Tag Archives: mental illness

More Hopeful – Bliends

Art by Rob Goldstein

Reading Robert Goldstein‘s posts usually grab me by the throat with his raw emotion and common sense, especially his recent post, Dissociative Identity Disorder: Anger and Shame. (You’ve met my friend, Hope).

I agree that to continue as a healthy society, all American’s must get past the stigma of Mental Health and Mental Illness. I appreciate Rob’s conviction to “… remind people that the only way we can fix a problem we collectively created is to act collectively.” Rob does more than talk/blog his opinion – he is hands-on involved with numerous organizations to affect a positive difference. Ya gotta respect that.

Spoiler alert: Rob leans toward disputations regarding politics. In my experience discussing politics in open forums tends to divide people rather than uniting us, so I avoid doing so. There’s too much disunity in the world already. However, after following Rob for several months I respect his opinions. We don’t agree on everything, but his passions and his objectives are unmistakable. Please give him a read.

“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them.” Romans 8:28 (NLT)

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Big Two

2nd-anniversary

A two year blog anniversary isn’t exactly breaking news. For me it is a considerable milestone. Often I feel like giving up, at least take a break, but writing alone doesn’t afford me a living (yet). Writing completes me. Though blogging comes with more deadlines, I get to set them. Blogging flexes my writing muscles and the community is a marvelous perk I would never have imagined before I discovered the blogosphere.

Months before my target launch date, life took some more unexpected turns. As my deadline drew closer Sister and I grasped the reality that we were on our own. Instead of postponing the launch, I downshifted. Tires smoking, I slid in sideways right under the wire.

After moving two more times Roo’s Ruse met a second milestone, 300 followers. My goal was 100 readers per year.

There’s much one couldn’t initially see in my blog. If we’re grading on a curve I appear normal. I can conduct myself much the same as anybody else, but I actually am more unique than most.

In my mid-twenties professionals diagnosed me with dyslexia. That explained a lot. Some years later a specialist suggested I had bipolar disorder. I had four boys to raise and no “time for that crap.” Two divorces later another specialist did a comprehensive history, more tests and exams. He diagnosed complex trauma (C-PTSD) and traumatic brain injury. Finally. Nailed. It.

I researched every shred of information available to Jane Q. Citizen, worked harder, longer and was more determined than ever before. Over the next few years I eventually realized God wants me to simply do my best and let Him do the rest. He is still faithful.

The hand dealt me wasn’t the best and I made some bad plays. But I’m here today because God lifted me from what some wouldn’t have survived. Aside from occasionally late or lame posts, my uniqueness is not usually obvious. I’m thankful for that.

My guys grew into great men despite their parents, so my history doesn’t concern me much anymore. The stories will be available soon enough.

Today my sites are set on What’s Next.

“…“My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NLT)

 

Image courtesy Pixabay

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Differences Between PTSD and Complex PTSD ~ Lilly Hope Lucario

Many thanks to Persia at Blog of a Mad Black Woman for sharing this post.

Also in my early 40’s a lay-counselor recruited a brilliant professional counselor to help identify years of misdiagnoses. I pray this post helps lead others to the right assistance, healing, restoration and full lives:

Photo post by @HealingCPTSD.

Source: Differences Between PTSD and Complex PTSD ~ Lilly Hope Lucario

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Notably Sound

2016jun10Manny PCL MIL JCLI talked more than usual with my grown men over the past few weeks. Nathan was hospitalized several times for migrating shrapnel – 13 years after the initial event

The second time I heard one of my sons patient, adorable sighs, I remembered previous conversations, especially one with Zoe: 

Notably Sound – Repost from 9/15/2014

phone convo pixabayZoe couldn’t talk yesterday, but this morning we caught up. Unlike many of my friends and family these days, Zoe and I occupy the same time zone. That’s kind of a big deal.

Fast forward 150 minutes; epic – even for us. We touched all bases; our families, work, health, mutual friends, political and social concerns. Then, for fun, we skimmed back over my notes from our past year’s conversations.

notebook-pixabayYes, I take notes – on everything, in chronological order with color coded highlights. Maybe it’s a mental health thing, but it’s often helpful.

The happiest benefit of this old habit is seeing conversation details are accurately recorded.

So… you may be thinking.

So, my assessment today addresses how my amazing, adult sons imply (but wouldn’t dare say), “Mom, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I recognize the tone more frequently than ever before. Even when they were teens – and learned to never say that to me again. “That’s odd, Son. I thought you said you like liver. Silly me. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Now they suggest I’m either confused about statements from previous talks or I really wasn’t listening – like that ever happens : } I confess I once found an old shopping list there – just once.

