Untitled Light in all it forms, Universes of harmony, The simple mind that was before Evaporates in mystery. Am I that or something m...
Home / Archives for July 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Legal Actions
I am deeply grateful for having the opportunity to speak to you all about myself and INCube. I hope to be able to tell you a little about no...
Saturday, July 23, 2011
"Four Stories" Produces Hundreds More
On Saturday, August 1,1998, the story of my recovery from schizophrenia was shown on "Four Stories," a television program on WNBC-...
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Poetry : Ward Stories
Ward Stories By Cindy Sostchen I wasn't brought in kicking and screaming, nor strapped to a gurney or shackled to a cop there wa...
Monday, July 18, 2011
Confusion to Clarity
Six months; I think that’s all I can take. I can clean those trays and dishes for six months. I mean it’s only three-and-a-half hours a day,...
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Poetry : Reconciliation
Reconciliation Through countless hospitalizations You've always remained by my side. Lost to the world and to you was I -- But you&...
Sunday, July 10, 2011
A Father's Story
My first recollection of Daniel being ill was when I noticed him always looking down while walking; stopping for no reason and staring into ...
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Friday, July 29, 2011
Poetry : Untitled
Untitled
Light in all it forms,
Universes of harmony,
The simple mind that was before
Evaporates in mystery.
Am I that or something more?
I know that I am me.
Will I be lost in chaos
As my world comes clear to me?
All that is, is found within
All that will ever be.
Will I be lost in Chaos
As my worlds come clear to me?
Yet out of Chaos I did spring,
The me I am today,
Still drawn back into that world
In which I found my way.
But is it "real?" I question still
Even as I know.
Life is the mystery to me,
Unraveled as I grow.
Light in all it forms,
Universes of harmony,
The simple mind that was before
Evaporates in mystery.
Am I that or something more?
I know that I am me.
Will I be lost in chaos
As my world comes clear to me?
All that is, is found within
All that will ever be.
Will I be lost in Chaos
As my worlds come clear to me?
Yet out of Chaos I did spring,
The me I am today,
Still drawn back into that world
In which I found my way.
But is it "real?" I question still
Even as I know.
Life is the mystery to me,
Unraveled as I grow.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Legal Actions
I am deeply grateful for having the opportunity to speak to you all about myself and INCube. I hope to be able to tell you a little about not only what I’ve gone through but who I have become in my struggles to not only be a survivor but a person who celebrates life.
My job for the last ten years has been to grow and develop INCube, Inc., a consumer-run, 501(c)3, whose mission is to assist recipients in developing businesses and service projects and find mainstream employment. Under the umbrella of INCube is Inca Housing, a 50 unit scattered-site apartment program, and Stage 2!/Youth Services, a peer service for youth-at-risk. To me, having my job has allowed me to have had the blessing to have had a dream and see it realized in my own lifetime, and for this feeling I have no words.
For me, most of my life was spent suffering from isolation and fear. As a small child, I could hear music and voices, which made it difficult for me to learn to read and write. We moved a lot and I always had to adjust to a new school. I grew up mostly in Washington, D.C., where my father worked for Robert Kennedy in the Office of Economic Opportunity. During the "War on Poverty", his work was very important. He would take us to the Indian reservation and migrant labor camps where he was getting the government to do community development through housing, education and employment. I didn’t understand what he did, but I always wanted to do it. My father got his education while there were still quotas on how many Jews were allowed to be in school.
Some of you may not know that the consumer movement began as the Mental Patients’ Liberation Front, and early leaders like Howie the Harp modeled their actions after the black civil rights movement, and somewhat later, the women’s liberation movement. It was a time when Martin Luther King said, "I have a dream!" and made people who were in pain all over the country realize that they too had dreams and together there was hope and action, which framed the whole period of time in the sixties and early seventies. The word was "freedom."
As a child, I had so many dreams but could never find a way to let them out of my heart and make them real except through music and dance, yet my learning disability prevented so many things. I was often afraid, angry, and confused. It would take me many years to learn to read and write. Being illiterate can make you feel like you are crippled.
My life brought me to New York and, to make a long story short, I became chronically ill from manic depression, the symptoms of which I suffered for many years not knowing what it was. Sick and helpless, and almost alone in New York as a film and television student at New York University, I ended up sleeping in Union Square, and anyone who has lived in the street and been sick knows that the events that brought me to care were a miracle. After that, I lost touch with my family and became a child of the system. The experience of Union Square and no care left me with neurological damage. Hospitalized in the seventies, large doses of thorazine and anti-psychotics were used. Now, I thank God that people are recognizing that trauma is not psychosis.
I was in the system for seven years. I had nine psychiatric hospitalizations and was a client in Altro Sheltered Workshop, the Postgraduate Center, FEGS, and Rehabilitation Services. I intermittently lived in welfare hotels and adult foster care. I saw, heard, and felt may things in these years. I had the same yearnings and pain as I did as a child. I finally got a job at Macy’s, through Rehabilitation Support Services, currently the Bayside IPRT.
I had the privilege of being able to heal well enough that I was able to work my way through school to get degrees in Business Management Economics and Media. In 1984, I was accepted at the City University Law School at Queens College. It is one of the only law schools in the country with a majority of minority students specializing in public interest law. VESID helped me with this. I perfected reading and even learned to read what wasn’t written. I graduated law school in 1989, with a Doctorate of Jurisprudence, which also in old English, makes me a "Squire of the Court." Thus, I used the title "Esquire" to connote the level of my professional education, but most people just call me Mimi.
After school, I did street law and especially liked to study estates and property law. My most intriguing concept as a theoretician is the concept of ownership, and principles of economic development for disenfranchised classes.
In 1989, I was hired (for no money) as the Executive Director of INCube, then only an idea on paper. Since no one would hire me as a litigator, due to my mood swings, I seized the opportunity to have the potential to create my own job.
