Category Archives: Stigma

Because I Can

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I’m finally letting myself show anger, even rage, call people on the bullshit they hand me, their lies, singular or repeated, all of it.

Because I can.

I purged an old, dead email account of its contents the other day.  What (at the time) I felt was a stupid move was reading a bunch of those emails first.

I was aghast.  I saw myself being emotionally and psychologically abused to a horrifying degree.  Had there been a physical analogue, I would have been the woman in the ED who “fell down the stairs”, “walked into a door”, or was “just the clumsiest woman ever, you won’t believe what I did to myself. . .”  And I would have ended up there daily, until eventually I landed in the ICU, on life support.

Reading those emails was something that needed to happen, though, because it wasn’t just one relationship, and it hadn’t been just with guys I was “involved” with.  I took a long, hard, painful look at the woman I have become, and I’m angry.

I’m angry at myself, but I’m also angry at all of the people who had a big hand in turning me into this woman.  Because I never used to be this way.  You swung at me, I ducked and hit back twice as hard.  You lied to me, I called you on it straight out and gave you the option of being honest henceforth or getting the fuck out of my life.  You treated me badly, or took advantage in any way, I walked and never looked back.

I entered treatment for my bipolar, and slowly, but slowly, I began to wear down, and people took advantage of that.  Even though I knew I was doing everything possible to be well, and that I had never taken my illness out on others — except for a few, a very few, bursts of shouting and tears — I felt like I was a burden just being in people’s lives, and I had to do everything I could to compensate and please others.  This belief was reinforced when friends I’d known for years started backing away; the mother of one of the children I nannied for started distancing herself and telling me how disappointed her child was when I didn’t show up for something because I was curled up in my bed, sobbing, unable to even move (yet I always at least gave her notice that I wouldn’t be there); and finally, my sister, with whom I had always been very close, and my best friend of 20 years both decided to cut off all contact with me, basically telling me that they couldn’t handle “my drama”, and other behavior that was completely beyond my control — even though I was still working my soul to the core trying to prevent them or anyone else from being negatively affected.

Clearly, there was something wrong with me beyond my illness, as a person, and I was lucky to have anyone still in my life at all, so I had to (and did) do anything and everything to keep them.

FUCK THAT.

A sister who walks out on you when you are at your lowest is not a sister.  For a long time I have been compassionate, because she genuinely didn’t get it.  She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting well.  But you know what, it doesn’t matter if you understand or not; you love someone, you support them.  You do not call them “a black hole”.

A friend who uses her children to hold you hostage — consciously or not — because you know they are little and they love and need you, and that if you call Mommy on her lies and bullshit and manipulation she will cut off the contact you have with them, I don’t even have a word for that.

Friends who back away because you are as contagious as a leper, and even if they know that statement is true, who don’t want to deal with the fact that you have to fight constantly to keep your head above the swells while they can get up and live their lives every day are not friends at all.

And new people in your life whom you will put up with, excuse even, all manner of garbage from, all while hiding or making light of how bad things have really gotten, because you’re desperate for someone, anyone, to “support” you and show you kindness. . .  Well, that one is on me, but I never would have gotten there without the concerted efforts of the people above.  Yes, they had every right to make a choice to remove themselves from my life, but they were cruel and weak and cowardly to have blamed me, instead of having the guts to admit that they couldn’t deal with being spectators to the struggle I was living and the constant pain I was in.  Because, had they done so, they would have had to admit to themselves that what I lived every day was an enormous struggle, and so unspeakably painful, and they were cutting and running, abandoning me when I needed them more than I ever had.

For years I have searched for the reason I let my former psychiatrist lie and manipulate and force me into electroconvulsive therapy — I can finally use the word FORCE, for the very first time, and you don’t know what a triumph that is — and at last, I have found it.  It was the result of a long line of abandonments and betrayals and manipulations and lies by those I loved and trusted most.  I had been made to feel like less than nothing for so long that I had come to believe it as gospel truth, and who cared that the old me, the real me, had been firmly and unwaveringly against ECT with all of her being for three-and-a-half years?  She wasn’t standing guard any more, and my opinion didn’t count.  How could it, when I didn’t count as a person myself?

