Struggle

This little guy won this round of the ongoing battle between hummingbirds at my grandparents' house in Louisiana this weekend. Their struggle for domination of the feeder was fascinating to watch; tiny, buzzing creatures angrily chasing after one another to secure their place as the head and only resident of the table, which could easily seat 5 with equal shares of nectar. I haven't contributed anything to this blog in a few weeks, my mind has been so occupied with issues to contemplate that I've neglected writing here. And these little birds seem to be on to something in their diligence in fighting for their needs, regardless of their blindness when it comes to the actual non-threat of their friends. Over the past week or so, I've become aware of the difference in my life today and my life one year ago. Last June I was crying to my Mom that I felt so isolated, knew virtually no one here, had no options when it came to getting out and doing any kind of work that I could be proud of, had no support system and affiliation with any mental illness advocacy group, was lonely and bored. The other day I felt a little nervousness about some things I've committed to doing, and I let myself think about that nervous feeling, really let myself focus on it, and realized that I don't run from my emotions anymore. Nervousness in the past would send me running, I looked at it as a sure sign that something was to be avoided and made a detour around that something. I've involved myself in some very meaningful programs and organizations, taken on just enough responsibility to keep my mind occupied and myself useful without biting off too much to chew. And I'm very proud of where I am in my life now, and how far I've come this past year. So I notice I handle problems differently, and a few have aggressively tackled my brain over the past week and I've been affected. As I was walking Baggins the other night, when I rounded the corner from my side of the street to the other, the frogs chirping became so insanely loud and intrusive I almost panicked! For four years I have not had any psychosis, no hallucinations, extreme paranoias, etc., but when I heard those frogs I suddenly, b/c of the abrupt change in the sound, thought maybe it was in my head. The fact is, the other side of the street has a swampy area behind it, so the sound had a very real origin based in reality- the sound was not in my head. When I got home I talked it over with my parents, and cried about it, b/c I hadn't had that fear in so long. As a person with a serious mental illness I can never let go of the fear of sliding backward into that dark chasm of pain and confusion, but this incident was no indication of that, and for that I was thankful and relieved! Then we take the trip to my grandparents' and I see how Parkinson's disease has taken so much from my grandmother. My Mamaw Hildy and I have been unusually close all my life, she has always been a person I could depend on for unconditional love and support, and friendship and companionship. As I looked at her face I could see some of that person has been removed by her illness and age, and despite the reassurance we all give her, she no longer has the sense of assurance of safety that we all need to live well. And she is full of self-pity, self-doubt, depression, and anxiety. She watched her own mother wither and die in a hospital bed in a nursing home for over 20 years, eventually being unable to speak or move, and her brother in almost the same shape. She trembles badly, but the tremors in her voice and throat and chest bother her the most, and she cries. My grandmother has never been one to cry, and has never had any weakness. I remember only about 4 or 5 years ago, she was well into her 70s, I bought her a hibiscus, her favorite flower, and she got a post-hole digger out to dig a hole to plant it. "No! Let me do it!" But she watched me struggle for a minute, making no progress, and she took it from me and dug the hole skillfully and quickly, both of us laughing after it was over. Now she is quiet mostly, but still the sweetest woman on earth, and still can cook a vegetable out of my Papaw's garden with experienced perfection. Also while I was there, I found out that my brother's childhood best friend is now a drug addict, and he tried to kill his mother recently, both of whom I loved dearly. My brother and his friend, his mother and I, ended our friendship years ago b/c of a nasty lie told which was ugly enough to ruin everything. But finding out that their lives are so miserable, I could not help but cry. So now, in this past week or so, I've been so full of emotion that I've cried several times, which is not something I do very often, I've been occupied with issues that have required time and effort to think through, but I come back to this realization: Finally I have so much going on in my life that I have things to think through and deal with and work on. Last year at this time I was bored and unfulfilled, waiting. Now I'm ready to struggle for my place at the bird feeder, and you're welcomed to join me.

