Kyle Ambrogi, part II
A few days ago I wrote a little bit about the tragedy of Kyle Ambrogi’s suicide. For more on that, I wanted to point everyone to a tribute site for Kyle, which has notes from family and friends. It’s a beautiful homage to someone who will be much missed.
I’m deeply sorry for the loss, and I hope that nothing I said in my previous post would imply otherwise. I know that Kyle had good friends, and everyone did try their best to help him. Maybe the tone of my first post about him was edgy because of my frustration. I wish people didn’t have to die this way. I’m leaving the first post alone so you can see how I was feeling about it. But I didn’t mean to place blame. If it came across that way, I apologize.
liz | 5:19 PM | Uncategorized
Answers
From reading the comments on this site, I find that there are some urgent questions that must be addressed. Because, yes, inquiring minds want to know.
1. Why did I say I shouldn’t wear a white bra under a white shirt? Oh my God, I know! I, too, was under the impression that white-under-white was the correct combination. But in the recent past I’ve read many women’s magazines that specifically characterize the white bra as evil. Try this dos and don’ts page on Cents of Style to get you started. Only a white bra under a black top is worse, though that didn’t stop Scarlett Johannsen.
2. I don’t live at Franklin and Girard, but I was there taking pictures for a story (scroll allll the way down) in the paper. I live in West Philly around 38th and Baltimore. If you go to the Fu Wah Mini Market, you’ll probably see me cruising for granola or Pop Tarts.
3. Now a question for Little Champ: How does he not get lost in the apartment? I texted him this question and he got right back to me. His typing skills are naturally inferior, but here’s what he wrote: “i donot get lost bcuz i m afraid to go 2 far from uncle but last nite they took mee to the fu wa [ed. note: see No. 2] and i got 2 C the outside world 4 the 1st time it was rilly cool and i hope 2 go again.” Champ is taking some liberties there. We did take him outside but after a couple minutes on Uncle’s shoulder, he climbed back into his fleece pouch and cowered.
liz | 4:15 PM | Uncategorized
Well, whatever works, I guess
Famous Brit “footballer” Sir Bobby Charlton is opening a sports-oriented club in Manchester, England (across the Atlantic sea, and I am a genius genius, and I believe in God, and I believe that God believes in Claude and that’s me … oops, sorry). It’s a club for men suffering from depression, but Charlton and co. will be taking a cognitive approach: “coaching” the men, using football analogies, to wellness. It’s called “It’s a Goal!” Or as the announcers say on Univision,
“Goooooooooooooooooooooooool!!”
Kudos to Charlton for thinking outside the box. He’s not even a mental health professional. Which, come to think of it, may be precisely why he’s thought of something new.
Kicking depression into touch [BBC]
liz | 2:09 PM | Uncategorized
Book of the day: Jonathan Ames’ I Love You More Than You Know
This book of essays by my favorite self-loathing depressive—culled from his work in McSweeney’s, the New York Press, the New York Times, Slate.com and others—is hilarious. I’ve been laughing so hard, even though several of the essays are kind of sad. I think it’s so refreshing when depressed, melancholic people write self-deprecatingly about their troubles and self-absorption, which, Lord knows, is what I’m trying to do every day. But Ames really aces the genre, if indeed there is a genre.
Sometimes he and I are remarkably in sync. The following passage about air travel, in particular, really makes me feel we’re kindred spirits:
First there’s the trauma of getting to the airport, and then there’s the overload of feelings I experience as I pass through security. You see, when I go through the metal detectors, I think I should be stopped and arrested; beaten and lashed would also work. I’m not carrying any weapons, but I feel like a bad person. … I once read a self-help book in the eighties—I don’t remember the title, it was something like “All Families Are Sick”—and the author addressed the reader at one point and said: “You think you are bad and deserve to be punished.” That’s me! Yes somehow I escape punishment at airports. But the life of a fugitive, I find, is exhausting.
liz | 2:57 PM | Uncategorized
Celebrity revelations
Though it’s fun to write about celebrities, a longtime reader of this blog sent me an email asking if I’d please pay attention, as well, to those whose stories don’t typically get told. He expressed himself so eloquently that I feel compelled to share his words with you, though as he doesn’t want his name used, I’ve given him a pseudonym.
From “Michael”:
I hope you consider including articles under the general heading of “From the Other Side” dealing with those who are disabled by a mental illness and have lives characterized by little income, little or no social interaction with persons not similarly situated, extensive involvement with the MH system, etc.
While it is always heartening to read inspiring stories of personal achievement normally focused on celebraties, few of my friends actually achieve what many take for granted. We endure lives of unbelievable social isolation and abject loneliness – the vast majority don’t date, receive invitations to ordinary social events, work, have or anticipate intimate relationships and so forth.
Sadly, most of the social events I have attended are known as “mentally ill parties” which are generally held at 3 PM days prior to the actually holiday at a drop-in center, day program, PHP, or hospital. They are characterized by huge bags of chips, large bottles of soda, a boombox playing, and consumers sitting around the periphery.
It’s a tough life when all weekends are spent alone.