From my trusty notebooks, our typical conversations appear compressed into time restraints and are multi-directional. Though the subjects get jumbled among various subjects; jobs, rapidly growing kids, classes, fitness, etc., reviewing my notes serve me well. Though days or weeks may have lapsed, I am indelibly assured in my grasp of the conversations.

On this down slope of mid-life, this too is kind of a big deal. Modern medicine has forced us to minor in self-diagnosis so that especially the savvy peri-senior is watchful for symptoms of dementia, senility and a host of distresses and diseases.

I am happy to report that according to my notes, Zoe and I are in good shape; at least between our ears!

That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day.” 2 Corinthians 4:16 (NLT)

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Routine

For the past few days I’ve been reflecting upon my early thirties. Then I’d finally come to appreciate the value of routine.

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God blessed me with a good foster mom. I often recall her saying during my child bearing years, “Mijita, todos ustedes tienen que tener horarios.” Not really grasping her meaning, I’d typically melt into her arms, soak up the love and forget what she said. In Spanish it sounded far more pleasant than when she would later tell me, “Girl, you must get your act together!”

I’d dismissed suggestions that I had more challenges than dyslexia, possibly other forms of autism. Who had time for health care while caring for four boys, an unpredictable, “bi-polar” and often violent husband, and all their companions-du-jour? Yeah, I knew about crazy – in other people. We were fine…  😉

For me if we all got up, everybody ate, got to school or whatever, nobody permanently harmed and got back to bed at night, it was a good day. I couldn’t grasp the value of scheduled daily tasks, a routine until my marriage finally ended. By then I stopped being a DV victim.

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Fast forward some decades and I live within a very structured routine. The time-space continuum shifts when my routine is altered. Erin and I are comfortable with this. She’s a night owl and I rise long before the sun does. Until the dam broke in the plumbing, etc. Aye!

We were unprepared for the disruptions to the entire property. Hourly the sudden changes annoyingly altered our habitual behaviors.

construction pixabayI confess, minutes into this morning I was setting things down and closing doors harder than necessary. “Where is the…” Living alone, controlled but intentional banging and “slightly slamming” doors, etc. to release tension worked for me. Such timid forms of violence is nothing compared to the savagery I’ve survived.

I remembered I no longer live alone as Erin stepped away from me – without the coffee pot. Violence here is never appropriate.

Because today, with so many tasks demanding immediate attention, Erin was up early with me, making coffee, using the bathroom, etc. The newly replaced futon mattress loomed over the love seat in the living room, against the linen closet – where we keep cleaning rags. The vacuum cleaner was parked wherever we used it last – and often. This is not our m.o. Have I mentioned our 480 square feet of crowded living space upstairs?

Now imagine the two cats nervously observing everything, add some large bags of items for family visiting for the first reunion in ten years. And we’re grilling for a small army of out of town family in light, intermittent rain, of course. That had to be ready for someone to pick up and deliver to Keira’s whenever they arrive. Then add contractors working all over the property. Chaos.

There we were, waking our bodies and our brains – in the same tiny room of the house together, simultaneously. One can imagine this is a potentially volatile scenario with two old broads well set in our ways. As the sounds of my banging around Erin increased in volume, she paused quoting, “Something vexes thee?*”

We laughed – hysterically. The frustration and tension from our disrupted routine was dispelled. We sat down together – with coffee and prayed. Several times. All morning.

friends coffee pixabay

“Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins.” 1 Peter 4:8 (NLT)

 

*The late Alan Rickman and Geraldine McEwan from Robin Hood; Prince of Theives video clip courtesy YouTube

Photo Images courtesy Pixabay

** (c) 2016 Rapture Practice! Publications images not to be duplicated, shared or otherwise distributed without prior, written permission. Thank you!

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Despondent

It was the third day. The “odd mood” had grown into a darkness now permeating the house.

The water tasted notably worse. Not bad. Off.

Peering through the window to check on the “kids,” the hatchling hummingbirds had flown from the now empty nest on the porch.

That trace of a smell in the kitchen now seemed to be everywhere.

Instead of a reminder to ease the stick back, pulling her from the tail spin, the radio seemed only a scratchy, white-noise nuisance.

Everything stationary seemed to shift, slowly moving into the wind that would surely carry her too away.

Not a glimmer of joy anywhere. A fragment of hope took her to the floor. Face down she cried into the scratchy carpet, “Dear God, are You here?”

worship

That’s when she recognized the all-too-familiar signs. “Is this it?”

Depression

“Then call on me when you are in trouble, and I will rescue you, and you will give me glory.” Psalm 50:15

“You are my refuge and my shield; your word is my source of hope” Psalm 119:114 (NLT)

*Image courtesy Church of Christ Articles

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