Youtube sensation......Tina Chen

For the life of me I cannot figure this one out. This kid (she's like 16) seems so....borderline retarded, she's unaware of her shortcomings, which is so opposite of a normal teenaged girl. Most judge themselves so harshly and have a unrealistic and disproportionately negative view of themselves, a lack of self-esteem. This girl must bathe in self-esteem every night, and gargle with it in the morning. Watch for yourself, but this clip does not include the shot of her boobs which she showed and asked if she was sexy!! I just can't figure the whole thing out, and it's so amusing that I have to keep up with what she's doing! See for yourself....

What did they do?!

I cannot believe what they did to Strawberry Shortcake! The tragedy! The outrage! Sweet little Miss Shortcake went from wholesome, innocent, rag doll naivety to tight-fitting clothes and a headful of hair extensions. Nobody's hair is that long and thick on its own, and they even used a straightening iron on her! I loved her yarn hair, perhaps b/c my own hair is curly. Where are her freckles? Who tripled the size of the berry-scented girl's eyes? Who took off her brown clunkers and put on hot pink ballerina shoes? I'm 33 and grew up with Strawberry Shortcake and her sweet-smelling friends, back when it was okay to have a round face, wear clothes cut by the designer (someone at JC Penney or Sears where layaways still existed) for a child's body, with fabric that didn't sparkle, without exclamations and proclamations of being a princess, or a hot chick, or a heart breaker. There was no Paris Hilton to emulate, there was Wonder Woman and Mary Lou Retton. Where did it all go wrong? And when? My clothes never looked like an exact replica of my teenaged cousin's girlfriend's, and I had no idea what they were doing in the back seat of his car. I saw a onesie at the store the other day with a picture of a chick that said, "Hot Chick." A BABY'S clothes! And one for a boy that exclaimed, "Mothers, lock up your daughters." Needless to say, this one frightened me the most. I don't have children of my own, and it's just as well, b/c I would not indulge my daughter's modern, peer-pressured demands for everything hot pink, or refusal to play outside. I would not lie to my daughter and tell her she is a princess and that life is all poofy fru-fru boy craziness. Instead I would teach her to use her mind instead of her body, and that getting dirty outside is awesome. Goodbye Strawberry Shortcake and hello Princess Shortcake, I'll miss you!

News reporter goes off, NSFW, could be very offensive

What do those mild-mannered newscasters do and say on their breaks and time off? How do they behave and what comes out of their mouths when they think the camera is off? We get to know our TV journalists pretty well over the years, watching and listening to them every day, tracking their hair styles and clothing choices, counting their pregnancies, and watching them go grey. But in reality we don't know them at all, we just know the personality they represent every day on our TVs, as we assume since they are in our homes daily that they must be that polite and cheerful in real life. Well, lately I've seen several clips of newscasters that prove differently, VERY differently, and this one takes the cake! Watch at your own risk, b/c the language is pretty bad. But it's funny as hell!
Here's the link: http://www.dlisted.com/node/26528