That’s something I get to carry with me always.  The permanent brain damage, and the post-traumatic stress I have from being anesthetized, having electrodes hooked up to my head, having a current, a shock pass through my brain to induce a seizure in me — sixteen times over.  I blamed myself for that, too.  Up until about an hour ago.

And still, I put up with bullshit and manipulation and being treated as less than a person by people I love, because it is all I know anymore.  Almost three years to the day of my first shock and seizure.

Now, three years and fifteen days after that first blast of electricity, arguably the lowest point of my life, it ends.  I’m done.  I’m worth more than that, a hell of a lot more.  I am often a hard person to have in your life, and that has always been so, it has very little to do with mental illness.  But I am the best friend you will ever have, if you are willing to accept me, all of me, and give back.

I am smart.

I am compassionate.

I am intelligent.

I am strong.

I am creative.

I am resilient.

I am supportive.

I am loving.

I am beautiful.

I am selfless.

I have a strong moral compass.

I am patient.

I am understanding.

I am honest.

I am accepting.

I am forgiving.

I am idealistic.

I am open-hearted.

I live my beliefs.

And I once again believe that I am worth it, that I am worth more, much more than I have been given in the past six years of my life.  From friends, from lovers, from family.

So I will live my life accordingly from this day on.

Because I can.

“I ain’t a soldier, but I’m here to take a stand. . .”

~ Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora/Billy Falcon


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Crazy People DO Get Sick, Too

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I should be asleep.  Something woke me up in the middle of the night, in spite of my exhaustion, and since I can’t figure out what specifically it is, we’ll say that it was this.

Yesterday, my dear friend Laura — who is a doctor – published this post, Crazy People Get Sick Too.  I know that links are thrown into posts all of the time, but you really need to go read this one to understand fully what I am about to write.  I am completely in earnest about this.  I have a few little things I can get done while you read it, so please, go ahead.  I will happily wait (though I suggest that you don’t read it while eating, otherwise you should be fine).

Have you read it now?  Truly?  Thank you for that.  I don’t think in the whole year-and-eight-months I have been writing this blog I have ever pushed, really insisted that you read a post, so you have to know that Laura’s post mattered to me a lot.

The part that really grabbed me and started the tears was this:

He firmly emphasized to his small crowd of followers that it was nothing short of criminal to instantly brand every human being who presented to the ER (or anyplace else) with a medication list that included psych drugs, or was delusional, or disoriented, or hallucinating, or even violent, as being a “crank,” and ignoring the possibility that this person might be physically ill, just like anyone else.

That med school professor certainly deserves a “Hell yes!”, but why did it start me crying?

The thing that I don’t want to write, because it makes it too real, the thing I have been avoiding up until now: my own doctor.

Long before anyone knew I was crazy

Long before anyone knew I was crazy

My doctor has been my doctor for more than half of my life.  That’s approximately 17 years, my loves.  I followed him from practice to practice to practice to practice because he really was that good.  He was an ER doc as well, so he was quick on his feet, and saw many things that regular primary care doctors aren’t familiar with.

I really fell for him, though, the first time he uttered those three little words:  ”I don’t know.”  You may or may not have noticed, but doctors don’t ever like to admit that one.  They will do everything possible not to have to cop to not knowing.  My trust in him became complete (relatively speaking) when he told me, “I don’t know, but I know someone who does.”  He always had a wonderful specialist up his sleeve.

Fast forward to now.  Every appointment I’ve made in the past eight months — probably longer, but I was too out of it to notice — I have gotten the same response.  It doesn’t matter what symptoms or complaints I have presented with, he has told me, “If you don’t feel better in a week, call me.”  And for a long time, I let it go at that.  I was frustrated, but I had put more trust in him than I had ever put in any doctor.

Finally, I got to the point that I wouldn’t even go see him.  Recently I was twice into the urgent care, that was where my mononucleosis was diagnosed.  I was miserably sick for more than a month before I made an appointment with my doctor.  Even then I only did it because I already had a diagnosis.

After I had been branded "crazy". Can you spot the difference?

After I had been branded “crazy”. Can you spot the difference?

Of course, at that point, I already knew what his diagnosis of me was: hypochondriasis.

I was crazy, so my word could no longer be taken.  In spite of the fact that in late Spring I told him I thought I was hypothyroid, he said I wasn’t, I insisted on a test, and lo and behold, I was right!  And then in Summer I told him I needed thyroid supplementation, and he told me I didn’t, and once again, I was right.  There are more stories like this, but I think you get my point.