The conceptualization of INCube foresaw the application of entrepreneurial techniques in rehabilitation as a vocational alternative to sheltered workshops and day treatment vocational training. It was a call to the need for the system to realize the hopes, dreams, skills and capabilities of persons, many times remaining idle in institutions and standard settings. We as peers, and like hearts, knew the need to bring structure, pragmatic skills (like problem solving), and resource development to our peers to assist them in carving out the reality of their dreams. For me, the job is taking the spirit, the feelings, and the wants and desires we have struggled with and assisting people to know how to use law, contracting, legal structure, finance, accounting, brokering, marketing, and management skills to become who we can be, to become self-sufficient to afford our choices, have something you’ve earned to go on a date or buy something that doesn’t come from a thrift shop, and can help you save money to pay for your own future.
INCube currently runs two business programs, sponsored by the New York City Department of Mental Health, Mental Retardation and Alcoholism Services, to assist individuals into self-sufficiency. It has been a great honor for us to have the support of Commissioner Neil Cohen, of not only hearing us, but listening to us.
I have learned, in my ongoing recovery, foremost to desire to live and to nurture others in their lives. I put my health maintenance first, my job next, and now I am trying to learn to build a home. If you would like to come and meet us at INCube, please call us at 212-947-3040. We are trained professionals who also know what it feels like.
My job for the last ten years has been to grow and develop INCube, Inc., a consumer-run, 501(c)3, whose mission is to assist recipients in developing businesses and service projects and find mainstream employment. Under the umbrella of INCube is Inca Housing, a 50 unit scattered-site apartment program, and Stage 2!/Youth Services, a peer service for youth-at-risk. To me, having my job has allowed me to have had the blessing to have had a dream and see it realized in my own lifetime, and for this feeling I have no words.
For me, most of my life was spent suffering from isolation and fear. As a small child, I could hear music and voices, which made it difficult for me to learn to read and write. We moved a lot and I always had to adjust to a new school. I grew up mostly in Washington, D.C., where my father worked for Robert Kennedy in the Office of Economic Opportunity. During the "War on Poverty", his work was very important. He would take us to the Indian reservation and migrant labor camps where he was getting the government to do community development through housing, education and employment. I didn’t understand what he did, but I always wanted to do it. My father got his education while there were still quotas on how many Jews were allowed to be in school.
Some of you may not know that the consumer movement began as the Mental Patients’ Liberation Front, and early leaders like Howie the Harp modeled their actions after the black civil rights movement, and somewhat later, the women’s liberation movement. It was a time when Martin Luther King said, "I have a dream!" and made people who were in pain all over the country realize that they too had dreams and together there was hope and action, which framed the whole period of time in the sixties and early seventies. The word was "freedom."
As a child, I had so many dreams but could never find a way to let them out of my heart and make them real except through music and dance, yet my learning disability prevented so many things. I was often afraid, angry, and confused. It would take me many years to learn to read and write. Being illiterate can make you feel like you are crippled.
My life brought me to New York and, to make a long story short, I became chronically ill from manic depression, the symptoms of which I suffered for many years not knowing what it was. Sick and helpless, and almost alone in New York as a film and television student at New York University, I ended up sleeping in Union Square, and anyone who has lived in the street and been sick knows that the events that brought me to care were a miracle. After that, I lost touch with my family and became a child of the system. The experience of Union Square and no care left me with neurological damage. Hospitalized in the seventies, large doses of thorazine and anti-psychotics were used. Now, I thank God that people are recognizing that trauma is not psychosis.
I was in the system for seven years. I had nine psychiatric hospitalizations and was a client in Altro Sheltered Workshop, the Postgraduate Center, FEGS, and Rehabilitation Services. I intermittently lived in welfare hotels and adult foster care. I saw, heard, and felt may things in these years. I had the same yearnings and pain as I did as a child. I finally got a job at Macy’s, through Rehabilitation Support Services, currently the Bayside IPRT.
I had the privilege of being able to heal well enough that I was able to work my way through school to get degrees in Business Management Economics and Media. In 1984, I was accepted at the City University Law School at Queens College. It is one of the only law schools in the country with a majority of minority students specializing in public interest law. VESID helped me with this. I perfected reading and even learned to read what wasn’t written. I graduated law school in 1989, with a Doctorate of Jurisprudence, which also in old English, makes me a "Squire of the Court." Thus, I used the title "Esquire" to connote the level of my professional education, but most people just call me Mimi.
After school, I did street law and especially liked to study estates and property law. My most intriguing concept as a theoretician is the concept of ownership, and principles of economic development for disenfranchised classes.
In 1989, I was hired (for no money) as the Executive Director of INCube, then only an idea on paper. Since no one would hire me as a litigator, due to my mood swings, I seized the opportunity to have the potential to create my own job.
The conceptualization of INCube foresaw the application of entrepreneurial techniques in rehabilitation as a vocational alternative to sheltered workshops and day treatment vocational training. It was a call to the need for the system to realize the hopes, dreams, skills and capabilities of persons, many times remaining idle in institutions and standard settings. We as peers, and like hearts, knew the need to bring structure, pragmatic skills (like problem solving), and resource development to our peers to assist them in carving out the reality of their dreams. For me, the job is taking the spirit, the feelings, and the wants and desires we have struggled with and assisting people to know how to use law, contracting, legal structure, finance, accounting, brokering, marketing, and management skills to become who we can be, to become self-sufficient to afford our choices, have something you’ve earned to go on a date or buy something that doesn’t come from a thrift shop, and can help you save money to pay for your own future.
INCube currently runs two business programs, sponsored by the New York City Department of Mental Health, Mental Retardation and Alcoholism Services, to assist individuals into self-sufficiency. It has been a great honor for us to have the support of Commissioner Neil Cohen, of not only hearing us, but listening to us.
I have learned, in my ongoing recovery, foremost to desire to live and to nurture others in their lives. I put my health maintenance first, my job next, and now I am trying to learn to build a home. If you would like to come and meet us at INCube, please call us at 212-947-3040. We are trained professionals who also know what it feels like.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
"Four Stories" Produces Hundreds More
On Saturday, August 1,1998, the story of my recovery from schizophrenia was shown on "Four Stories," a television program on WNBC-TV in New York City. Less than a minute after my number was given at the end of the segment, my phone began to ring. At press time, nine hundred and twenty four people have called.