Michelle Duggar

This woman is a machine- a baby-making machine, called by God (she believes) to bring as many children into this complex world as humanly possible. You know, b/c God likes kids and dirty diapers and screaming and teething and endless sleepless nights. Michelle's husband, Jim Bob Duggar, is a former state legislator from Tontitown, Arkansas, who served in the Ark. House of Representatives from 1999-2002. They are both real estate agents and claim to live without debt. Wonder if that has anything to do with the big bucks they get from the shows on Discovery channel and TLC, etc.? This whole "mission from God" started when in the mid-eighties Michelle was on the pill and miscarried. The Duggars grieved as their "selfish actions had taken the life of their child." They've been making up for it ever since, producing 17 children, 10 boys and 7 girls, with another on the way due to be born in January of 2009. Oh, and all their kid's names start with the letter, J. Jim Bob (I swear that's his real name) reports that all their children are blessings from God. Hmm.... (things that make you go...) this disturbs me on all sorts of levels, not the least of which is their inevitable inability to give each of these kids the proper attention they need and deserve! And on the subject of all the handouts the receive, if God is behind your self-produced orphanage, wouldn't he drop diapers and formula and groceries on your doorstep? For some reason this causes me a lot of skepticism, especially when I read how they break down the household chores into gender-specific roles, forming a subordinate, submissive role for each of these 7 girls before they can even roll over in their hand-me-down crib! I saw an interview with Michelle Duggar where they were asking all sorts of questions about pregnancy: what do you crave, do you get sick, what do you eat, how do you know you're pregnant.....? She has her pregnancy routines down to the day almost, she's a freakin' expert, and she said for the first three months she's sick and eats protein several times a day and can't stand the smell of frying ground meat (so her girls perform this task- Little Orphan Annie comes to mind), from three months to six months she just enjoys being pregnant, and from six months to delivery she waddles like a duck. How can the human body withstand this kind of torture? Seriously? How does her whole female anatomy not just fall out when she's bending over getting 30 boxes of cereal from the grocery store? Was she hypnotized or something or is she really doing this of her own free will? Her rapport is like a robot as she answers an interviewers questions, like a Stepford wife without the unorthodox beauty and beautiful clothes and polished, refined manner. She appears more to me like a desperate woman trapped in her own hell of gynecologists, lullabies, poopy diapers, casserole making, laundry folding, free-will repressing, slavery. Frankly, the whole scenario scares me silly, and I just hope they love their kids and teach them that it's okay to be an individual in a house full of kids that look, talk, act, and think just like you do.

Test

This is just a test, b/c my last post was sent to the bottom of the page for some reason. Just testing!

