Blogging en español
A veces me gustaría blogear en español, aunque imagino que la mayoría de las personas que leen este blog no entienden ese idioma. (También sé un poco de francés, pero no bastante para sustener una entrada más compleja que “Les moutons sont dans le jardin”—la primera frase que aprendí cuando tomé una clase de francés hace 20 años.)
Empecé estudiar el español cuando tenía 8 años—basicamente mientras que estaba aprendiendo las reglas de inglés. Pues me crecía con los dos idiomas rebosando de mi boca, y el español parece una parte de mi vida y mi personalidad. (Y mucho más importante que otras cosas que aprendía en la escuela, como, por ejemplo, algebra.)
Fuí a España cuando tenía 14 años por un mes, después a la República Dominicana cuando tenía 17 años por tres meses, despues a España otra vez (19 años) por seis meses y despues a Costa Rica (21 años) por cinco meses. El resultado es que mi acento es una mezcla extraña. El otro resultado es que estoy enamorada de esos paises, la cultura de cada uno, y del lenguaje.
También estudiaba la cultura Chicana cuando vivía en Tejas (cinco años; oy vey), y hice muchos traducciones desde español a inglés como coursework doctoral. De hecho, antes de tener este puesto con Philadelphia Weekly, enseñaba español profesionalmente. Dificil creer, lo sé, dado ésta entrada.
Nunca tengo la oportunidad hablar ni escribir el español. Quién sabe cuantos errores hay aquí. Pero quiero que ustedes sepan que el español es una parte importante de quien soy. Ustedes saben todo sobre de mi vida; por qué no ésto también?
[La foto es de Córdoba, España, donde vivía.]
liz | 2:23 PM | Uncategorized
Qué lástima
Latinos see barriers in health care
EARLIER: Latinos and mental health care
liz | 2:41 PM | Uncategorized
Parent trap
For the 13 years my cat lived, I was generally unable to complete my suicide attempts. I’d think, “Who will care for this freakish-looking, desperately needy cat if I’m not here?”
Concern for my parents also deterred me. Even as I was jostling the pills in my sweaty palm, I’d think: “My parents will kill me”—a stupidly inappropriate idiomatic expression at such a time. And then I’d think, quite seriously: “No, they’d kill themselves.”
I worried more about my mother than my father in this regard. My dad has a real lust for life, such that he wants to stay alive even if he’s paralyzed from the nose down and can only communicate by raising his eyebrows. My mom is like me: constantly wondering what the hell the point is. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think my suicide might lead to her own, which would really be a bummer for my dad (pictured here shooting pool).
Below is a real-life story of Welsh parents who killed themselves just one day after their son committed suicide. They couldn’t face the pain.
Parents’ suicide after son death [BBC]
liz | 1:27 PM | Uncategorized
Philly’s more fun if you sleep over—and don’t get sent back to Iraq.
This morning I heard a story on the BBC News Hour about a soldier who went AWOL after suffering post-traumatic stress in Iraq. Where did he flee in order to evade capture from the U.S. military? Philadelphia, of course, where no one would think to look. The city proved a perfect cover for him for more than a year. I’m guessing he lived in the Northeast. I mean, who would move there if they didn’t have to? Zing!
Now the soldier is applying for asylum in Canada. I don’t know which city he’s in, but it’s gotta be a pale substitute for the City of Brotherly Love.
War Resisters Support Campaign
U.S. deserter seeks asylum in Canada
Man Who Deserted in 1968 Is Arrested
liz | 12:44 PM | Uncategorized
Another celebrity revelation: Emme’s husband
Plus-sized model Emme has always been open about life as a heavy person, but now she and her husband have written a book about his struggle with depression—what the couple calls “the two-year abyss.”
She was reluctant to co-write the book, an idea her husband came up with. She told the Hackensack Record’s Virgina Rohan, “I was kicking and screaming going into it. It was too soon, and post-depression, there was a whole adjustment period … about eight or nine months for Phil … a lot of tough, difficult times for him. Imagine being out of it for 2½ years, not being in control of what was going on around you, [feeling like you] couldn’t even get out of the house if the house was burning.”
Ultimately, Phil tried ECT. “There are still some people on the side of the fence that it works [for], and others that it doesn’t. It worked for me.”
Emme described dealing with Phil’s ECT-related memory loss: “When Phil came back from the hospital, he couldn’t drive, because he didn’t know where the supermarket was. He had to relearn, and then it would slowly come back.”
Hmm. That sounds familiar.
But Phil’s experience is why, though I’m generally opposed to ECT, I don’t favor an outright ban on it, as some activists do. It really does seem to work for some small number of people, and it wouldn’t be fair to deny them a treatment solution.
liz | 11:07 AM | Uncategorized
Hero of the day: Bryce Mackie
Seventeen-year-old boy Bryce Mackie was just a regular kid from Battle Creek, Michigan, trudging through high school and hanging out with his friends. But when he was a junior he fell into a deep depression, and sense of emptiness engulfed him. He became suicidal.
Now, after being stabilized on Celexa, Mackie has made a short film, Eternal High, about his experience with depression in a bid to raise awareness about the illness.
“No one seems to talk about things that make them uncomfortable,” Mackie told the Lakeview High School’s Crystal. “When I tell people that the film is about depression, their face just drops, and they say ‘Oh, okay. Good luck with that.’ It makes people go out of their comfort zone.”
He also says, “Unless you’ve gone through depression you have no clue about the pain you go through, and the darkness. I just want for kids to get help and know that they’re not alone.”
Wow. I was sneaking cigarettes in the school parking lot and hanging out at Burger King for hours when I was in high school. Bryce Mackie, I salute you.
See a clip from Mackie’s film here.
[Image of teenagers by Tim Caynes via Flickr.]
liz | 3:21 PM | Uncategorized
Pimple face
Acne Treatment May Ease Symptoms of Depression [Toronto Fashion Monitor]
liz | 3:39 PM | Uncategorized
Parity on, dude
If you’re a consumer of mental health care services, you’ve surely been hit with the dreaded cap—the abrupt end of insurance benefits for your treatment. It’s of course wildly unfair to treat mental illnesses differently than “physical” illnesses, but I’ve given up even writing about it.
Opponents of parity have often argued it would cost too much money, but a new study in the New England Journal of Medicine says otherwise, opening the door (just a sliver) for progress.
Mental Health Parity Would Not Raise Treatment Costs, NEJM Study Says
liz | 12:16 PM | Uncategorized
CSI: The Spikol Chronicles
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I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t sleep. Maybe I’m tired of having strange dreams. Or maybe—and this is more likely—I have to stop reading Ann Rule’s true crime books.
I’ve always been interested in crime, especially in the abnormal psychology of serial murderers. I’ve studied the topic for many years, and probably know as much as if I’d taken several classes. But I never read much “true crime.” Now I find myself completely consumed by these books, each detailing several cases of murder and mayhem.
I’ve completely freaked myself out numerous times, thinking I heard some scratching outside—surely a murderer rather than a tree branch. It’s like when you go camping as a kid and everyone tells ghost stories. Suggested terror.
When I was living in Austin, there were two rapists at work: the Hyde Park Rapist and the Mopac Rapist. It’s not clear to me if the two were the same person or not. But the city lived in fear. When I thought about moving to Hyde Park, I was told not to because of the rapist. The attacks had been going on for years. The cases were cold.
During this time, I became friendly with a guy who was always on the verge of violence. His name was Christopher, and he was enraged that his wife—from whom he was separated—was having an affair with my best friend. He’d show up at our grad school parties, the ultimate “townie,” and threaten my friend with a gun. In Texas, that’s not so unusual; every car and pickup had a gun rack, and I became accustomed to firearms. But Christopher, holding a gun in one hand, a bottle of Jack in the other, seemed more likely to use it. Still, I’d hang out with him and be consoling. I could imagine how it tortured him, watching his beloved and beautiful wife with another guy. I felt sorry for Christopher, and I tried to help.
A couple years after I got back to Philly, I got a phone call. They caught the Mopac rapist. It was Christopher.
I was stunned. As a rape survivor, I felt like I should have known. But he had operated for years—dozens of victims—and eluded capture. I shouldn’t feel guilty about it, but I do.
That experience is what animates much of my interest in crime. How could I be so close to someone and not see the predator? Ann Rule, a former cop, had a similar (and far more dramatic) experience when she worked with Ted Bundy and became friendly with him. When she later found out who he was, she was shocked.
Part of the attraction I have is based on imagining myself in the different situations—not as the victim, but as the killer. I can’t stop asking the question: What makes the difference between someone who thinks dark thoughts and someone who acts on them? What am I capable of? I know what it’s like to have my perception of things completely distorted. I was violent when my mental illness was at its worst. I had bizarre inclinations.
But I never did anything illegal, or even particularly interesting. What is the line between madness, anger and illness, and murder? What accounts for taking the next step?
Obviously, I know I’m not a sociopath. My shrink laughed at me when I told him this stuff. A forensic psychiatrist, he gave me an article about psycopathic personalities. I mailed it back with a note: “I’m not a psycopath after all. Thanks!” I was relieved.
Anyhoo, I’m tired of thinking about all this stuff. I think I have to give Ann Rule a rest. I bought Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem, which I hear is excellent. It’s about a detective with Tourette’s. So still has the crime component, but compared to what I’ve been reading, it’ll be fun.
[Photo of Ann Rule dressed for her senior play at Coatsville High.]
liz | 10:17 AM | Uncategorized
Song of the day: “Satisfied”
Return to old-school sexy Barry White/Al Green territory with—who else?—Prince. I’m not sure what I think of the new album yet, but I loooove this song.
I saw Prince in concert on his “Purple Rain” tour, which is maybe more about my age than you want to know. (I was young. Very young. Fetal, practically.) That show blew me away, and I’ve been a fan ever since. What a brilliant little man.
I want my satisfaction now, dammit
liz | 5:41 PM | Uncategorized
