Demi-demi celebrities (but not Demi Moore) in the mental health news
The German soccer star Sebastian Deisler (pictured) is being treated for depression as an inpatient again. He’s gone through this before, sadly, but this latest bout seems to have been prompted by his being excluded from the World Cup due to an injury. That is indeed a bummer. I like how he’s being open about the reason for his hospitalization, as he has been in past years. Germany is quite progressive in a lot of ways.
Also, Bollywood actor Navin Nischol’s wife Geetaniali killed herself this week, and it looks like a campaign is on to blame Nischol and his brother Pravin for her suicide. (Side note: I think Nischol’s parents should be blamed for giving their sons rhyming names. That seems mean.)
Deisler back in treatment for depression [Today Online]
Wife of actor Navin Nischol commits suicide [Times of India]
liz | 11:23 AM | Uncategorized
Ohmigod, it’s 9:56 a.m. and I’m posting
I consider any time that’s before 10 a.m. unnaceptable for human contact and vertical ambulation. Thus I’m rather proud of myself that I’m posting now.
Having not had sufficient time to comb the news sites and my email yet, I have little to say in terms of mental health. So instead I’ll just share a personal revelation I had on my way to work: I make a habit of realizing things after it’s too late to do anything about them.
To wit: Yesterday I was almost at the trolley stop before I realized I’d forgotten to shave my legs—and I was wearing a skirt. It was way too late to go back home, but the stubble was pretty unsightly. Nothing I could do about it except hope people didn’t notice. I tried to recall my college/grad school days, when I didn’t shave at all. I had thick fur under my arms back then, and I wore sleeveless tops all the time. But those were different times—the ’60s. Er, the ’70s. Okay, well, the late ’80s and early ’90s. Ugh.
Today I realized—again, after I’d left the house—that my white T-shirt is far more see-through in natural light than in the sepulchral dim of my bedroom. Looks like I’ll be keeping my sweatshirt on all day.
Such are the discoveries, tragic and hobbling to the self-esteem, that mark my day. What joy.
liz | 9:51 AM | Uncategorized
My problems with the Philadelphia Inquirer’s take on blogs
In yesterday’s Philadelphia Inquirer, Jonathan Last (pictured) sounds off about the Internet. He writes: “It wasn’t until last year that I became convinced the Internet was the locus of all evil in the known universe.”
Then: “You may find this statement odd. After all, the Internet pays my mortgage, so I have a vested interest in its continued success. I’ve been the online editor of the Weekly Standard (www.weekly standard.com) since 2001, and I was dabbling on the InterWeb long before that. I launched a Web zine (http://go.philly.com/squiremag) with two college friends in 1997, before Web zines were cool. In 2004, I started a little blog (http://galleyslaves.blogspot. com).”
He should have added, “And go to all those sites as fast as you can! Click, click, click! I mean, even though the Internet’s evil. Ahem.”
My other problems with the piece:
1. Use of the word “synecdoche.” I think people in Philly might think that’s some kind of stromboli.
2. “Whether the person blogging is a pajama-clad lawyer or a Pulitzer-winning journalist, the medium is the message, and the message of blogging is: More! FASTER!” I don’t know about that. I’m a pajama-clad Oscar-winning journalist, and I don’t kick out my blog jams till noon.
3. “[Bloggers] encourage the practice of journalism to turn in on itself, to tend ever more toward navel-gazing.” Okay, now that’s really hitting below the belt. I just started my blog this year, but I’ve been navel-gazing— professionally— for seven years!
4. “Show me a New York Times story on war in Sudan, and I’ll show you 20 bloggers who think the real story is how the Times fails in its coverage of war in Sudan.” At least those bloggers are talking about something substantive. Go to the NYT’s list of “most emailed” articles, and you’ll find readers sending each other travel tips for Europe and recipes. Go to “most blogged” and you’ll see a list of stories almost entirely related to politics.