Hounddog

It's funny how things work out, how life is like a ball of yarn weaving itself into patterns, some turning out as beautiful pictures, some ending up pretty ugly. When I found out my precious friend, Alfred Sisk, had been moved to Oxford from his longtime residence at the community home for mentally-challenged men where I worked some years back, I grieved more than a little, filled with doubt that I would ever be able to tell him goodbye. Alfred is an elderly man with Down's syndrome, and due to his decline in health and their inability to give him the proper care his condition demanded, he was moved to the agency's main campus in Oxford, MS. As it turned out, I ended up in Oxford last week for a conference, another wonderful new picture being woven into my life's tapestry, surprising and satisfying. Thursday afternoon I made some calls and found out it would be fine for me to go visit my old friend in his new cottage, and some warnings about his condition were issued to me, preparing me for what was about to come. The cottage is for very low-functioning clients, most in wheelchairs, and they were moaning and making all sorts of disturbing noises, and even though I worked with the mentally challenged for many years in two states, I had forgotten the sadness in the sounds of those with the inability to verbally communicate. The cottage was clean and, mostly, the clients were, too. Staff was bustling about, young and energetic, immune to the disarming noises that filled the main room. As I was led to Alfred's room I felt dread build up in my gut, fear of seeing my Hounddog in pain and isolation. The DCW turned on the lights, shifted Alfred's position to wake him and allow him to see my face, and as he began to cry and groan, I wondered if this was the best decision for him or my own self. I got close to him and picked up his soft, white hand, began to stroke his nearly-bald head, and felt all the love and affection for him return to me tripled and quadrupled. Alfred Sisk is absolutely and without question the most gentle and pure soul creation has ever produced. He was every staff member's favorite, if it came right down to it, because he was never, ever any trouble, always helpful and cheerful, and more loving than any "normal" person, unaware of the risks people take to love. His family did not take up much time with him, but he was never alone or neglected, always a joy to be around, funny and affectionate. As I bent down and got close to his face so that he could hear me well, I told him how much everyone loved him because he had the ability to make every single person feel special, in ways I've never seen before or since. When I would take him to the store, he would always know the women who needed a pick-me-up, a boost to their self-esteem, and would tell them they were cute in his own language that somehow everyone understood. These strangers would always immediately perk up, faces erupting into a smile, and tell him thank you. He could force the sourest of all sourpusses to feel joy, even if for a moment, with his uninhibited love dished out equally for all around him. He was nonverbal, but he had his own made-up language which I knew perfectly, like "magetty," for dinosaur. He loved dinosaurs, so I would buy him plastic ones from Wal-Mart, one with a button that when pushed made a loud roar, which he imitated, then giggled. But Alfred's main love was Elvis Presley, and he loved to sing Elvis songs! "Hounddog" was his very favorite, and it was his nickname, probably used more than Alfred. A friend and former staff member made him a real Elvis costume, complete with the cape adorned with a huge, rhinestone-and-sequined eagle on the back, and he would wear this to Graceland every so often when staff would take him there, giving him the thrill of his life every single time. He could dance like Elvis too, and insisted on giving an impromptu show for anyone new who came through the door. We both had ample bellies and would bump them together and laugh at each other, each time harder than the last, and it got to be a routine source of fun for us. I had to leave the community home when I had my big episode four years ago, my major meltdown, and missed Alfred and the rest of the clients so badly. I visited them two years ago when I went to stay with my dear friend whom I met there, she worked a different shift, and we became fast and very close friends. So the last memory I had of Alfred was of that visit, where he showed me his Elvis costume, sang some tunes for me, danced, and hugged me generously. My friend, Fran, said he would still bring her to a picture of me that hung in the hallway, long after I was gone, and point to my picture and actually say my name. That is the reason I knew he would remember me, even if everyone assured me he would not. So as I talked to Alfred last Thursday as he lay in that bed, with each word I said he seemed to become more responsive, and after about 5 or 10 minutes his eyes were completely opened and he was speaking to me with them, those blue, kind eyes I love so much. I told him everything I ever wanted to, about how much people loved him, how he made everyone around him happy, how even strangers wanted to be with him because he was so perfectly real and unassuming. He would cry with me when I talked about bumping bellies, and when I asked if he knew me he did his best to nod his head. I stayed with him as long as I could, and my heart broke to hear him labor for every single breath, clearly in pain. When it was time for me to leave I told him again how much I love him and forced myself to walk out that door, and out the door of the cottage, into the beautiful day full of blue sky, breeze, and magnolia trees. And I know that Alfred heard my goodbye, and felt my hand in his, and felt the love I have for him and his sweet, sweet soul.

God help me, this is true

"Ooh, la la, I'm THE feline fashionista, the world's only kitty trendsetter, my perfect pink flowing locks mystify you and leave you breathless....." That's what she looks like she's thinking! Scary as this is, this photo is of a very real cat with a very real wig designed just for the kitties. The company is called, fittingly, Kitty Wigs, and you can search for your own cat's new hairstyle at kittywigs.com. Does this disturb you? Because it freaks me out a little! I love the cocked head pose, though, giving it a thoughtful, almost human appearance! Cats are cool, but.....

Reason #1 to have a designated driver

This year's Annual Matamoros-Bagdad Cycling Tour in Mexico turned tragic when Juan, "Jesse" Campos, ran his 1989 Mercury Marquis head-on into the cluster of determined cyclists, killing one and seriously injuring 10 others. 30-year-old Brownsville, TX, resident Alejandro Alvarez, died on the scene, senselessly killed by a fellow Brownsville resident, Campos, when he fell asleep at the wheel after partying all night with liquor and cocaine. Campos claims to have no memory of the incident, saying he woke up after the catastrophe. He is being held in a Mexican jail until they can figure out what to do with him. This picture says it all! How often are we able to see such tragedy closeup in such detail? It is gruesome, but it is brutally honest, and makes the picture of the effects of drunk driving clear and human. We've all done it, some of us more than others, but if only to avoid having something like this on your conscience, DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE!