at Arm’s Length: what if God were one of us?

Through the darkness we must endure... love is not the cause, it is the cure.
Through the darkness we must endure…
love is not the cause,
it is the cure.

The big brown dog with even bigger…good intentions, rammed the bedroom door, as if she were a firefighter in training.  Thrashing, pounding, whining and cajoling her owner.

Truth be told…the situation would have made Lassie proud.  Bedroom door shut, unusual for this particular household, the dog’s owner, sound asleep.  Definitely out of character for a woman who wakes to the sound of coffee brewing two floors below.

Somehow, on this odd day.  Sun coming up on Central street.  The silent sleet arousing city workers.  Somehow, on this late day in October, five years ago, God was one of us…

And, indeed, she hasn’t left me since.

I would be remiss to omit.  What I so would like to avoid.  The startling truth of that day…

My partner had overdosed on fifty Benedryls and fallen into a deep sleep that only awakened itself with a Grand-Mal seizure!

My dog had only been doing what she knew to do.  Awake the only person in the house that might be able to do something.

It had been said,

once the smoked cleared…

…she most likely wouldn’t have made it…if you didn’t get up when you did…

Hmm…

Schizophrenia?!

What a shit ass disorder?  What doesn’t bring us to our knees…will indeed make us stronger?

Recently, with a fistful of disabling muscular disorders, I have found myself the recipient of a ‘boot’ and/or a ‘walking cast’.  That sucks!  I carry it in the back of my car, as though, I were handed a Scarlet A and only know and again, chose to wear it.

Truth be told again?  I do not wear it because I do not want anyone feeling sorry for me.  Supposedly, the ‘walking’ cast and I should remain friends…off and on, for the rest of my life.  Or, until, I opt for an ankle replacement!  That scares me.  Therefore, the boot, the cane and the anguished look when walking.

What if God were one of us?

What would she say to me now…five years later?  After the voices have settled.  After my partner has found some sort of comfort…even if it is for only a day…at a time.

I suppose my Higher Power would shame me.  Warn me.  And, yes, delicately point out, my misstep.

Who am I to be a shamed of my illness?  Who am I to not speak loudly and proudly of my disability?  Am I only shunning so many who have worked years to overcome impediments that maybe invisible to others…

but all along deadly and confounding to it’s recipients!

It has taken my tiny household years to grapple with the idea that…

on any given day,

at any given hour,

on any given Sunday…

my spouse can or could sub-comb to her demons.

Such is the illness Schizo-Affective Disorder.  Such is the life of someone with a disability.

All is well, on our street, our cul-de-sac, our two story cedar shack in the woods.  A strong woman that woman of mine.  I see it in her eyes.  I see it in the way she cares for those with less.  And, I see it most, when she struggles and asks, for help.

Yes, God, is one of us!  In the comebacks of those we counted down and out.  He or she is in the air, the woods, and, all around.

I didn’t put that…typically, hard to awaken dog, at the top of the hallway.  I didn’t not make that dog produce a sound the kind of which…I have never heard out of her again.

Schizophrenia is a cruel disease. The lives of those affected are often chronicles of constricted experiences, muted emotions, missed opportunities, unfulfilled expectations. It leads to a twilight existence, a twentieth-century underground man… It is in fact the single biggest blemish on the face of contemporary American medicine and social services; when the social history of our era is written, the plight of persons with schizophrenia will be recorded as having been a national scandal.”
– E. Fuller Torrey, M.D., Surviving Schizophrenia

I will follow this blog…with remarks made by those I choose to surround myself with.  Winners, heroines, residents in the neighborhood of ‘overcoming’ adversity.  For even in the light of day, with demons gone, we are all survivors in our own right.  Parts, particles and pieces of whomever we choose to call ‘God’!

What if God was one of us Just a slob like one of us Just a stranger on the bus Trying to make His way home?  Joan Osborne - What If God Was One Of Us
What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make His way home?
Joan Osborne – What If God Was One Of Us
  • I believe in God…but I do not believe God is responsible for all the miracles that happen!
  • I think about the sacrifices others make for me…my family, my sister…And, that makes me realize how selfless people can be
  • Would people act different?  Possibly?  People of faith would still be fighting the good fight…It would be nice to think that there would be less bigotry…even God being one of us…could any of this be fixed?
  • Could it be…if He were…they would be less hate more love and peace?  It is hard to think of…if God were one of us.  But what if it were true?

I had been raised Catholic.  I do not hold that against anyone!  But I had also been raised to fight the good fight.  Mental illness is such a large part of humanity.  It had been with us…since the dawn of written time.

Who am I to shun my illness?  As I watch my partner grow into a beautiful woman.  If god isn’t one of us…he or she is most definitely, in all of us…if we so choose.

Amen!

Fixin’ Schizophrenic

fixin schizophrenic 5

Sitting on a fence leave you with nothing but a stick up your ass!
Sitting on a fence leaves you with nothing but a stick up your ass!

fixin schizophrenic 3

By proxy this seems to be the way

Though we cannot know for sure.

The choice…

endless.

The voices…

evermore.

She once spoke of the way out

It took all the King’s men…

a tapestry of bottled helpers…

to put her back together again.

She had a history of believing

I am them.  They are me.

To the observant observer…

for we all are not…

fixin schizophrenic 7There is a way out for these anxiously epic…

the heroic lot.

A lineup of crack pot characters dancing like

sugar plums around a misguided nativity.

Years in the making the illness…

the way…

would never come or go

for free.

These are the ghosts in the hall…

the talking China dolls…

the gesturing hands…

these are the things…

the compliant cannot understand.

The way out?

Fixing me to better understand you?

Paying heed to voices…

giving the devil his overdue…dues.

There is a claim to hearing

everything

and

sometimes…

nothing at all.

Brown eyed ladies

and

Blue eyed boys

in a vacuum of quiet noise.

Room upon room filled with

broken glass.

What seems normal?

What is real?

Fading, fading, fast.

Either way…

the way is what it will always be.

About not fixing you

about fixing me.

WE are small in comparison to the judgments we make.
WE are small in comparison to the judgments we make.

fixin schizophrenic 2

A century or so...ago. The town of Hill NH moved.  The town relocated because the  citizen wanted a change.  Funny how a small group of people can move mountains!
A century or so…ago. The town of Hill NH moved. The town relocated because the citizens wanted a change. Funny how a small group of people can move mountains!

In a Word

In a word?

What does that mean?

If we took all the hostility in the world and made it eatable...everyone would be fed.  There would be no hunger!
If we took all the hostility in the world and made it edible…everyone would be fed. There would be no hunger!

How does it effect the affect?

Why are we so careless about…our words?

Case in point:

The words OKAY and/or FINE!

Oh, how often the sentence,

‘Hi, how are you?’

is uttered without any really meaning or spark of intention!

Are you really…okay?

OK, here’s the story. On Saturday, March 23, 1839, the editor of the Boston Morning Post published a humorous article about a satirical organization called the “Anti-Bell Ringing Society ” in which he wrote:

The “Chairman

The “Chairman of the Committee on Charity Lecture Bells,” is one of the deputation, and perhaps if he should return to Boston, via Providence, he of the Journal, and his train-band, would have his “contribution box,” et ceteras, o.k.—all correct—and cause the corks to fly, like sparks, upward.

of the Committee on Charity Lecture Bells,” is one of the deputation, and perhaps if he Boston, via Providence, he of the Journal, and h

he wrong spelling of the word "faggot," mostly spelled wrong by young people who spell it how they pronounce the word, with an "i" Aaron(who is 10) says: "Man, you are a faggit"  Ben (who is 16) says: It's spelled F-A-G-G-O-T, dumbass.
The wrong spelling of the word “faggot,” mostly spelled wrong by young people who spell it how they pronounce the word, with an “i”
Aaron(who is 10) says: “Man, you are a faggit”
Ben (who is 16) says: It’

It wasn’t as strange as it might seem for the author to coin OK as an abbreviation for “all correct.” There was a fashion then for playful abbreviations like i.s.b.d (it shall be done), r.t.b.s (remains to be seen), and s.p. (small potatoes). They were the early ancestors of OMG, LOL, and tl;dr. A twist on the trend was to base the abbreviations on alternate spellings or misspellings, so “no go” was k.g. (know go) and “all right” was o.w. (oll write). So it wasn’t so surprising for someone come up with o.k. for oll korrect. What is surprising is that it ended up sticking around for so long while the other abbreviations faded away.