Many calls have been from teenagers and college students who, like me when I was age 15, have just begun to hear voices. They don’t know what to do or where to go. Some don’t want to tell their parents. Others don’t want to share this with anyone they know. I understand. I was there once myself. But after seeing "Four Stories" they reached out to share their stories and get help. For the first time, many of them allowed themselves to be connected to psychiatric professionals. Others called and asked for information, giving their names and addresses, even some telephone numbers, so they could receive materials on schizophrenia, including NYC Voices.
Other callers included parents, siblings, uncles and aunts, cousins, friends of the family, teachers, guidance counselors, and an incredible number of psychiatrists, social workers, and therapists. The most amazing thing is how little information these people have about schizophrenia and the new medications and treatments. And this included the doctors and mental health professionals. Most of the persons with schizophrenia they were calling about were on the older medications with the melange of difficult side effects.
Many of the family members and relatives had reached out before but received little help, they told me. I was astonished. They didn’t want me to pass them on to other help lines. Many of them had already called help lines and told me the people answering the calls didn’t have the time to listen and just passed them along to other help lines.
One thing I asked all of the callers to do was to call me right back if they did not receive the information they needed from the resources I offered them. Unfortunately, many of them did call me back and I had to connect them with more reliable resources.
There are many stories I can share with NYC Voices’ readers from the response following the "Four Stories," WNBC broadcast, but it would take too long. So I have decided to share on of the most difficult and, in the end satisfying, ones with you.
I received a call from a mother of a 19-year-old son who I spoke with for close to an hour. During most of this time, I had no idea where this call was going. It went along like most calls from parents and relatives. We discussed the usual things with her asking lots of questions and doing most of the talking. But then during the closing minutes of our conversation, something extraordinary happened. She told me she had never taken her son to see a doctor. While she was at work or away from home she had to lock him in his bedroom to keep him safe. She told me this in a conversational tone. She continued speaking to me, telling me the reason she didn’t want a doctor to see him was because she had seen the horrible state hospital movies on television (specifically naming "Asylum," "Snake Pit," and "Cuckoo’s Nest") and she would never allow her son to be put in places like these. Then she repeated that she really identified with my story because of the abuse I had suffered in the hospitals, including seclusion rooms and four-point restraints.
I asked how long her son had been ill. She replied, "since 1994." Her statement took my breath away. Finally , I quietly encouraged here to take her son to a doctor, reassuring her that few people go to state hospitals these days. Then I offered her the names of doctors I know she could trust. "No." she said. She knew what was best for her son. We ended the call on a congenial note (I didn’t want to alarm her), and I asked for her address to send her materials. After taking a few minutes to recover from the impact of the conversation, I called the local 911 number in her community, telling them the story about her son. The emergency operator thanked me, but I had no idea what would happen.
Then, a few days later, relatives of this family called me to tell me how grateful they were that I had done what they could not do. They said the son was hospitalized and he was on medication for the first time ever and he was already responding well to it. The mother was very angry and frightened, but she was starting to realize the importance of treatment for her son, They had no idea what kind of gift they were giving me with their phone calls.
This was clearly the most dramatic call of them all, but many others had never been seen by psychiatrists and they needed to be evaluated and referred. I am stunned at how many people know so little about schizophrenia, and how the primary source of information was from TV, primarily fictitious movies and tabloid news sources.
So many people’s lives were touched by "Four Stories" telling my story. Hopefully, the quality of these lives will improve too. They now have more accurate information and telephone numbers to call for even more resources. All thanks to "Four Stories" on WNBC.
Many calls have been from teenagers and college students who, like me when I was age 15, have just begun to hear voices. They don’t know what to do or where to go. Some don’t want to tell their parents. Others don’t want to share this with anyone they know. I understand. I was there once myself. But after seeing "Four Stories" they reached out to share their stories and get help. For the first time, many of them allowed themselves to be connected to psychiatric professionals. Others called and asked for information, giving their names and addresses, even some telephone numbers, so they could receive materials on schizophrenia, including NYC Voices.
Other callers included parents, siblings, uncles and aunts, cousins, friends of the family, teachers, guidance counselors, and an incredible number of psychiatrists, social workers, and therapists. The most amazing thing is how little information these people have about schizophrenia and the new medications and treatments. And this included the doctors and mental health professionals. Most of the persons with schizophrenia they were calling about were on the older medications with the melange of difficult side effects.
Many of the family members and relatives had reached out before but received little help, they told me. I was astonished. They didn’t want me to pass them on to other help lines. Many of them had already called help lines and told me the people answering the calls didn’t have the time to listen and just passed them along to other help lines.
One thing I asked all of the callers to do was to call me right back if they did not receive the information they needed from the resources I offered them. Unfortunately, many of them did call me back and I had to connect them with more reliable resources.
There are many stories I can share with NYC Voices’ readers from the response following the "Four Stories," WNBC broadcast, but it would take too long. So I have decided to share on of the most difficult and, in the end satisfying, ones with you.
I received a call from a mother of a 19-year-old son who I spoke with for close to an hour. During most of this time, I had no idea where this call was going. It went along like most calls from parents and relatives. We discussed the usual things with her asking lots of questions and doing most of the talking. But then during the closing minutes of our conversation, something extraordinary happened. She told me she had never taken her son to see a doctor. While she was at work or away from home she had to lock him in his bedroom to keep him safe. She told me this in a conversational tone. She continued speaking to me, telling me the reason she didn’t want a doctor to see him was because she had seen the horrible state hospital movies on television (specifically naming "Asylum," "Snake Pit," and "Cuckoo’s Nest") and she would never allow her son to be put in places like these. Then she repeated that she really identified with my story because of the abuse I had suffered in the hospitals, including seclusion rooms and four-point restraints.
