afraid I will lose what little I have left.

I live with major depression.   I don't know how much longer I can live with it.

Of futility, friendship, faith, and fur-not necessarily in that order

I lost a friend over the weekend.  It's always sad when that happens, but worse, I think, when you're not sure exactly why it happened.  Maybe words were exchanged or things were misunderstood, and maybe  things will blow over in time.  I don't know.  To that person, I once again offer my apologies.

  That said, as you might have guessed, things haven't been going well for me lately at all.  Chalk it up to too little sleep, too much sadness, pining for things and people it seems at this time, I'll never have-well, one I'm sure I'll never have, but that's another blog entry-but it's been extremely rough.  I've been crying at least three times every day, haven't been sleeping and eating anything that's even marginally good for me, doesn't interest me at all.
I'm in the process of losing my mind, I know I am.  Things I say make perfect sense to me, but not to anyone else.  I'm wondering if maybe I just saw things the way I wanted to, rather than how they truly were.   I just don't know.
Anyway, I'm scared.  Scared that the medicine I'm going to try next isn't going to work.  Scared that then, the only thing that could help this nineteen ton weight of depression lift is ECT, yes, electroshock therapy.  I have no one to hold my hand through this.  My family won't talk to me, and my mother, even if I begged her to come, wouldn't.  I'm on my own.   I don't know how I'll make it.
*Sigh*  Okay.  Thus endeth the futility portion of this entry.
On faith, I don't know.  My belief has changed so much in the past few months, and it's mostly due to the actions of other people.  In some ways, I know that's wrong.  God has nothing to do with how other people act, or how they decide to treat you.   That all falls under that tricky thing called Free Will.  Meaning, basically, people can chose to be hateful, insensitive assholes, if that's what turns them on.  I'm going through a phase were I'm wavering between wondering why God allows that, and thinking maybe it happens because He wants me to be closer to Him.  If I figure out which one I stick with, I'll let you know.   Right now, again, I just don't know.
  It's hard to have faith in a loving God when you can't achieve what you want.  When you know that you are a writer and you're met with rejection at every turn; you can't afford writing conferences, classes, or critiques, you wonder why the hell you have the desire so strongly to be published and have your work known, because it's killing you.   Overly dramatic, maybe, but I'm beginning to think that being a writer is, in a way, like a marriage, where sometimes your love of it just isn't enough.  You need something more, some affirmation that the work is good.
Still, you stay though, cause you love it.  Whether love is enough or not, you stay.
Wait.  I said I was finished with the futility part of this entry, didn't I?   So much for pathos. :P
 One last thing about faith, I don't believe in blind faith.  I question everything, and sometimes, despite myself and to my surprise, it makes my faith stronger.  I take comfort from the fact that many saints wen through long periods of doubts, and hey, they're saints now.  Maybe there's something to that.  As always, we'll see.
  Well, this didn't go the way I wanted it to do, as is often the way with writing.  Maybe I'll look back on this in a few months and be able to laugh at it.  Maybe.
  In closing, and if I want to stay true to the subject of this entry, let me just say this.  It's summer. Men without chest hair are boring.  Unless you are an Olympic or professional swimmer, there is no need to shave or wax it.  You're a man, aren't you?   Chest hair is wonderful, sexy, manly and well, damned attractive, as evidenced by this photo.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/misenplace/5593526094/in/photostream
That is all.

Six Degrees of Admiration

(interior voice):  Are you really going to write this?
Me:  Yeah.  I've got nothing else to lose.
(interior voice) But you know what you're saying here, don't you?
Me:  I'll jump of that bridge when I come to it.  It's true, and that's all that matters.
Just so you know, this entry is dedicated to several friends of mine who have been criticized and crucified for being open and honest when expressing their feelings. I'll respect their privacy, and not use their names.  Whatever hell I get for this, is on me.

 When I first joined Facebook about two years ago, there was a section in which you could place some favorite quotes.   I chose a few, and then thought for a minute before writing the last one.  I knew it would open me up to teasing, but as I thought about it further, I figured at my semi-advanced age, let people say what they want.  I truly didn't care.  The statement was this:
"I will live and die a PROUD fangirl".  For those who've never heard that term, a little explanation is in order.

  I first heard the word 'fangirl'  in the late nineties, when  a dear friend used it to describe herself.  She was in her thirties, and I automatically thought it was a term used for older women who admired actors, or bands, or athletes.  A name that would distinguish themselves from being called a 'teenybopper'.  And of course, the use of the word 'girl' would just harken back to "Girlpower' another catchphrase that was popular at the time.

If you look up the word in the urban dictionary, you'll find this:

1.	fangirl	2110 up, 207 down
	A rabid breed of human female who is obesessed with either a fictional character or an actor. Similar to the breed of fanboy. Fangirls congregate at anime conventions and livejournal. Have been known to glomp, grope, and tackle when encountering said obesessions. Understandably, this horrified me more than words could say.   Was this what I wanted to confess to being?   HELL, NO!   I mean look at all the perjorative words in this   'definition' There's 'rabid', 'obesessed' and 'obessesions' (both spelled incorrectly btw), and and of course, the obligatory snipe at women who go to conventions (anime or otherwise) and write in on line diaries.   Then again, this was from Urban Dictionary.  They make fun of EVERYTHING, and I reminded myself of that after breaking things and screaming for about 20 minutes.  Still it ate at me.  To tell the truth, this description was suited more to males, and males who attend sporting events.   Living in New York you'll see stories almost daily about bad behavior at football, baseball and hockey games.  Drunken brawls, property damage, attacks on women, all in the name of love for 'my team'.  We've all heard stories about riots after championship games, haven't we? And, ok, I'm sure, in more than a few cases, there are women sports fans who have caused their fair share of damage.  Today, it's an equal opportunity insanity, for lack of a better word.    As I child of the sixties, I saw fandom everywhere. I was a little too young to remember the Beatles, but I lived through the fervor for the Rolling Stones, the Doors, and of course, Woodstock.   Back then, it was cool to be a fan, to go to a concert,  or a game, and scream your head off. It was customary to have posters on your walls in your rooms, and to talk about the people you admired, sometimes at great length.  It was a way to release tension, to have fun, and then, of course, go back to your normal life.   I'm not sure when being a fan became a bad thing, but I'll bet it was sometime in the late seventies and early eighties.  It started when Squeaky Frome tried to assassinate then President Gerald Ford, and  it pretty much went downhill from there, reaching it's lowest point with John Hinkley and Mark David Chapman.  And of course, the stories about a woman who repeatedly broke into David Letterman's house, and the man who stalked and killed Rebecca Shaeffer.     Suddenly, it was no longer cool to be a fan of someone, whether they be an actor, sports star, or musician.  Because of a few bad apples, the word 'fan' became a derivative of the negative term 'fanatic'.  To me, that's sad.     We're a nation of cynics now.  "Trust No One" is everyone's motto, and self love(and no, I'm not talking about that) is the norm. If someone admires someone greatly and talks about it(unless or course, they're a sports figure or political candidate) people view it with suspicion. Perhaps it's time to re-define what a 'fangirl' is. -She's someone with a big heart -She's someone who's not afraid to talk about how she feels.   -She's someone who's brave, and strong and loyal, and honest. -She sees the object of her admiration as someone desirable yes, but someone to be respected. -Finally she sees the object of her admiration as someone who's human, has faults, and she's not above talking about those, too.  That's what being a true fan is.  Loving unconditionally.   That's who and what I am, and that's why I will live and die, a proud fangirl. Sorry for the wonky margins on this entry.  I hate this computer. :( As always, comments are appreciated and welcome.

Feelin' Alright? Not Feelin' Too Good Myself...

The last two days have been, well, for lack of a better phrase, perniciously awful.  Had another huge setback in my mom's and my relationship, brought about, of course, when she misunderstood me yet again.  I can't win.  
I lost two writing contests that I really wanted to win badly, mainly for their prizes.  One of them the judge didn't even read my entry.  He insists he did, but I see no evidence of him even visiting the blog.  I hope I'm wrong.   Fine, I'll admit I'm an horrible loser, which is weird for someone as non-competitive as I am.  To be honest,  the winner of one of the contests deserved it.  The other winner of a contest sponsored by a writing consortium, didn't even follow the rules!  I don't get it.  I have no clue
why I keep losing, why my submissions keep getting rejected, how I can make things better.  I'm a writer, it's the only thing I feel I can do well, but  if no one else sees it, where am I?
Oh the last thing.  I know he didn't read it because when I asked if he could give me any tips about what I did wrong, all he said was, "Sorry you didn't win".  Way to avoid the question, Butthead.
  Of course, and I can't understand the reason why, exactly, I can't give up.  I've submitted today, and worked on some stuff and while I may take a nap after I post this, I will probably work again, long into the night.   It's just my nature.  

In the meantime.  I'm going to post a few poems I've written.  Now, I do not labor under the delusion I will ever make any money with my poetry.  I just hope that people like them, and that maybe someone would occasionally pay me something, so I could buy shoelaces, a McRib Sandwich(they're back!-do NOT judge me),supply me with money for entry fees for yet another writing contest.  As I said in a post a while back, you go on.  You have to.

So, here are three horrible poems-Enjoy and remember.  I am a feedback whore!

Still Life

She sits on the bed

Untangling yarn

Pulling at snarls and knots

Smoothing them free

Bringing order to chaos

There's an ease to the process

A repetitive calm and a peace

A simplicity and rhythm

That makes perfect sense.

And when it's smoothed out

The threads can be knit together

Into something beautiful

And useful

And right.

It could be a reprieve perhaps

From other things

That are not as simple

Maybe, or maybe not.

Nevertheless

She sits on her bed

Untangling yarn

Interlude

And once again, I stop,

Somewhere

But not on Fifth this time

In fact, I’m not exactly sure

But still, you are the cause.

Lost not only in my head 

But in my heart

Not sure of anything 

Beside the thoughts of what was said

And what I know

And what I saw.

It’s late.

I need to go

(I want to stay)

I can’t decide

Everyone around me hurries past,

Their inner GPS shows them the way;

Mine’s on the blink.

The lure of your soft voice 

Cements me here

And I could live on that for days,

But not for life.

Resigned, I move again

Towards what, I am not sure,

But I’ll remember where I was

And I’ll come back

When we meet again

Somewhere.

Eulogy From A Late Arrival

It must have been some party

The afternoon you left

And I, tardy as always,

Caught up in ephemera,

I came too late to say goodbye.

I wanted to be there

To see you off

And wish you a safe journey

As you left for parts unknown.

Being late is not fashionable

When goodbyes are involved

The loose ends that are left

Dangle like shoestrings

And lie in wait to trip me up.

The unsaid words hang in the air

Unspoken thoughts haunt me in late hours.

Nothing to do but remember

And hope I run into you again.

May 15, 2011

For Warren. RIP

I wish I'd known sooner.

And now, to sleep.  Perchance to...nah, just sleep.

..

I Am A Writer---That's What The Voices Say

In October, I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday. Of course, knowing that I'm going to celebrate such a milestone has made me more thoughtful, and as I remember my life I realize, more than ever that the one constant, through everything has been my writing. Through everything, good and bad, my writing is what's sustained me, and so I thought I'd talk about how I made peace with the fact that in writing, I've found my passion, my vocation, and my reason for being on the planet.

So, let's travel back to where it all began. The location is my bedroom, in a little town in New Jersey, approximately forty-two years ago. It's eight thirty, and I'm in bed, with about seventeen stuffed animals, and I'm not sleeping. Instead, I'm making up stories for each of them, and you'd best believe that each one of them has a fully fleshed history. I suppose this was the first indication that I was a writer.

I can't remember a time when I didn't love words. My parents read to me every night, and I was so taken by stories that I taught myself to read when I was three. After that, my fate was sealed. I never went anywhere without a book in my hand and I started writing stories and poems when I was seven. At slumber parties, I was the one who'd make up the best stories. Relatives and friends alike would often ask, 'Where does she get these ideas?', and they'd often comment on my very vivid imagination. Oh, and let's not even mention the Imaginary Friend thing. I think I had one until I was at least fourteen.

I'd watch people everywhere I'd go, and even eavesdrop when I could, making up stories about their lives, filling in the blanks . In high school I worked for the newspaper, and in college, I wrote for the television station. I was in my element, and I loved it.

Then I graduated from college, and learned, what I thought was the truth, as delivered to me by my parents. "You're not a writer"-they gravely intoned, "unless and until someone publishes you.”

It's not that they didn't read my writing, my mom actually told me she thought I was talented, but both she and my dad agreed, writing wasn't a REAL job. It wasn't something you could do to make a living, it certainly wouldn't pay the bills. Not unless you were fabulously talented, or extremely lucky. To them, writing was only a hobby, and certainly not a career choice for someone who wanted to get ahead in the world.

For a while, I didn't listen to them. In my junior year of college, I switched my major from Communications to English. For the first six months after I graduated, I spent a day a week in New York City, looking for a job, at one of the big publishing houses. I would have even accepted a job in one of their mail-rooms, if they'd offered one to me. After many failures, and no success, I began to believe they were right, and resigned myself to trying to find a real job.

For the next twenty years I held every job known to man. I worked for lawyers, doctors, and held a myriad of other types of offices as a drone, a file clerk, or and administrative assistant. I'm still not sure what that means. Sure, I had money, I paid taxes, I was what most people would call a 'productive and responsible citizen' but there was one thing. I was miserable. I was what truly made me happy, every minute I was doing something other than writing. I was lying to myself. I was letting other people tell me who I was, and what I should do, and I really didn't see anything wrong with it.

Or so I thought.

Flash forward to three years ago. My twenty year relationship had ended, I was single once again, I was unemployed, and everything I thought was good about my well-ordered, figured out life was gone. I cried and slept too much. I didn't want to do anything but feel lousy . Then, somehow, between crying jags, pints of ice cream, and screaming into my pillow, I got an idea, an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. So, on a rainy afternoon, I opened up my Word Perfect Program, and started to write.

A few hours later, I was back in the zone. My muses were awake, my characters were talking to me, and I felt more at peace than I had in years.

Why? Because I'm a writer. It's what I've always been. Now, I'm not going to lie and say things have been easier since that day. In fact some things have been more difficult. I have a lot less money, I live in a smaller house, I'm not able to do some of the things I used to do, like go out to dinner every week.

Instead, I write. Sometimes, I write pages and pages, some days, it may only be a few paragraphs. Whenever I finish anything though, whether it it's a story, a poem, or a blog entry, I get a sense of accomplishment I've never gotten about anything else. Yes, I'm a writer, and I wouldn't want to be anything else.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some blank pages to fill.

My Last Open Letter to Alton Brown

I hope that you will read this with an open mind.  It's not my intention to hurt you in any way.
Dear Mr. Brown-
What I say doesn't come from a place of anger.  Anger is a useless emotion, except of course when it effects  positive change, and to be honest, I'm not angry.  I'm sad, and a bit confused at the fact that when you did tweet me, asking for an answer, and I offered it to you, you blocked me(@jeannys_shooter).  I can't say that I understood why.
  If you've ever read my Twitter feed, you would understand I have been a follower(I hate how that sounds ) since the beginning of Good Eats, in 1999.   I admired your work, your 'culinary point of view' -whatever that is, and your enthusiasm for your subjects.   I also admired your love of teaching.  I can't tell you how much I've learned from that show, the three incarnations of "Feasting On Asphalt" and, of course, "Iron Chef America" .   I want to thank you for all of them.
  Since you've been on twitter though, I see a change in your which, quite frankly would be none of my business except for the fact you put it out there.   You seem to be quick to anger, fast with the snark-or 'snarkliness' as you call it.   You still seem to take great joy in re-tweeting people who say nasty things about you.   I can't help but wonder if that's a way to get a attention, sympathy or a very odd way to display the self-deprecating humour that we have come to expect.   As I've said before all of this would be none of my business if it weren't shown in a public forum.
   That said, it's not the Alton Brown I know, the man I've met on numerous occasions.  The person who told me once, "When we are feeling the worst about ourselves, that's when we have to believe God loves us the most."  It is for these reasons, that's I'm worried about you.   You tweet about drinking.  You tweet about having no fans, how you weren't hugged enough as a child, how you need to lose weight.   You seem to open yourself up for criticism, then lash out when you receive it.   It's confusing, to say the least.
   Why do I care?   At this point I'm not exactly sure, except that in my gut, it seems to be the right thing to do.  For what it's worth, I still admire you, and I probably always will.   In fact, it's almost refreshing to see someone in the public eye be unafraid to honestly present themselves, good and bad.
  In closing, let me just say that whatever I did, however I may have offended you, I'm truly sorry.  It was never my intention to hurt or annoy you.   I wish you good luck in your future ventures.  Be well, sir, and know that you are always in my prayers.
Sincerely
Anne Mikusinski
Email-Walters_furry@yahoo.com