5. “Except for Mark Steyn and James Lileks, it’s hard to pick out even three beautiful writers from the millions of bloggers.” Okay, maybe I’m not beautiful, exactly, but I’ve always been considered quite pretty. James Lileks has a receding hairline. But maybe it’s in the eye of the beholder.
6. “Being a good writer helps a blogger about as much as a good singing voice helps a broadcast anchor.” Jonathan, haven’t you ever heard Katie Couric’s rendition of “Memory” from Cats? It’s fantastic.
7. “The Old Media – the New Yorker, the New York Times, The Philadelphia Inquirer, the Atlantic Monthly – add to the store of public information in ways which seem irreplaceable.” Did he just put “Inquirer” between “the New York Times” and “the Atlantic Monthly”? Cheeky monkey!
Blog humbug (but don’t forget to click on my links!) [Inky]
BONUS: D-Mac strikes back [Philadelphia Will Do]
liz | 1:06 PM | Uncategorized
Least surprising headline of the week. Er, last week. Okay, two weeks ago.
Joe G. sent this in on April 12, saying, “My friends who
suffer from schizophrenia deserve better than treatment predicated on
self-serving research.”
From the piece in the Washington Post:
In fact, when psychiatrist John Davis analyzed every publicly available trial funded by the pharmaceutical industry pitting five new antipsychotic drugs against one another, nine in 10 showed that the best drug was the one made by the company funding the study.
Comparison of Schizophrenia Drugs Often Favors Firm Funding Study
liz | 1:54 PM | Uncategorized
Are you a little loopy? Can you draw?
Despite my father being a part-time graphic designer and illustrator, I have very little artistic talent—though when I was hooked on Desoxyn, I got into making drawings on clayboard, and they showed some potential. Sadly, the minute I was off the speed, my clayboard efforts looked like they were done by a 6-year-old.
So I won’t be donating to the National Mental Health Association’s consumer art auction. The art will be on display at NMHA’s annual meeting (June 7-10 in D.C.), and the auction proceeds will benefit consumer artists and the NMHA Scholarship Fund. Entries are open to all artists (youth or adults) who live with mental health problems. Applications must be sent to NMHA by May 1, 2006. The application form is available here, or go to NMHA’s website.
[The drawing here is one I did when I was little. My dad helped.]
liz | 12:56 PM | Uncategorized
Is there anything more noxious than a migraine?
This morning I awoke at 7:20 a.m., an ungodly and implausible hour for me, with my head throbbing. Dazed and still half-asleep, I thought: I know how to get rid of this pain: eat some Trader Joe’s vanilla-almond granola. As I spooned those delicious clusters into my mouth (Trader Joe’s is not paying me to say that), I realized what was happening: a migraine. Fuck.
I get migraines maybe once every two months, and it sucks. Every sound is magnified. This morning a bird kept tweeting, and as a therapeutic method, I pictured my hands around its feathered neck—and then regretted my imaginary sin almost immediately.
Next I heard the rain pattering so loudly on the fire escape (or la terrasse, as I like to call it), I initially thought it was a tribe of drummers standing out there, next to our little grill, trying to drive the pain further into my head.
And those gauzy white curtains that seem so Joel Meyerowitz? They let in great, noisy streams of light that pierce my eyelids.
I do take Imitrex, but it’s like setting fire to my scalp. And yet when the pain is so bad, I think, “Set that fire, baby. Burn it up.” It’s like my own Donna Summer song.
The only good thing that can be said of a migraine is that when the pain and nausea stop, I feel so celebratory, I want to throw a party. It’s like being dead and coming back to life. Yay life!
liz | 12:38 PM | Uncategorized
Webby Awards
I’ve only been out of the office for three days, but my mailbox is overflowing. Don’t people know that snail mail is passe? I was especially surprised, in fact, to find a letter from the Webby Awards.
Okay, confession: I entered. I thought it would be good PR for the blog if, by some miracle, it got nominated. Then I could go online and beg everyone to vote in the People’s Voice thing, and all you TwS fans would vote, and we’d create a mental-health revolution.
But I didn’t get nominated. Instead, I’m an “Official Honoree.” This is a little like getting that Xeroxed certificate at the end of a weekend rope-climbing course, but I’m consoling myself by reading the not-very-fine print:
“Being selected as an Official Honoree means a site has been selected as one of the top sites on the Web as part of the Webby judging process, based on the Webby judging criteria. Less than 20% of the sites entered in the Webby Awards are deemed Official Honorees. With thousands of entries in the Webby Awards each year, being selected as an Official Honoree is a notable achievement.”
So that’s cool, right? I’m even getting a framed certificate in the mail. It’s going to say, “Congratulations on attending our Krav Maga self-defense one-hour demonstration class. You are now a Certified Person!”
liz | 6:24 PM | Uncategorized
“I’m the decider! Bam! Bam!”
I dreamt the other night that the Supreme Court ruled on the insanity defense. It didn’t work out in favor of people with mental illnesses. When I heard the news, I shrugged. “That was predictable,” I said.
Then our illustrious president George W. put in his two cents on the issue: “I’m the decider, so I get to decide.”
In dreams are reality.
Insanity Defense on Trial [PBS Online Newshour]
Bush: ‘I’m the decider’ on Rumsfeld [CNN]
liz | 1:39 PM | Uncategorized
I’m back
And I’ve discovered my passion for driving a sportscar. What handling. I know it’s only a Ford, but it made me feel quite zippy. When I passed people on the road, I imagined they thought I was kind of cool, although it’s hard to be cool in a Ford, right?
I had plenty of time to contemplate this yesterday, as I ended up spending a solid five hours in the car. Before I left the area, I followed signs to “the world’s largest general store” in Wind Gap, Pa. The notion of the general store is somewhat archaic, so I’m not sure how this particular distinction (world’s largest) was determined. The store was indeed vast, and had the most peculiar assortment of things you’d never want. Old signs, hammocks, fishing nets, desktop fountains, innumerable animal figurines, rocking chairs, silk flowers, toothbrush holders, taxidermied mountain rams, a giant dinosaur statue that roared convincingly, fake cowboy guns and more. It’s hard for me to walk into a store, especially one so vast, and buy nothing, but I couldn’t even find a knick-knack that appealed. There was a petting zoo, but I didn’t see any animals so I left.
The drive from the Pocono mountains to Philadelphia should rightly be about two hours, but I missed my exit and went out of my way by an hour and a half. Oops! Then there was construction and an accident on a major road and before I knew it I was in the car for a full five hours. And I still haven’t finished my cover story.
This blog will be spruced up and reinvested with my love starting Monday. Sorry for the delays.
liz | 10:15 AM | Uncategorized
A reader tells her story
Not long ago I put out a call for readers of my column to tell their own stories in dealing with bipolar disorder. Because I’ll be in the car for much of the day, and won’t be able to blog, I thought it would be a perfect time to present this powerful piece from a regular reader. (I’ll post her name and photo later if she’s comfortable with that.)
My bipolar onset around 18. There was one visit to an MD who suggested I quit school and marry a cowboy; one visit with a psychiatrist. He played Blood on the Tracks and we agreed the recording wasn’t talking to me—that was it for therapy for all those years of confusion. At 36 my husband took me to the hospital; at 40-something I went off the medication. I wanted to be normal.
46, unmedicated, I had a horrendous psychotic episode. But then, it’s an ill wind that blows no good, because I did get to stay in France a week longer, even if it was in Sainte Anne’s Mental Hospital. I remember looking at my hands after I came out of the psychosis and thinking: sanity, that is what is most important to me. The same little lightning bolt hit me in the Olympia, Washington hospital. Sanity.