**http://mentalfloss.com/article/50042/whats-real-origin-ok

Or, if you aren’t okay…all correct, because most of us aren’t really…all correct…all of the time. If o.k., does not apply perhaps, you are FINE.

A.A. Expression on how the pink cloud has lifted and you are feeling completely lost in an adult world with only your one month of sobriety and ‘adolescent emotions’ to guide you:

F – Fucked up!

I – Insecure

N – Neurotic

E – Emotional

Schizo? Often mispronounced as, Skitso! The honest meaning to the word? To divide and/or to split. How it sounds to a person with schizophrenia? As a society, or a click, or a group of bullies, it has one meaning and that is, you are so strange we don’t want to deal with you and/or want you as one of pack! Personally, this is the new hated word on my list of words that offend without research.

Gay? I know this one…Do not even need to look it up.

It is far better to think before speaking...than to speak without thought
MARIA, I feel pretty. OH, so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gay. And, I pity any girl who isn’t me today!

MARIA, I feel pretty.  OH, so pretty.  I feel pretty and witty and gay.  And, I pity any girl who isn’t me today!

 

-Lyrics, West Side Story, I Feel Pretty

So far removed has the term become? Generically speaking, it simply is meant to describe the happiest moments in our lives. It is simply used to tear one person down and order to build another person’s lack and/or grasp of humanity. Again, what is in a word? Do we really know what we are saying? Or, is the problem,

Do we care?

Faggot: bundle of twigs and/or a pack of cigarettes

Fairy: persons who accompany Tinkerbell on her adventures

Dyke: a place in Holland or so I am told

For the longest time, I honestly believed, those hateful persons calling me a ‘Lizzie’ were convinced…that Lizzie Borden was a homosexual. Course, as with most annihilated alliterations, Lizzie was mistaken for Lezzie. Yet, I digress, than would it not be, Lessie?

I am sick and tired of the hate. I am sick and tired of the ignorant ways we choose to show our ignorance. I live in the first in the nation…state. All the politicians come here to blow there own…horns. And, on occasion, blow other items not listed on the debate schedule. These people cannot even get the English language right!

##Spokesman-Romney-confused-similar-sounding-words-because-it-was-the-end-of-the-day

Say, what?

Mitt Romney mistakenly confused the words “Sikh” and “sheik” at a fundraiser here Tuesday night when he offered his condolences to the victims of last weekend’s shooting at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin. […] Sheik is an Arabic honorific, whereas Sikh is a religion with roots in South Asia.

**http://www.dailykos.com/

Whatever the case maybe, I am sure of one or two things. We have built ourselves up on prideful balloons. Erected ourselves high above all the other nations. This activity, of course, has/had been done whilst hitching rides on our forefathers backs.

Shameful and without remorse the behaviors of those who believe by massacring words to their liking. These persons often forget, english is their first language. Not just something to be picked out during a grab bag situation.

Would we be more tolerant of the haters…if at least the proper words were used? For example, would one be more inclined to believe which one of the following statements:

  1. FAGITS! Go home!
  1. Gay men, and gay women, for that matter, please take your rainbows home and leave us with our unsubstantiated hate!

I don’t know! When I first read the sign, FAGITS! Go home! At a gay pride march in Columbus South Carolina…I had been offended. I’ve recently changed my stance on that. I would rather be hated by ignorant illiterate persons, taking my lifestyle and making it a delusional predatory skit. Than to be honestly hated with proper word-speak for real life bad forms…such as, she spits in public and doesn’t take the hair out of the hairbrush when she is done using it!

Call each other faggots behind the keys of a message board A word rooted in hate, yet our genre still ignores it Gay is synonymous with the lesser It’s the same hate that’s caused wars from religion Gender to skin color, the complexion of your pigment The same fight that led people to walk outs and sit ins It’s human rights for everybody, there is no difference!