I asked how long her son had been ill. She replied, "since 1994." Her statement took my breath away. Finally , I quietly encouraged here to take her son to a doctor, reassuring her that few people go to state hospitals these days. Then I offered her the names of doctors I know she could trust. "No." she said. She knew what was best for her son. We ended the call on a congenial note (I didn’t want to alarm her), and I asked for her address to send her materials. After taking a few minutes to recover from the impact of the conversation, I called the local 911 number in her community, telling them the story about her son. The emergency operator thanked me, but I had no idea what would happen.
Then, a few days later, relatives of this family called me to tell me how grateful they were that I had done what they could not do. They said the son was hospitalized and he was on medication for the first time ever and he was already responding well to it. The mother was very angry and frightened, but she was starting to realize the importance of treatment for her son, They had no idea what kind of gift they were giving me with their phone calls.
This was clearly the most dramatic call of them all, but many others had never been seen by psychiatrists and they needed to be evaluated and referred. I am stunned at how many people know so little about schizophrenia, and how the primary source of information was from TV, primarily fictitious movies and tabloid news sources.
So many people’s lives were touched by "Four Stories" telling my story. Hopefully, the quality of these lives will improve too. They now have more accurate information and telephone numbers to call for even more resources. All thanks to "Four Stories" on WNBC.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Poetry : Ward Stories
Ward Stories
By Cindy Sostchen
I wasn't brought in kicking and screaming, nor strapped to a gurney or shackled to a cop
there was nothing illegal stashed in any orifice when some cold hands frisked me at the barbed wire gate
I defied the laws of triage -- no drugs were found in my urine or my veins
I didn't jesus-ramble or tell them I was Napoleon or Courtney Love
In the first hour I was checked for life-threatening illness or communicable diseases, undressed, weighted, probed and fed, assigned a number
The doctors gave me mortar and pestel pills and held their collective breaths
were they waiting for me to twitch, blow a fuse, wail at the window, or dance a hora for them?
A hallucination would have been applauded
but I remained colorless and dormant as a doormat
They recorded all my sighs and every sneeze was sacred
when they learned I was a poet they insisted I write like a latter-day Sexton, then stole my poems and combed them for freudian slips, for some manic message in morse code
(defiant and clever I wrote well-balanced poems for their consumption and autographed them with an inverted smile)
I ate just enough to avoid an IV and too little to be listed compulsive
I was too healthy for the Quiet Room and too sick for the sidewalk
(the closet was the perfect venue, I curled up against a broomstick like a cat who is going to die)
The young boys liked me because I was blond and blase
I was a ragdoll in their arms
to myself I was amorphous, to them I had the shape of a siren,
they tried to mount me in the dayroom,
so I joined their schizophrenic orgy, and they chanted at my feet
At night I made a shield with the sheets, bunched up in a blanket
large men, strong as coffee, shined a flashlight in my face by the hour
they didn't care if I wet the bed, picked at my scabs, bloodied my lips or made love to myself
only that I was still there, breathing, not plotting my escape
I never saw any angels at midnight
I slept for months like a groundhog without a shadow
preferring the ridiculous grey of institution walls to the ominous eyes of daylight
A season tossed and turned while they waited for me to crash through the prism, to grow weak from the silence
...............and that's what I did..................
I tell this story to document the holy war I waged
I confess to anyone who will listen
but, especially, for those who recognize my face in their mirror
for them I tell my ward stories
By Cindy Sostchen
I wasn't brought in kicking and screaming, nor strapped to a gurney or shackled to a cop
there was nothing illegal stashed in any orifice when some cold hands frisked me at the barbed wire gate
I defied the laws of triage -- no drugs were found in my urine or my veins
I didn't jesus-ramble or tell them I was Napoleon or Courtney Love
In the first hour I was checked for life-threatening illness or communicable diseases, undressed, weighted, probed and fed, assigned a number
The doctors gave me mortar and pestel pills and held their collective breaths
were they waiting for me to twitch, blow a fuse, wail at the window, or dance a hora for them?
A hallucination would have been applauded
but I remained colorless and dormant as a doormat
They recorded all my sighs and every sneeze was sacred
when they learned I was a poet they insisted I write like a latter-day Sexton, then stole my poems and combed them for freudian slips, for some manic message in morse code
(defiant and clever I wrote well-balanced poems for their consumption and autographed them with an inverted smile)
I ate just enough to avoid an IV and too little to be listed compulsive
I was too healthy for the Quiet Room and too sick for the sidewalk
(the closet was the perfect venue, I curled up against a broomstick like a cat who is going to die)
The young boys liked me because I was blond and blase
I was a ragdoll in their arms
to myself I was amorphous, to them I had the shape of a siren,
they tried to mount me in the dayroom,
so I joined their schizophrenic orgy, and they chanted at my feet
At night I made a shield with the sheets, bunched up in a blanket
large men, strong as coffee, shined a flashlight in my face by the hour
they didn't care if I wet the bed, picked at my scabs, bloodied my lips or made love to myself
only that I was still there, breathing, not plotting my escape
I never saw any angels at midnight
I slept for months like a groundhog without a shadow
preferring the ridiculous grey of institution walls to the ominous eyes of daylight
A season tossed and turned while they waited for me to crash through the prism, to grow weak from the silence
...............and that's what I did..................
I tell this story to document the holy war I waged
I confess to anyone who will listen
but, especially, for those who recognize my face in their mirror
for them I tell my ward stories
Monday, July 18, 2011
Confusion to Clarity
Six months; I think that’s all I can take. I can clean those trays and dishes for six months. I mean it’s only three-and-a-half hours a day, but it gets hectic in there and there’s no smoke break in that time either. I mean, it’s really disgusting work.
If I can make it on time every day for six months, I think…no, I know I’m going to request another position. I mean, I can sling hash as well as the next guy, and anyhow, I’d made sandwiches while I was attending that university way back when… Nobody ever told me to wash dishes. Well, that was about a thousand jobs ago…and way before my hitch-hiking days; my crazy days.
Oh God, why did I have to remind myself of those days? Pain, misery and alcohol…in a word: MANIA. Yeah, I’m mentally ill, or at least I was…now, I’m mentally healthy. But those hitch-hiking days… why me, God, why me? Scrambling around the Northeast (sometimes completely bare-foot) like there was some kind of war going on. It was horrible. I’m just glad that I’m normal now.
It was back in ‘85 that I first set out. I did the Albany, Boston, Manchester, Bennington, Albany loop, stopping here and there. I did the Cape a couple of times and other places too. But mostly, it was back to Mom in Rensselaer.
I remember returning home, all the way from Manchester, with a hole in one heel. That was the day of my first psychiatric hospitalization. But they didn’t treat my foot. In fact, they didn’t treat my head either…that’s why I ran away.
I ran away again and again, but I was back the same day. Once, I hid in some bushes in front of a house and eluded them altogether…but they caught up with me the next day. Where am I going with all this? Let’s see…I guess that my perception of reality was distorted.
When I got sick, I thought I was on a mission from God. The Antichrist was coming and I had to save God’s people. Who were God’s people and how was I going to save them? Easy…God’s people were few and far between, and then there were the earthworks. Earthworks are small (or large) lean-tos and similar structures that stand low to the ground, sturdy and concealed. So sturdy that they could be stepped on and still stand strong. Lean-to’s can be built against large rocks, camouflaged with leaves, ferns and the like. I was commissioned to hide God’s people in these earthworks…way up in the North woods.
What baffled me mostly about all of this was the question of identifying God’s people. If they wore dog tags, it would have been easy. Sorry, no tags. Nope…I was left wondering about most of the people I met in those days.
I rationalized that if they gave me a ride, they were probably God’s people. But none of them wanted to live in an earthwork. So, I built them anyway; about ten or twelve of them. I figured they’d sleep anywhere from four to twelve people each. And I made a map of them, so I’d be able to locate God’s people.
God’s people… Churches, bus stations and the streets…perhaps, but, hitch-hiking; that was free, and I wouldn’t get arrested for loitering. Plus, once inside a car, you can have as personal a conversation as you’d like. That way you can actually (in some cases) get to know people better. I would write down their names and addresses in a small book. But I haven’t seen that book in years.
Well, worse eventually came to worse and I started getting arrested and winding up in jails and hospitals. My Dad (the good doctor) would often come and rescue me and pay my bail, which was kind of ironic since he was directly responsible for my first incarceration. He was also the first doctor to give me haloperidol. He mixed it with some ice cream and gave it to me one fine manic evening. I slept like a baby that night, and the next morning I thanked him.
It wasn’t until about five years (and much trouble) later that I finally came to accept my psychiatric disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and started to take my medications as prescribed. It happened just after a half-baked hitch-hiking episode. It was back in the summer of ‘89. I had just been at the US/Canadian border. My Dad came up to Plattsburgh and got me out. He drove me back to Albany and bought me lunch. After lunch, I decided I was going to show everybody. I was angry, lonely and discontent. I hitched out to Utica and became very bored (and cold) as no one would carry me on to points West. So I finally took a ride back to Albany, and my sister took me to a local psychiatric hospital. Well, the doctor who interviewed me asked if I had been taking my medications. That was it. It hit me like a brick. All of a sudden, I accepted the fact that mental illness existed…and, moreover, that I had it.
They kept me in the hospital for two weeks, and I had to practically beg my therapist to discharge me, but he finally did. Soon thereafter, things began to improve. I took group therapy seriously for a change and I had quit drinking in ‘86. Once I started taking my medications, it was all good. My delusions faded out. I haven’t been arrested since ‘87, and that was my last hospitalization.
Ironically, I found God’s people in an apartment program I entered. There I was treated with respect and concern. In no time at all, I moved on.
Now I have a nice apartment in Albany with my girlfriend and we plan to get married soon. Today, I am healthy, happy and free.
Reprinted with kind permission from The North River Journal, Artists for Mental Health, Inc.
If I can make it on time every day for six months, I think…no, I know I’m going to request another position. I mean, I can sling hash as well as the next guy, and anyhow, I’d made sandwiches while I was attending that university way back when… Nobody ever told me to wash dishes. Well, that was about a thousand jobs ago…and way before my hitch-hiking days; my crazy days.
Oh God, why did I have to remind myself of those days? Pain, misery and alcohol…in a word: MANIA. Yeah, I’m mentally ill, or at least I was…now, I’m mentally healthy. But those hitch-hiking days… why me, God, why me? Scrambling around the Northeast (sometimes completely bare-foot) like there was some kind of war going on. It was horrible. I’m just glad that I’m normal now.
It was back in ‘85 that I first set out. I did the Albany, Boston, Manchester, Bennington, Albany loop, stopping here and there. I did the Cape a couple of times and other places too. But mostly, it was back to Mom in Rensselaer.
I remember returning home, all the way from Manchester, with a hole in one heel. That was the day of my first psychiatric hospitalization. But they didn’t treat my foot. In fact, they didn’t treat my head either…that’s why I ran away.
I ran away again and again, but I was back the same day. Once, I hid in some bushes in front of a house and eluded them altogether…but they caught up with me the next day. Where am I going with all this? Let’s see…I guess that my perception of reality was distorted.
When I got sick, I thought I was on a mission from God. The Antichrist was coming and I had to save God’s people. Who were God’s people and how was I going to save them? Easy…God’s people were few and far between, and then there were the earthworks. Earthworks are small (or large) lean-tos and similar structures that stand low to the ground, sturdy and concealed. So sturdy that they could be stepped on and still stand strong. Lean-to’s can be built against large rocks, camouflaged with leaves, ferns and the like. I was commissioned to hide God’s people in these earthworks…way up in the North woods.
What baffled me mostly about all of this was the question of identifying God’s people. If they wore dog tags, it would have been easy. Sorry, no tags. Nope…I was left wondering about most of the people I met in those days.
I rationalized that if they gave me a ride, they were probably God’s people. But none of them wanted to live in an earthwork. So, I built them anyway; about ten or twelve of them. I figured they’d sleep anywhere from four to twelve people each. And I made a map of them, so I’d be able to locate God’s people.
God’s people… Churches, bus stations and the streets…perhaps, but, hitch-hiking; that was free, and I wouldn’t get arrested for loitering. Plus, once inside a car, you can have as personal a conversation as you’d like. That way you can actually (in some cases) get to know people better. I would write down their names and addresses in a small book. But I haven’t seen that book in years.
Well, worse eventually came to worse and I started getting arrested and winding up in jails and hospitals. My Dad (the good doctor) would often come and rescue me and pay my bail, which was kind of ironic since he was directly responsible for my first incarceration. He was also the first doctor to give me haloperidol. He mixed it with some ice cream and gave it to me one fine manic evening. I slept like a baby that night, and the next morning I thanked him.
It wasn’t until about five years (and much trouble) later that I finally came to accept my psychiatric disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and started to take my medications as prescribed. It happened just after a half-baked hitch-hiking episode. It was back in the summer of ‘89. I had just been at the US/Canadian border. My Dad came up to Plattsburgh and got me out. He drove me back to Albany and bought me lunch. After lunch, I decided I was going to show everybody. I was angry, lonely and discontent. I hitched out to Utica and became very bored (and cold) as no one would carry me on to points West. So I finally took a ride back to Albany, and my sister took me to a local psychiatric hospital. Well, the doctor who interviewed me asked if I had been taking my medications. That was it. It hit me like a brick. All of a sudden, I accepted the fact that mental illness existed…and, moreover, that I had it.
They kept me in the hospital for two weeks, and I had to practically beg my therapist to discharge me, but he finally did. Soon thereafter, things began to improve. I took group therapy seriously for a change and I had quit drinking in ‘86. Once I started taking my medications, it was all good. My delusions faded out. I haven’t been arrested since ‘87, and that was my last hospitalization.
Ironically, I found God’s people in an apartment program I entered. There I was treated with respect and concern. In no time at all, I moved on.
Now I have a nice apartment in Albany with my girlfriend and we plan to get married soon. Today, I am healthy, happy and free.
Reprinted with kind permission from The North River Journal, Artists for Mental Health, Inc.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tribute
She thinks of me more than I do myself. She gives and gives. I wonder why, then I think, because she's my mother.
Were you ever zonked out of your mind? Have you ever been so out of it that you're a danger to yourself and others? I get that way without the medication. The day came, again, for me to be hospitalized and I fought it tooth and nail. I was in the Emergency Room of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I should know the routine by now, but the thoughts don't let you accept it. Mommy, Daddy and I were there again, but this time I wasn't sitting still. Too much energy? Too much balls? Maybe just too afraid. I bolted out of the Emergency Room. No guards could hold me. Even when my father grabbed me, I shook him off the way a horse shakes off flies. I was out of there.
But you know, even though it was six or so in the morning, and even though I'm an adult, Mommy was following behind me. You wouldn't believe the energy in this sixty-five year old woman. It made me think of the days she took us camping: How she hiked the Appalachian Trail with us. Now in Glen Oaks, she hiked through suburbia to catch up to me. Out of my head I marched on. I didn't have a destination, just a desire to be somewhere else.
She caught up to me on Union Turnpike, way down by Creedmoor Hospital. She didn't swear at me, laugh at me or even ask what I was doing. I remember what she said: "I love you!"
My mother went into the hospital. She went there a few times before, but I wondered how serious this was. Paul, my brother, relayed the information to me over the phone. "They ran a CAT Scan, hundreds of other tests. We should be home in an hour or so if everything checks out."
But everything didn't check out or so it seemed. They kept her overnight. I wondered whether she might not come back. Is that concern or paranoia? But she's seventy five now. Is she still strong enough to tame those mountain peaks? I don't know. I thought back to that summer when my folks partied at their Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary. Really it was a forty nine and a half celebration. Since they got married in the winter, folks might not come out in the cold weather. Then I wondered whether she'd be here for the real date.
I had to return to "the scene of the crime": Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I wasn't a patient this time. I was a visitor. Hospitals give me a strange feeling. Sick people look terrible. Probably the pain distorts their faces. But I was glad to see Mommy. I didn't judge or ask embarrassing questions. She didn't do that to me. You know just what I said.
Were you ever zonked out of your mind? Have you ever been so out of it that you're a danger to yourself and others? I get that way without the medication. The day came, again, for me to be hospitalized and I fought it tooth and nail. I was in the Emergency Room of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I should know the routine by now, but the thoughts don't let you accept it. Mommy, Daddy and I were there again, but this time I wasn't sitting still. Too much energy? Too much balls? Maybe just too afraid. I bolted out of the Emergency Room. No guards could hold me. Even when my father grabbed me, I shook him off the way a horse shakes off flies. I was out of there.
But you know, even though it was six or so in the morning, and even though I'm an adult, Mommy was following behind me. You wouldn't believe the energy in this sixty-five year old woman. It made me think of the days she took us camping: How she hiked the Appalachian Trail with us. Now in Glen Oaks, she hiked through suburbia to catch up to me. Out of my head I marched on. I didn't have a destination, just a desire to be somewhere else.
She caught up to me on Union Turnpike, way down by Creedmoor Hospital. She didn't swear at me, laugh at me or even ask what I was doing. I remember what she said: "I love you!"
My mother went into the hospital. She went there a few times before, but I wondered how serious this was. Paul, my brother, relayed the information to me over the phone. "They ran a CAT Scan, hundreds of other tests. We should be home in an hour or so if everything checks out."
But everything didn't check out or so it seemed. They kept her overnight. I wondered whether she might not come back. Is that concern or paranoia? But she's seventy five now. Is she still strong enough to tame those mountain peaks? I don't know. I thought back to that summer when my folks partied at their Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary. Really it was a forty nine and a half celebration. Since they got married in the winter, folks might not come out in the cold weather. Then I wondered whether she'd be here for the real date.