I really appreciate Michael’s remarks. I’ve been to the parties he mentions, and they are indeed incredibly depressing. I will do my best to find stories to tell from the other side. If you want to tell your own story, please email me at lspikol@philadelphiaweekly.com.
[Image from the abandoned Whitby Psychiatric Hospital by Irina/Riri at Flickr.]
liz | 12:08 PM | Uncategorized
Kid with autism serves up b-ball surprise
There’s really no way to present this story without being corny. It’s clearly one of those much-maligned “human interest” features that networks present to make you cry. And maybe I’m a sap, but I did get teary-eyed when I watched this. It wasn’t so much Jason’s triumphant 20 points scored in the high school basketball game that moved me. It was the reaction of his schoolmates when he did. So much love for him, and so much support. Yes, it’s heartwarming, and slightly nauseating. And a mite patronizing, particularly the sticky-gooey last line. But it’s kind of a guaranteed tearjerker, like It’s a Wonderful Life.
The one cynical question I have: Why, for all this time, did they assume he couldn’t play? I wonder why they never gave him a chance.
liz | 11:27 AM | Uncategorized
New therapy?
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Duke University (above) is circulating a press release about its new research, pioneered by a Duke psychologist, that shows that self-system therapy, or SST, is more effective than cognitive therapy. From the release:
Self-system therapy draws on techniques used in other types of therapy, including cognitive therapy, which focuses on reversing the effects of depression on how the patients think. But SST sessions focus on helping patients develop skills and strategies to answer four critical questions:
1. What are your promotion and prevention goals?
2. What are you doing to attain them?
3. What is keeping you from making progress?
4. What can you do differently?
Prevention goals are defined as those that keep bad things from happening. Promotion goals are defined as those that make good things happen.
Because I am devoted to this cause, I will make myself a human guinea pig (is that an oxymoron?) and place myself under the penetrating rays of these questions. My answers:
1. My prevention goal is to keep the air conditioning in my apartment from shutting down again. My promotion goal is to make sure I never again wear a white bra under a white shirt, as I did yesterday.
2. To reach my prevention goal, I will buy new air-conditioning filters in a timely manner instead of waiting until they’re clotted with gunk that sort of looks like dryer lint, but is clearly more malevolent. To reach my promotion goal, I’ll splash water on my face in the morning and turn on the light when I’m getting dressed.
3. The thing that’s keeping me from making progress in both cases is laziness and a dissociative insensitivity to the world around me.
4. What I could do differently would be to force myself to plunge into the frigid Atlantic Ocean this weekend and thus remind myself that I am, in fact, alive—albeit shivering.
Hmm. I suspect I’m missing the subtleties of the treatment. I’ll get a copy of the study and do further investigation. Meanwhile, I’m guessing any Duke publicity that’s not related to lacrosse players is refreshing.
Press release: Researchers Develop New Specialized Treatment for Depression
liz | 3:23 PM | Uncategorized
Pharma fresh: The first in a new series
The Philadelphia Inquirer—a troubled newspaper that recently got dumped by Knight-Ridder, and then was bought by some, well, interesting local characters—ran an excellent article by Thomas Ginsburg last week about the pharmaceutical industry’s ties to nonprofit health-related organizations like the American Diabetes Association and NAMI (gasp!).
I don’t know too much about the ADA, but I know activists have been complaining for years now about NAMI’s ties to big pharma, claiming that the money they get has to compromise the information the organization chooses to dole out to consumers. The folks at Mindfreedom International, in particular, have been very vocal on this subject.
Like most advocates, I wish NAMI didn’t have such ties. The world would be a cleaner, purer place. They’re certainly unseemly. But I don’t necessarily assume that NAMI is ethically compromised in every aspect of their operation. Certainly much of what they do doesn’t pertain to psychopharmacology at all.
More troubling is the fact that nonprofit organizations of NAMI’s ilk are struggling so much financially, they’re apparently forced to rely on funders they’d rather not be associated with. Sometimes looking at small organizations’ donor lists can make you feel like you have to take a shower.
Donations tie drug firms and nonprofits
liz | 1:54 PM | Uncategorized
The Diary of Little Champ
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Okay, I promise we’ll get back to mental health issues shortly, but during Memorial Day weekend, when I was DEVOID OF ALL SOCIAL PLANS, I spent some time with Little Champ, my sugar glider. I asked him to write a little something about his life, a la Baruchito’s Homecage. He was surprisingly enthusiastic about the project.
My name is Little Champ, and I’m a sugar glider. That means I’m a small chipmunk-like marsupial who can glide through the trees of my native Australia like a flying squirrel. Only, um, I’m living in an apartment in West Philadelphia, so mostly I just glide from human to pillow.
I live with my parents, Buster and Mela. Papa has been neutered, but he’s still a bit of a troublemaker. He loves to hop around and play tug of war. He’s also partial to wicker.
Mama is very bitey. I don’t know how Papa puts up with her. While Papa and I like the humans and play with them, Mama always tries to wound them. She also gets very aggressive if you give her a piece of hardboiled egg.
The humans I speak of are Uncle Vince and Aunt Liz. Our uncle was opposed to us at first, but now he buys us waxworms and lets Papa groom him. Our aunt is the one who gives us that weird paste for dinner. She also plays tug of war with Papa, and kisses my head all the time, even though I mostly don’t like to be kissed.
I am called Little Champ because even when I was very small and sort of hairless and could hardly open my eyes, Uncle saw that I was quite triumphant. Now he calls me Champy, and sometimes he sings the Little Champ Theme Song™, which makes Aunt giggly.
We love anything fleece, so we sleep all day in pouches that Aunt made from children’s hats she bought at Second Mile Thrift Store. Some would say she’s cheap that way, but we love the hats. Fleece is our biggest weakness. Shove anything fleecy in front of us, and we lose our minds.
At night we come out of our fleece paradise and press our faces against the bars like small furry prisoners. Aunt and Uncle take pity on us and let us out of the cage.
It’s extremely fun. There are pillows with feathers in them. Have I mentioned feathers? We love them more than fleece. So first we have to attack the pillows. Then, after we tire of that, we jump on the chair and play hide-and-seek. Then we scramble over to the bookshelf and nibble on the books. Then, if we are lucky, Aunt and Uncle will come in and we can climb on them, which we like because Uncle, in particular, is very tall.
Sometimes I get special treatment, which involves staying on Uncle’s shoulder until he puts me in a cabinet with many dishes and bowls. Mama tends to stew in her own bad mood in the bookcase, while Papa tries to escape and Auntie gets very upset, yelling, “Buster! Come back here!” Evenings are very exciting.
Then the humans go to sleep. We don’t know why they do this. It’s backwards. We stay up and make hissing noises, which is how we talk to each other. Sometimes I bark loudly to get the humans’ attention, and then Auntie stumbles over and yells at me. The other night she sprayed water on me. I think maybe I won’t bark at night anymore.
That’s all for now. I have to return to my pouch and eat a piece of Trader Joe’s Fruit Leather. See you soon!
[This image is of a glider that's not me but looks like me. I found it at Sandman's Sugar Gliders. There were some cute blond girls on that site. Auntie has taken the computer away from me.]
liz | 11:57 AM | Uncategorized
Sestina for Philadelphia
Good morning, everyone. Hope you had a great Memorial Day weekend. As for me and my time DOING NOTHING, I at least managed to write a sestina about Philadelphia, as promised.
For those of you unfamiliar with this savage poetic form, which I tortured myself with as a creative writing major in college, it’s a six-stanza poem. The first stanza establishes your end words—the last word of each line. You use the same end words in each line of the next stanza—but in differing order. It’s diabolical, but I love the challenge. The final stanza, called an envoi, is three lines that has to use two end words in each line. It’s a bitch.
If you don’t understand what all that meant, and I can’t blame you, look at the last words in the lines. That should explain it.
The end words I chose for a poem about Philadelphia were “eagles,” “team,” “most,” “all,” “wings” and “threw,” though I used “through” as a variation for the latter, which is permissable.
For the most masterful sestina ever written, see Elizabeth Bishop’s simply named “Sestina”, which I shouldn’t even mention because it’s a real poem, and mine is just a lark.
For a crappy yet locally oriented version, see below. Has anyone ever written a sestina about Philly? Maybe not.
Sestina for Philadelphia
Philadelphia is a city of almost-ran sports teams.
We grieve for our Phillies, Sixers, Flyers and Eagles
Who come close to the sun, but have wax wings.
Fans are less than gracious. They once threw
A battery at Santa Claus’ head. Misanthropes, all.
It’s harder if you’re Kobe. We hate him the most.
Philadelphia is a city of 1.5 million people, most
Of them insecure and defensive, like a mini-golf team
Because who plays mini golf, seriously? Everyone’s all
painted green, hoarsely intoning: “Go Eagles,”
And doing the Wing Bowl, where I heard people threw
Up last year, which is gross. No one should eat that many wings.
Still, it’s a thing of beauty, this town. The wings
Of our spirit are broad, or Broad, and most
Of us relish our diversity, and the way fate threw
Us together, a surging, seething municipal team
Rooting for each other to soar like eagles—
All for one, and one for all.
We like it here, between New York and D.C., all
Nestled ’twixt the sea and the mountains. Wings
Of hawks and doves and pigeons and eagles
Are seen above our cars—vehicles used mostly
To travel to the creeks or woods teeming
With wildlife, to see autumn leaves shot through
With gold, copper, red. As a child I threw
Those leaves in the air, spun around, and all
Dizzy, gloried in my city. I had a favorite team,
The Phillies, and when they won, I felt wings
grow on my shoulder blades. I admit, most
Of my youthful memories don’t involve the Eagles,
And for that, I’m sorry. Here the Eagles
Are beloved, and each night we dream we threw
The magic touchdown pass, though most
Of us are doughy and unathletic. BTW, we’re all
Democrats, even those who wear military wings
On their lapels. It’s a blue-state dream team.
Sail on, beautiful Eagles. In Philly we all
See your games through rose-tinted glasses, wings
Dancing in the lenses, most sincerely screaming, “Go team!”
liz | 8:14 AM | Uncategorized