Putting a Day to the Dream

Day to Dream

Day to Dream

Day to Dream

Our psychosis has left its mark

Seen day in and hour out

lurking like dust in the dark.

Her tears and fears, broken glass to the word, NO!

Her reality and fascination are mere shadows

Leaving hopeless, helpless a place to go.

Her is mine. Mine is her.

She is what makes a

breath

breathe.

She is my want, my need.

I will saddle the fates of threats and leaden dread.

I will compose a symphony of noise

Lyrics of love

anything, anything,

to shut down the voices in her head.

Get back up, get back up,

one more time.

I will lift you again and again

As always, I will make the pain mine.

The monsters under the bed

ready to feed.

Red

is Red.

Freakish fantasy of foes…

that is not the last of the fallen shoe.

Real or not

If you

bleed

my true love

I do to…

Apart, I cannot diminish a nightmare.

But together,

I can make a day…dream

For I am stronger than the monsters under the bed

Bolder than the silent voices you dread

Real or not…

My love…

If you bleed

I do to.

My Worse Day Ever? I forget…

Needs
Life is the fine line between illusion and substance

My Worse Day Ever?  I forget…

In the midst of my addiction…I planned to die.  Slowly, painfully and without someone and/or anyone’s love.
A true addiction has its own entity.  It breathes its own ragged breath. It bleeds its own poisonous red liquor.  It is a part of the addict…Yet, if set free; it could easily live without remorse or need for human contact…Year in and Year out.
Therefore, the intentional death of an addict can take decades to come to the light and truth at the end of rigorously remorseful tunnel.
In sobriety, so the elders say, the further you are from a drink…The closer you are to a drink.
It has been a long-span of time since vodka had seemed my only way out.  A case of beer and a gallon of Smirnoff a day…and I managed to keep on drinking.  From the age of 8 to the age of 28…The suicide attempt went on.
Yet, I crawled my way out of the gutter 13 years ago!
Today, though, the reality of the other shoe dropping came crashing down onto my rose-colored glasses.
My worse day ever?  How could I forget.  Is it the smell of creosote?  Is it the familial sound of a hollow door sliding open to a set of stairs leading to the words, ‘lazy bitch’?  Or, perhaps, it is the full service psych wards allowing voiceless vagabonds in and misleading the loved out!
When you love someone with a disability…Be it physical, mental or spiritual…The reality of shoes dropping are like roses in the snow or diamonds on the floor.  Like beauty has taken a break from all the ugliness that surrounds it.
When a lover, partner, mother or friend… are unwell…They are always…UNWELL!  Or, so you believe.  With every ten smiles shed, it will be the one tear fallen that leads the caregiver to believe the best is over and the worse is yet to come.
The caregivers are urged to live in the moment by others who love them.  They are urged to believe in a Higher Power.  They are reminded how good life had once been.  The caregiver to a fallen angel will one time and one time only…let their guard down.  From the chips on their shoulder to the tips of their broken down backs…A caregiver will fall for the ‘it will get better’ joke only once.  They are hardened and swollen with useless pride.
I didn’t come remotely close to drinking, drugging and/or behaving in any way  that would make me a Big Book sinner.

Rocks may fall in place...But a shoe will never fall if you just wear it!
Rocks may fall in place…But a shoe will never fall if you just wear it!
My spouse…Well, my spouse happened to cry today!  She cried because she stubbed her toe.  She wept because her mother is crazier than a cat in heat.  She sobbed because she just wants to be ‘normal’.  Today was a day where all the shoes dropped and you still could hear a pin drop.
It was a day where I felt as useless as two left shoes on a person without feet.  What did I do?
Well, I sat ‘down on the couch and I cried too’…For no other reason than…I didn’t know what else to do.
Today was my worse day ever…Until we have another one.  But I needed to remember to not forget.  To give in to let go….
And, when that happens, those are my best days ever…Those are the days I don’t forget.
_______________________________________________________________
…all things are possible, laughter is holier than piety, freedom is sweeter than fame, and in the end it’s love and love alone that really matters.”
Tom Robbins