I had to return to "the scene of the crime": Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I wasn't a patient this time. I was a visitor. Hospitals give me a strange feeling. Sick people look terrible. Probably the pain distorts their faces. But I was glad to see Mommy. I didn't judge or ask embarrassing questions. She didn't do that to me. You know just what I said.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Poetry : Reconciliation
Reconciliation
Through countless hospitalizations
You've always remained by my side.
Lost to the world and to you was I --
But you've always stood by me believing.
The many times I debased you, mocked you and antagonized you,
You've always answered me with sheer love and kindness,
The many times I've cursed you and cruelly deceived you,
You gave me compassion and unmitigated understanding.
I apologize Dear Mom
And thank you forever --
I thank you for the love and the help, and yes the cigarettes too.
Though I pray to God I have never hurt you.
Through countless hospitalizations
You've always remained by my side.
Lost to the world and to you was I --
But you've always stood by me believing.
The many times I debased you, mocked you and antagonized you,
You've always answered me with sheer love and kindness,
The many times I've cursed you and cruelly deceived you,
You gave me compassion and unmitigated understanding.
I apologize Dear Mom
And thank you forever --
I thank you for the love and the help, and yes the cigarettes too.
Though I pray to God I have never hurt you.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
A Father's Story
My first recollection of Daniel being ill was when I noticed him always looking down while walking; stopping for no reason and staring into space as though he was listening to someone who was NOT THERE.
When I asked him why he was doing these things he would say that it was not polite to stare at people. About stopping and listening: "It was just what I do," as if it was natural for him. He believed that he was special having these experiences. Later on he told me the voices told him he was "the man!"
As a parent, I always perceived Daniel as a bright boy who had emotional problems caused by my divorce from his mother. I felt tremendous guilt even though I had visitation rights every weekend.
As a child Daniel never showed any emotion. Again, I though it was because he was missing "me" in his life because of the physical separation. My ex-wife took Daniel to a few child psychologists, but to no avail. It did not last and I received very little feedback. When Daniel turned 16 he asked to live with me, I had no problem with that. He was going to one of the best high schools in New York City and was excelling. After a while I noticed he was getting depressed. He would come home and not say a word to me. If I asked him a question, he would reply "It's none of your business!" He'd ignore me as if I didn't exist. I wrote it off as teenager rebelling while going through puberty. He graduated from the Bronx High School of Science; I was very proud of him. Daniel went on to college. Everything was going well. In his junior year he told me things that started me thinking something was wrong. He used to keep the windows in his room wide open during the winter months. He told me that there were people or things out there that were "out to get me." One evening when I came home from work I found Daniel and some friends in the house. I don't remember what I said to him, but when I merely placed my hands on the back of his head (he was sitting on a chair) he got up quickly and threw me to the floor! Then he got on top of me and said "the force is with me" and he "had the power" as in Star Wars. I was then still in total denial that anything serious was going on. After that I watched him more closely. As time went on I noticed he had somewhat of a split personality. His college studies were now not going well; he didn't graduate on schedule.
One day in July we went out to Brighton Beach. I noticed he was acting strangely. I asked Daniel when we got home if he would go with me to Montefiore Medical Center Psychiatric Emergency Room for a checkup; he said he would. I was under the impression that he would see a psychiatrist and arrangements would be made for outpatient appointments. To my surprise, they took Daniel to an isolation room. I was shocked, he was not a criminal! At that point I felt horrible that I brought him to the hospital. The doctor told me he had signs of schizophrenia and they would hold him for observation. I could only imagine the surprise and shock Daniel was experiencing! I tried to remain with him as long as I could. I did not want Daniel to think I was abandoning him. I still couldn't believe what the doctor told me. They gave Daniel Haldol to calm him and after two days took him upstairs to the psychiatric ward. There they gave Daniel 3 mg of Risperdal and subsequently his psychotic episodes disappeared! Daniel was in total denial, but he listened to the doctors and took the Risperdal. He stayed at Montefiore Medical Center for two weeks and then was released and was sent to Psych-Systems of Manhattan as an outpatient. They gave him 3 mg of Risperdal to take at home while continuing his outpatient care. He told me he was feeling "sluggish" while taking Risperdal. The "voices" had disappeared; he looked fine and he no longer looked down while he walked.
The idea of having a "mental illness" didn't sit well with Daniel or me. He felt better but was still in total denial as was I. He stopped taking his medication as soon as he got home, thus his symptoms returned! I didn't say anything as I knew he wouldn't want to go back to the hospital. I always walked Daniel to meet the van that took him to Psych Systems of Manhattan. I knew upon seeing Daniel in the condition he was in, they would send him to the hospital again. That same day, Psych Systems did call me stating that they had to take Daniel to New York Hospital due to psychotic behavior! I then went down to New York Hospital and saw my son in an isolation room again. He refused any medication. At that point I signed papers and arranged for Daniel to be taken back to Montefiore Medical Center. When he got back to Montefiore, he was quite delusional and still refused medication. He had the idea that everyone was trying to poison him. He refused to eat anything. He looked at me like I was his enemy. For about a week they placed him in isolation.
One Saturday (August 1, to be exact) my friend Pam was watching TV and happened to watch "Four Stories" on channel 4. The first story was about Ken Steele. Pam called me and told me to tune in for the subject matter was schizophrenia. I did and got Ken's telephone number. It was like a miracle sent just in time for me! Ken was nice enough to call Daniel at Montefiore Medical Center. After awhile Daniel started to take Risperdal in a smaller dosage. He was released again and started with Psych Systems of Westchester while helping Ken Steele with his work and also his newspaper, New York City Voices. He is now a "consumer" working for mental health.
Daniel now sees his future in helping other people with schizophrenia and other mental health problems and the importance of taking Risperdal.