My parents were great drinkers, otherwise known as functioning alcoholics. They were a blast. We had fun. Dad flew as a captain for United, brought Mom duty free vodka and me music boxes. Mother was just very lively: except after 6:30 pm! She was never mean, just embarrassing.
My brother molested me when he was around 16, me 15. That only happened once but it left me very confused, especially as I was a willing participant. Couldn’t stand up to him, then or now.
Freshman college year: All As, then it plummeted. I just felt weird, depressed, unreal, unshowered. That was a mild precursor to the next episode, at another school—for I felt I’d made such a fool of myself at the first, I transferred.
With the 2nd episode, I was all about grandiose art projects. I called one of my professors repeatedly in a stalker mode. I jumped on the bed. I thought I was Mark Twain (we share a birthday). I got date-raped by an African exchange student who laughed at me.
But the crown jewel of that delusion was driving across the state because I believed Paul Simon had a proposal ring for me. By the time I got to the motel room, the delusional story board had changed and now, I don’t remember the plotline.
I rested up at home, i.e., was in a major depression. They sent me back a few time to another school and the same things happened twice, maybe more? Back at home, depressed, finally a boyfriend offered a move with him to Seattle. Steady job, emotional security, 4 years of stability.
Later, married, two children, I became obsessed with a Mexican American man at the juvenile rehab I worked at, though we barely spoke. That, and just being bipolar spun me into hypersexual mania. When the summer ice cream truck was playing “The Sting” I believed someone was looking to kill me. I hid.
I tried to leap out of the car on the way up to the hospital, tried to rip my shirt off in the police car (my husband couldn’t keep me from attempting these jumps, so called the cops for help). I was one big howl, like the Allen Ginsburg poem, only I howled really embarrassing things about my obsessive “lover” and who knows what. Restrained to a bed, injected, isolation…then the puzzles and painting little boxes.
The staff and patients at that hospital left a little to be desired. Now the French hospital in ’02 had us at tables of four and we were, for the most part, served our meals. Every morning bowls of steaming cafe au lait. Delicious bread. I didn’t like all the food, but neither did the other patients. They were quite particular.
That French episode I went 8 days without sleep. Jetlag threw me off, things piled up, I don’t know exactly what caused this one—but I was unmedicated. I just thought each night sleep would come. Even a bedtime bottle of wine only made it worse. Then the 8th day—crash. The TV in the hotel room was a surveillance device; the Irish Tourist Board was spying on me; I was in some cult and had lost precious crystals; Paris was being taken over by Arabs and North Africans and it was revolution; I was on The Amazing Race. But to be emphasized: all these things were real. The worse delusion was all were leaving the planet, those left would be eaten by wild animals.
I wandered all night in Paris with these thoughts. I looked up a lights in rooms, scrawny cats crossed the street, garbage trucks waited at corners. In the morning, women rolled their shopping carts. I made my way to the Paris Expo to join the spaceship. I began pushing people, I think, or somehow causing a nuisance. Then I was on my stomach in a van, 6 sets of boots to stomp on my back when I screamed. Now, I was convinced the police were to slice my foot off below the knee. Paul McCartney’s new wife had been made up from parts, like Frankenstein, and I’m sorry to say that, Sir Paul, I really am, but my warped mind believed it was true.
Next thing: in a padded, locked room. A leather belt around my waist, with chains connecting to leather wristbands. More unpleasantness, then to the hospital, which was very nice—except I lived a week with only the clothes on my back.
I don’t understand bipolar. I was fine for long periods of time. But I watch my medication pretty closely now. I don’t feel quite the same after the last manic episode. I don’t know if chemically my brain is different or that the experience has tempered me. We have no support group within a reasonable distance: I go online to Mood Garden, a wonderful bipolar and depression site. I could start up a support group with DBSA myself. I’ve thought about it…I’m still thinking. I’m not a saint and the burden makes me pause, I have to admit.
liz | 10:09 AM | Uncategorized