But he was a good man, I believed.  If I just sat down and had a come to Jesus with him, I could break through all his pigeonholing of me and he would realize this wasn’t me being crazy, and that he had been treating me in an unfair way. . .

Well, I’m very sad to tell you that I couldn’t break through.  He is a good man, this I know, but he looks at me, and the word CRAZY emblazoned across my forehead is all that he can see.  He told me that “there are problems with the MonoSpot test”, and that I needed to get up and go out more, get back to kickboxing, when I was having trouble making it up the stairs.  Essentially, I didn’t have mono, I was just depressed.

Okay.  Okay doctor.

Please don’t get angry reading this.  I’m not angry.  I’m sad, and I’m a bit at sea.  I have to figure out how to end this relationship while my doctor and I both still love and respect each other.  Because I do love and respect him, in spite of things.  He’s a good man.  He was just raised in a time and school of thought where once crazy equals always crazy.  It may be hard to understand, but this really isn’t his fault.  It’s one of those things that is no one’s fault.  It just is.

And now I have to look for a new doctor for the first time in about 17 years.  It would have happened soon enough; my doctor is no spring chicken.  But I don’t relish the prospect.

I know, lots of people find new doctors all the time.  I’m lucky I had a good one for so many, many years.  But that’s what makes it even more difficult.  I’m not just changing doctors, I’m ending a relationship.  A relationship of more than a-decade-and-a-half, a relationship that I knew, no matter what else was going on in my life, I could always count on and trust.

You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

World AIDS Day

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ribbon1 December 2012 is designated World AIDS Day by the World Health Organization (WHO). As it happens (and lucky for me), I had a post already in my archives that I knew would be fitting. This quote from the WHO’s site (link above) makes it even more perfect to me: “Between 2011-2015, World AIDS Days will have the theme of “Getting to zero: zero new HIV infections. Zero discrimination. Zero AIDS related deaths”. (Bolding is my own.)

My post from April of 2011 follows. I am adding a picture of myself, as my way of saying I am not ashamed to be open and honest and discuss what I dealt with, and neither should you be.

Originally titled “Wait, What?”

550400_3969739524547_1312244264_3613450_1211504945_nHere’s one for you:  I did everything the right, smart, best way that I could in my life, and shortly thereafter found out there was a chance I may have been exposed to HIV.

I don’t actually know that I was, as there was no way to confirm or rule out the possibility explicitly.  Proactive as I am, I went in and got tested.  Negative.  I could let out a little breath, but not a full one, because it can take up to six months for HIV antibodies to be detectable in the blood.

Last week I went in for my six month follow-up test.  My doctor had switched practices, and the Medical Assistant gave me a form to sign before drawing my blood.  I don’t remember everything it said; I do remember it said that if I tested positive, I would be reported to my health department, assigned a number, and essentially – for lack of a better word – tracked.

Now, with all of my cynicism and mistrust of governmental agencies, this still shocked me.  I asked the MA about it.  She replied that it was a communicable disease and had to be reported.  I told her that so was the flu.

I signed it.  I signed that damned piece of paper.  I think I am every bit as angry at myself for not standing up and fighting for my right to privacy as I am that I have to stand up and fight for my right to privacy on this issue.

What right has the government to know whether I have HIV or AIDS or anything else?  They aren’t going to release that information to my potential sexual partners.  And if you’re going to try to get that information from the health department about someone you’re considering sleeping with, isn’t it glaringly obvious that you don’t trust them and maybe you shouldn’t be putting your life on the line like that?

HIV is so stigmatized.  Many people are reluctant to get tested in the first place, because they feel like it says something negative about them.  Something along the lines that they are promiscuous or stupid or trash.  In reality what it says is the polar opposite; they are not stupid, they are being smart and proactive and responsible with their own health, along with the health of those they encounter.

So let’s rub salt in the wound of a potentially positive HIV screen by saying, “Oh, by the way, your health information is no longer yours.  It belongs to the government now and they can do what they like with it.”

My test came back negative, thank God.

Good news, though.  There are designated anonymous testing facilities that don’t report your STD status (except to you).  I’ve found one very near to me, and while I hope I will never be in this kind of situation again, I know now that I won’t be going to my doctor’s office if I am.

Moral of the story:  Get tested.  Just consider in advance whether you are willing to sign away your right to privacy on one of the most intimate matters in your life, and if you aren’t, find an anonymous testing facility in your area.

To locate your nearest anonymous test site, call the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention at 1-800-CDC-INFO (800-232-4636), or contact your local health department.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Why It Matters

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Today, one of my favorite baristas at the Starbucks near my house asked me what I do for work.  Which is not such an unusual question for one person to ask another, but it’s one that has been trending in my life lately.  And I finally realized I want to share my answer with everyone.  There is a reason for me wanting to share it today, but I’ll get to that.

Some of you know, maybe some of you who will read this don’t.  Right now, I don’t do any kind of “work”, not in the conventional go to a job and get paid for it kind of way.  I am on government disability (SSI) for bipolar disorder.  I live with my parents, because I can’t afford to live on my own.  And for a period of long years, not so far back, I needed to live with my parents, because I was so profoundly ill.

Five months ago, I finally reached a state where I can say that I am well.  Not just “okay”, or “doing better”, I have come to an amazing place as far as my mental health is concerned.  I am somewhere I had stopped dreaming I could ever possibly reach.  The last six years of my life have been a hell of medication roulette, therapy, and even the evil electroconvulsive therapy.

Before that there was a period of steep decline, I can’t tell you how long it took before I finally came to a place where I said, “I need help.”  But it didn’t happen in the blink of an eye.

I can’t distill for you what life was like for the six years plus I have just lived through.  My brain has a difficult time conceptualizing it, and I lived it, so I know I couldn’t possibly explain.  Some of you saw me through some of it, and some of you I talked to, or you heard about my life from friends and family.  But the only two people outside of myself who come close to having a grasp on what things were like for me are my mom and dad, because they lived in the same house with me.

Anyway, I don’t want to get into all of that now.  The point is that now that I am doing well, I have gotten inquiries on what I am going to do next, am I going back to school, am I looking for a job, etc. (and not just from baristas).  And let me assure anyone who may have asked that I take no exception to questions like that.  I don’t think you’re pushing and you don’t hurt my feelings.  In fact, I can’t even remember who has asked me these questions, that’s how much they don’t matter.

As far as formal, common society’s definition of “working”, I can tell you that it’s probably going to be a little while before I do that (unless any of my friends Where I Live needs a nanny, that I could totally be on board with).  Yes, I am doing very well now.  But after six years, I’m not exactly going to push myself into something that will be a huge stressor, even a positive one, after just five months.  The way I look at it, I’m convalescing, just as I would if my illness were 100% physical.  I need to build my strength back up and get to fully understand my limitations.

My psychiatrist and I talked about this last week, and one of the things we discussed was volunteer work.  And I expressed to him that I’m not even quite there yet, because you have to be available specific hours, etc.

But that brought us around to what I wanted to write about, and what the title is referring to (yes, all of that was just a preamble).

A year ago today, a very good friend and fellow blogger and I co-founded a site, A Canvas Of The Minds.  The easiest way to explain it to people is as a “community mental health blog.”  Basically, we have gathered together a group of individuals who blog about mental health, and they all contribute pieces to the site.

Some of you have heard me talk about Canvas until you’re sick to death of the topic.  That is, if anyone whom I know outside of blogging reads this, which is what I’m hoping will happen.  And unless you are involved in the blogging community (and especially the mental health sector), you cannot possibly know the degree of support and the many true friendships that are a product of it.  It isn’t “real” or “important” to a lot of people, which I completely get.

Only, here’s the thing.  I pour my heart and soul into Canvas.  No, I can’t “work” right now.  And I’m not ashamed of that fact.  But Canvas allows me so many things that are denied to people who have basically had to retreat from society for one reason or another.  It gives me a way to spend my hours.  It is a creative outlet.  I have formed friendships because of it, both with co-authors and readers (with people all around the world, no less).  Real friendships.  Just because the bulk of our interaction is online, doesn’t take away from the truth of it.

But there’s more.  I am the admin of the site, so that means I am responsible for implementing all the behind-the-scenes stuff.  Ideas come from everyone, but I have to actually do anything major with the site.  Which gives me a sense of responsibility to everyone involved.  It gives me a reason to focus, to meet deadlines, and to think beyond myself.  And it also gives me a sense of pride and worth when someone compliments something I have written or done.

It can also be frustrating to no end.  I started out with practically zero technical know-how.  And even though we have a facebook page and even, recently, a Twitter account, I still am facing a steep learning curve.

But when I think about all we have accomplished in the space of a year, and the important part I played in that, my heart swells.  Because I am doing something that I not only love, but that is benefiting countless people.

So if I seem to go on, or am posting to facebook things from the Canvas page, or telling you something that happened with it when we talk, or asking for you to show your support in some way, stop for a minute and think.  Do you keep what you do all day to yourself?  Would you pass up an opportunity to promote a cause you are passionate about, one that affects you at the most personal level, because you think that it might bore or bother people?  Would you keep to yourself a project you are working on that has been your lifeline, or not talk about all of those who help to make it a reality?

That is why it matters.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Two Roads To Walk Down And One Road To Choose

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So many people I know who deal with mental differences frequently discuss to concept of stigma.  The term has been used with such frequency, and me being a pain in the ass stickler for semantics, well certain things began to ring false to me.  Not deliberately or maliciously or even consciously false, but false nonetheless.

Stigma is very interesting, speaking strictly from a linguistic perspective.  Merriam-Webster calls it “: a mark of shame or discredit,” but also (and with equal weight) ”an identifying mark or characteristic; specifically : a specific diagnostic sign of a disease.”

So how do you choose to define it?  If you apply the second definition to your mental health diagnosis, it is completely, totally, and 100% true and accurate.  Unless you’re me, but I also refuse the label of my mental wiring being a disease or an illness.  Not coincidentally, I don’t feel stigmatized in my life.

It seems to me that the term stigma has turned into a convenient catch-all for many who carry a diagnosis and choose to call themselves “mentally ill.”  Individuals apply it to negative reactions, all and any they receive from someone who finds out they carry a mental health diagnosis.  Individuals use it as a shield when they become symptomatic and then, after the fact, are unable or unwilling to cop to things they may have done or said in the midst of their episodes.  Individuals use it as an excuse, a type of fear, The Big Bad Wolf that they are hiding from – stigma is what is preventing them from disclosing their struggle, otherwise they really would.  Individuals also use it to demonize behavior that is completely justified – professionals withholding strong prescription pain pills from a self-confessed addict, or anyone seeking to involuntarily hospitalize a severely depressed individual who has a history of repeated suicide attempts or self injury.

Easy for me to say, of course, because I don’t fall into these categories.  Don’t I?  And even if I don’t, I know and love numerous people who do.  Whether or not you believe it, it’s actually much easier for me to find flaws in and fault with and blame myself than it is someone I love or care for.  I screw up once, I should have known better and I beat myself up to within an inch of my life.  Someone I love screws up repeatedly, over a period of years, and every single time I calmly discuss with them the whys and how they got to that point and how they’re going to keep from getting there again.  There is no, “Too bad, hon, you fucked up, you deal with the consequences.”

Obviously that happened to be the application of stigma that lit a fire under my ass today.  As to the others:  You may have people who know your diagnosis reacting negatively to you because they’re having a bad day, because you’re behaving like a shit and you’ve provoked it, or a million other reasons.  It may be your diagnosis, but honey, let me tell you – more often than not, it isn’t.

As far as applying it to the things you may have done or said that hurt someone while you were symptomatic, yes, one would hope people would have enough human decency to understand that sometimes your behavior is beyond your control.  One would also hope you would have enough human decency to talk to people and explain and apologize when necessary.  Just because you did something that was out of your control, that’s in no way an excuse or a justification, and it doesn’t make it right.  Most of the time both of those hopes will be dashed unequivocally.  Just so you know.

As for feeling like stigma is The Big Bad Wolf in your life, someone I know said it before and said it better:

“One of the nice things about having voices across the spectrum, people who have roles in all walks of life – personal and professional – is that we can really get some different input and perspective on the question about being open with our mental health diagnoses.  Is it so wrong to hide it (sic) from people?  Does that silence ultimately contribute to misunderstanding and stigma?  If you want to be an advocate, are you in any position to be one if you will speak and discuss it anonymously online, but will not fight the fight and “suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” in your daily life, amongst people whom you face every day?

“Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his life for his beliefs.  Would you?  What about for your children?  In case you haven’t heard, if you are diagnosed with a mental health issue the odds of your child having one increase quite considerably.  What will you say to your child when you tell them that depression is not anything they should be ashamed of, and they look at you and ask, “Then why did you hide it from people, Mom?” (from the post To Out Thyself Or Not To Out Thyself, by my good friend Always).

Moral of the story:  Choose your words carefully.  They might just come back to bite you in the ass.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Do You Remember When I Used To Blog?

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Okay, it really isn’t that bad.  But I’ve been working hard on this new project, A Canvas Of The Minds, trying to recruit more voices and get out all of the bugs and actually write something for it here and there, and it seems I let my own blog fall a bit by the wayside. It hasn’t been that long, but it’s been too long for me.

I need to hurry up and get someone to pay me for the things that I write, because it has been taking up so much of my time.

But I have had some really good things come from all of this mishigas.  I’m connecting with people in a way I never would have, otherwise.  I’ve been (kind of) learning to write in HTML, which may not seem like much to the casual observer, but considering how little I used to know or really care to know about computers, it’s a pretty big deal.  It’s given me a way to focus my energies and – well I don’t want to say mentor people, because that just sounds sort of big sister/pretentious to me.  I guess maybe recruit and encourage some people who have good talent and important things to say, and just never would have found a voice or venue otherwise.  I’m not sure about that part, we’ll have to see, mostly it’s still in the works (ahem).

It has also been a really positive thing for me, because it has taken my focus and turned it more outward, at least somewhat.  I’m not saying that I still don’t have a great deal of work to do on myself, and that the very concentrated time being hyper-focused inward wasn’t necessary and important, but I think I hit the point where it was really a good thing to start working through everything and doing self-therapy the way I’ve always done it best – by looking at and doing what I can for other people who are struggling.  Not even just people who are struggling, as such, but people who could use some direction, guidance, or even just a nudge or a new idea or encouragement.

I guess that having been so mired down in myself, it’s really a wonderful feeling to once again turn outward and notice the rest of the world and how I might be useful and good for them, even just a very little bit at a time.

Plus, since this whole experience requires making commitments to other people, but they’re people who understand where I’m at personally and are very kind, while there is an obligation to others, it isn’t the kind you have if you’re in a traditional work environment with deadlines, or even if you’re a parent who has to get the baby fed and bathed and dressed.  Although I really, really do miss those days.  I still remember the smell of baby, fresh from the bath. . .

Things have been nice and much less stressful because I’ve had the house to myself, as well (that ends soon).  Also, I have something really exciting and positive to look forward to in the very near future.  Oh.  And of course I’ve been watching loads of iCarly.  ;)

Moral of the story:  (I feel so out of practice at this part) I haven’t gone anywhere, and I’m sure my fingers will be flying across the keys for this blog as frequently as usual soon.  But I’ve found all sorts of new ways to help myself feel better, so be happy for me!

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Wait Is Over

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Here it is!  I have been working very hard, and collaborating on the development of another blog.  This one is a different approach, a community of people blogging together.  Well, it will be, anyway.  Three authors (including me) are already on board, another has given a yes, and after the diversity is a bit more properly on display, we’re going to get to reaching out and recruiting and advertising.

As far as I am concerned, I’m keeping this blog for my primary, and just contributing to the new project here and there, and only with regard to my mental differences.  Although so far there are two posts up, and they’re both mine.  But I have the most time, currently.

So shall I give you the link?  Would you like to know where to find it?  Are you sure?  Do you really want to know?

Okay, I’ve kept you in suspense long enough.  A Canvas Of The Minds - still very much in development, but I’ll keep you posted!

Ruby

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Get Ready. . .

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Something new and exciting is coming very soon! I promise, it won’t be much longer. . . Details, details!

That’s all that you get right now.  ;)

Kisses,
Ruby

P.S.  Farewell password protection on blog posts (although I of course reserve the right to change my mind in specific instances).  Any issues people have with me and what I write are theirs, not mine.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

For The Time Being. . .

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First, if you want passwords, I’ll be happy to supply them – especially to my subscribers and those who check this blog regularly.  But you have to let me know, because WordPress doesn’t give me any way to contact selective people who have not explicitly given me their contact info.

Also, I’m going to “advertise” a page my friend has started on Facebook.  Check it out, and “Like” it to join in the conversation!  Let’s Open Some Minds And Obliterate Societal “Norms”  :)  Good stuff!

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Righteous Is A Good Color On Me

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This post was meant to be written entirely differently.  I was working on it, being thorough and meticulous, sticking to the point.  And then something came along and lit a fire under my ass.  I began re-reading what I had written, which was almost half of a l-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-n-g post, decided it was boring and ultimately worthless for my intent and purpose, and trashed the whole thing.  Never in my life have I destroyed anything I have written.  I may look back on it now and roll my eyes at my juvenile plots or ideas, I may dislike the subject matter, it may even be viscerally painful to read, but not because of the writing itself.  So that move was completely unprecedented.

I wanted to post on the four most important things I have learned from having mental differences.  Oh, FYI, don’t ever tell me I’m “mentally ill.”  I’m not.  I’m wired differently, and not just in clinically diagnostic, Axis I, “bad” ways that need “curing” or “treating” or even “managing.”  I’m wired differently in every way, and that is what makes me so goddamned special.  It’s what makes me who I am, and I wouldn’t trade that for the ability to choose for myself the qualities I like, treasure, and value most from all of the everyones in the world.  I’ve already got ‘em all.  Stick that up your DSM and smoke it.

The four most important things I have learned are both simple and impossible to explain to anyone who is not me: perspective, priorities, acceptance, and fighting back (original title of the post, by the way).  That’s not to say that most people can’t learn them, it’s to say that they are very individualistic concepts.  And while I would be willing to help anyone in teasing them out for themselves, they will be different in subtle but crucial ways for you than they are for me.  And while people can help guide and direct you to certain realizations, the ones that you don’t ultimately come to on your own will never stick.  And if they don’t stick, you’re going to be back in the same situation again, sooner or later (and also even I will throw out my most sacred rules of style and grammar when I want to).

I lived close to three decades standing on my principles and giving a voice to those who couldn’t speak.  Who remembers the button I wore pinned to every garment I owned, every day in middle school, that professed something along the lines of, “People who wear fur are assholes and fuck you if you try to contradict me?”  Of course it was shorter, less explicit, and made no mention of that last part – that part you just learned if you said anything disparaging about it or me wearing it.  And even the most ignorant of my fellow students only had to learn that lesson once (I still have the button, by the way).  God bless PETA.  :)

At any rate, the one time in my life I caved to external pressure, I had the rug ripped from under me and I have taken nearly two years to learn to be able to balance again.  But lately I feel like I could easily walk barefooted on a barbed wire tightrope.  I’d like to be able to credit people and call them out by name for helping me get here.  And I won’t dismiss my incredible cheering section and all the help and support and guidance they have shown me.  But unless you haven’t bothered reading this post or aren’t paying attention, only one person gets the credit for me being here right now: me.

Because of my unique perspective and ability to assimilate experiences into it, my true understanding of priorities and what actually matters, my personal acceptance of certain things about my life and life in general, and my ability to fight back with all of the dirtiest and most effective tools that exist when necessary, I got myself back here.  I had a great deal of help, and I hope that I always will, but I also know that people fall and walk out of your life, people wind up in their own mishigas and cannot offer you their continued focus, people promise to stand by your side until death and then leave you, people die.  You’re the one you’re born with, you’re the one who’s with you always, you’re the one who is with you until you die, without fail.  You can undermine and sabotage yourself much more deeply than anyone else, but you also hold the power to support and build yourself up in such a way that nothing can ever put you off of your balance for more than a brief interlude.

Moral of the story:  Hooray, for me, hooray, for you, “. . .hip-hip-hooray for Winnie the Pooh!  And Piglet too!”*  Also, when it really matters, never trust anything on the internet or any other reference material.  Go directly to the source.

Now pop open some ridiculously expensive champagne and toast me!  Post number 100 and I find it perfect.  :D  I’d drink a whole bottle, but benzos and booze mix very poorly.  They have the nasty little side effect of death, frequently.

*from the Disney film, The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, song by Sherman and Sherman

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.