I have come a long way from being in denial about my son's illness. I now understand more about it from the knowledge attained from Ken Steele and his life's work. It's difficult to believe that in just four short months since Daniel's first admission and possible schizophrenic diagnosis, positive change has occurred in my life and his, due to "Four Stories," Ken Steele, Risperdal and New York City Voices.
My son is also helping Adrienne Williams and attending informative seminars. Daniel also now goes to the Park Slope Center for Mental Health for therapy. He currently does things he could never do before and is not depressed as he was before, feels comfortable with his peers (doesn't feel like a freak) smiles, writes about his feelings, verbalizes them and most of all has a pretty clear idea how he would like to spend his future: incorporating scholastic (English major) and practical experience to help others. Isn't that where it's at?!
As Daniel's dad I am grateful and have in this short time grown to accept his illness.
We must all, however, take it "one day at a time."
When I asked him why he was doing these things he would say that it was not polite to stare at people. About stopping and listening: "It was just what I do," as if it was natural for him. He believed that he was special having these experiences. Later on he told me the voices told him he was "the man!"
As a parent, I always perceived Daniel as a bright boy who had emotional problems caused by my divorce from his mother. I felt tremendous guilt even though I had visitation rights every weekend.
As a child Daniel never showed any emotion. Again, I though it was because he was missing "me" in his life because of the physical separation. My ex-wife took Daniel to a few child psychologists, but to no avail. It did not last and I received very little feedback. When Daniel turned 16 he asked to live with me, I had no problem with that. He was going to one of the best high schools in New York City and was excelling. After a while I noticed he was getting depressed. He would come home and not say a word to me. If I asked him a question, he would reply "It's none of your business!" He'd ignore me as if I didn't exist. I wrote it off as teenager rebelling while going through puberty. He graduated from the Bronx High School of Science; I was very proud of him. Daniel went on to college. Everything was going well. In his junior year he told me things that started me thinking something was wrong. He used to keep the windows in his room wide open during the winter months. He told me that there were people or things out there that were "out to get me." One evening when I came home from work I found Daniel and some friends in the house. I don't remember what I said to him, but when I merely placed my hands on the back of his head (he was sitting on a chair) he got up quickly and threw me to the floor! Then he got on top of me and said "the force is with me" and he "had the power" as in Star Wars. I was then still in total denial that anything serious was going on. After that I watched him more closely. As time went on I noticed he had somewhat of a split personality. His college studies were now not going well; he didn't graduate on schedule.
One day in July we went out to Brighton Beach. I noticed he was acting strangely. I asked Daniel when we got home if he would go with me to Montefiore Medical Center Psychiatric Emergency Room for a checkup; he said he would. I was under the impression that he would see a psychiatrist and arrangements would be made for outpatient appointments. To my surprise, they took Daniel to an isolation room. I was shocked, he was not a criminal! At that point I felt horrible that I brought him to the hospital. The doctor told me he had signs of schizophrenia and they would hold him for observation. I could only imagine the surprise and shock Daniel was experiencing! I tried to remain with him as long as I could. I did not want Daniel to think I was abandoning him. I still couldn't believe what the doctor told me. They gave Daniel Haldol to calm him and after two days took him upstairs to the psychiatric ward. There they gave Daniel 3 mg of Risperdal and subsequently his psychotic episodes disappeared! Daniel was in total denial, but he listened to the doctors and took the Risperdal. He stayed at Montefiore Medical Center for two weeks and then was released and was sent to Psych-Systems of Manhattan as an outpatient. They gave him 3 mg of Risperdal to take at home while continuing his outpatient care. He told me he was feeling "sluggish" while taking Risperdal. The "voices" had disappeared; he looked fine and he no longer looked down while he walked.
The idea of having a "mental illness" didn't sit well with Daniel or me. He felt better but was still in total denial as was I. He stopped taking his medication as soon as he got home, thus his symptoms returned! I didn't say anything as I knew he wouldn't want to go back to the hospital. I always walked Daniel to meet the van that took him to Psych Systems of Manhattan. I knew upon seeing Daniel in the condition he was in, they would send him to the hospital again. That same day, Psych Systems did call me stating that they had to take Daniel to New York Hospital due to psychotic behavior! I then went down to New York Hospital and saw my son in an isolation room again. He refused any medication. At that point I signed papers and arranged for Daniel to be taken back to Montefiore Medical Center. When he got back to Montefiore, he was quite delusional and still refused medication. He had the idea that everyone was trying to poison him. He refused to eat anything. He looked at me like I was his enemy. For about a week they placed him in isolation.
One Saturday (August 1, to be exact) my friend Pam was watching TV and happened to watch "Four Stories" on channel 4. The first story was about Ken Steele. Pam called me and told me to tune in for the subject matter was schizophrenia. I did and got Ken's telephone number. It was like a miracle sent just in time for me! Ken was nice enough to call Daniel at Montefiore Medical Center. After awhile Daniel started to take Risperdal in a smaller dosage. He was released again and started with Psych Systems of Westchester while helping Ken Steele with his work and also his newspaper, New York City Voices. He is now a "consumer" working for mental health.
Daniel now sees his future in helping other people with schizophrenia and other mental health problems and the importance of taking Risperdal.
I have come a long way from being in denial about my son's illness. I now understand more about it from the knowledge attained from Ken Steele and his life's work. It's difficult to believe that in just four short months since Daniel's first admission and possible schizophrenic diagnosis, positive change has occurred in my life and his, due to "Four Stories," Ken Steele, Risperdal and New York City Voices.
My son is also helping Adrienne Williams and attending informative seminars. Daniel also now goes to the Park Slope Center for Mental Health for therapy. He currently does things he could never do before and is not depressed as he was before, feels comfortable with his peers (doesn't feel like a freak) smiles, writes about his feelings, verbalizes them and most of all has a pretty clear idea how he would like to spend his future: incorporating scholastic (English major) and practical experience to help others. Isn't that where it's at?!
As Daniel's dad I am grateful and have in this short time grown to accept his illness.
We must all, however, take it "one day at a time."
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