Does that make me crazy? Probably....

Yeah, I know.  Not the best subject heading for a post talking about how May is Mental Health month, but my small group of loyal readers understand my sense of humour.  At least, I hope they do.
  Anyway, so.  May is MHM, and as everyone who reads this blog knows, I live with a long list of diagnosis which make my life, for lack of a better word, interesting.  Things lately have been rough.  Issues with family and friends, getting final closure of a long term relationship, pining for my dead husband, have made many things hard to bear.
 The other day I walked into Barnes and Noble and saw a BOOKCASE full of the Infernal Book.  I wanted to scream.  So many people have told me in the past few weeks "This book is what people want." If that's truly the case, I'm screwed.   I can't and won't write that stuff.  It goes against almost everything I believe.
  Like I said this past week has been a mess.  So, last night, after crying for at least an hour, I called our County's Helpline.  Their advertising reads, "Feeling hopeless? Call----" I've had bad experiences before with them, people were short and occasionally downright nasty to me.  This time was no exception.  I got put on hold just as I started to cry because another line was ringing.   This is about the 5th time this has happened.  In frustration, I hung up .  When I called back I was told "If you're NOT suicidal, I have to answer another line, " in the most uncaring tone possible.  Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.  I found out this morning that the people who staff this line are PAID.  Again WTF.
So, I wrote a letter to the editor this morning.  I don't know if anything will come of it, but, here it is.

 To whom it may concern-
  I am a consumer of mental health services in Poughkeepsie.  While I am blessed to have Dr. Scott Barkstrom, who works at the Mental Health clinic at St Francis Hospital as my primary therapist, I am only permitted to see him once a week.  Since I live with major depression, there are on occasions, other times when I need to speak to someone.
 As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "In the dark night of the soul, it is always three in the morning." and it is often late at night when I am feeling most hopeless.  As the clinic is not open I have availed myself of The Department of Mental Health's Helpline, and therin lies the the problem.
  I'm not sure who trains the people who answer the phones, but in the last few times I have called, I've been met with indifference,combativeness, and impatience.
 There have been many times that I've been put on hold because another line was ringing regardless of how upset I'd been.  This happened again last night, and in frustration, I hung up.  When I called back I was told, quite abruptly, "If you're NOT suicidal, I have to answer another line".   I was shocked, stunned and hurt  by this response.
  People who suffer from Mental Illness need compassion and patience.  If Helpline is ONLY a number to call when an individual is feeling suicidal, the advertising should state that.
  It's only through the grace of God that I am here this morning.  Strangely enough, it was this incident that almost made me forget my own problems and want to bring this to people's attention.  I can't imagine what might have happened if another, person maybe more distraught than myself would have received this sort of response.
  In closing, I just want to say I'm not writing this to complain, but to shine a light on this problem.  I hope that Bill Cuscak, who is the supervisor of Dutchess County Helpline will read this letter, and hopefully implement some real changes.
Thank you.
Anne Mikusinski

Like I said, I don't know if anything will come of it.
Monday I'm going into NYC, just to have a day away from everything.  Whether I come back or not, remains to be seen.  I understand it's very easy to 'get lost ' there.

In the mean time, listen to this song---it kicks ass.