You don’t know me- but I am your daughter, your priest, your next door neighbor, the teller at your bank. We are not in wheelchairs. Our illness is invisible. It is possible to heal. Yet, in my case, it took forty years.
Starting at about the age of seven or eight, until I left home at eighteen, my home life was dark, blurry. distant. I remember nothing during those years. People, events occurred around me, but I could not connect to them. I was absent; I dissociated*. This was in order to survive, I understand now. Dissociation brings one to a place far against the skin of the back, an empty place, silent. I was not conscious of this, I just withdrew.
My father and mother lacked parenting skills, which now as an adult, I do understand. The home life was often chaotic, parents resorting to loud screaming, whipping, slapping, name calling- horror. This was traumatic for me to process- so I LEFT.
I started studying theatre (acting) at a young age- (about nine) and it was from then on my refuge and my salvation. I worked on stage- and then apprenticed in a theatre for the next seven years until I was sixteen. It was called Will-O-Way Apprentice Theatre and was located a long way from home, in Bloomfield Hills.
We did adult plays, under the direction of an accomplished woman, Celia Turner. I was in seventh heaven. We spent the whole day Saturday and ordered bar-b-que spare ribs and pizza, for lunch, eating them out of styrofoam boxes. It must have cost my parents a fortune.
My mother would diligently carpool every Saturday for years, for which I remain grateful. A number of parents, I know, would not encourage artistic endeavors in their children, My parents did. It seems natural in a Jewish family to encourage children to aspire to either become an artist, or just as legitimately a doctor, lawyer or CPA. “My son the concert pianist!”
Eventually, as I matured, I came to understand that when I excelled in a play, or directed a play- THAT! is when I received attention from my mother. Then I was recognized, then I existed! Later in life, when I moved on to bigger and more challenging theatrical experiences- she would bring her friends- demand a seat on the isle down front, and tell everyone that she was “Laura’s mother”…I felt numb about this. My mother always confused and bewildered me, yet, like most children, I desired her approval until the day that she died. How foolish I was.
At about the age of seventeen I went to Arts Camp, a highly acclaimed school and camp- to study theatre arts. I appeared in two shows, stage managed, did props- and generally got familiar with the ways of a theatre backstage, as well as as an actor. During the summer I was interviewed and photographed by a magazine called “Seventeen” for the chance to be…Girl of the Year- I believe. I lost- but, oh, I felt so important.
This was a life-changing adventure for me because now I finally had an acceptable IDENTITY! A hippy. I could slip into this identity- an alternative life style as an artist in my school. I knew the “role” well, knew the dimensions of that role. I now knew whom to read (KANT in Cliff-notes) I new how to dress (shopping at thrift stores). In high school I developed a reputation as an actor- appeared in leading roles and fell in love.
The senior year, however, demanded a lot from me, and being mentally ill, (about which I had no insights) I found that I needed some “help” to get through the day. In spite of this, I still won the title of “Most Talented in the School” at graduation.
My father, as a physician, kept all sort of medications in their bathroom cabinet, and at an early age, I discovered that my mother took a very strong amphetamine “for a little boost in the afternoon” and Dexedrine, and my father had huge bottles of Darvon. So I found my place in life with speed, Darvon and Seconal, to come down. I would carry them in my pocket throughout the day, eating them without water whenever I felt the need…frequently. This addiction to speed and Darvon continued until I was thirty four years of age.
I remember leaving the gynecologist’s office in late 1968 with the knowledge that I was pregnant. I could not comprehend this- because I was sick- or way too immature. I had an abortion, dictated by my Mother, who was the only person who knew, BEFORE IT WAS LEGAL at an undisclosed place. I was given eye glasses that were painted black and followed a voice to a vehicle, in which we drove to some sort of office with an examining room. I was sent into a bathroom and told to undress. I stood there, completely naked, no gown, for a long time. I was dazed. A woman entered, without speaking, took my arm and injected a needle into it and left me there standing on a cold floor. All I remember, after that, was waking up in a dark office on a couch, sick to my stomach. Driving home alone, I vomited in my car and felt sick for days. I did not know the doctor (if he was a doctor) or where the abortion was performed. This was the only opportunity that I ever had to bear children.
At the age of eighteen, in 1968- I went off to Northwestern University to study theatre. This was a prestigious school, and I was proud to be going there, although I still lacked a foundation of my own social skills. I felt lost- but could play out an identity- a student and an artist…a deep thinker…and ate Darvon like candy.
I did well academically- especially with the help of my pills- but sleep was difficult. I became known as a flower child- which I fully embraced. I started smoking marijuana in high school, and continued for the next seven years, every day… street drugs and psycho-tropic drugs are not a healthy combination.
However, after the first year of school, I began the second year with symptoms of bipolarity entering my behavior. I now lived off campus with three other women, a radical feminist, who would often sleep with her lover with the door left open, my “best friend” and someone whom I never really knew.. Breaking up with my first lover, after a long relationship- I believe, was the catalyst for this first… breakdown. Not being at all prepared for independent life- I ate cereal for every meal, started missing classes- and staying in bed all day long. Severe depression- my first full-fledged episode, and here I was in Chicago.
My parents were alarmed and ordained that I should see a psychiatrist right away, much to my dismay. The doctor was useless, and I thought-dense. The medical model of mental health was in the very dark ages in 1969. I became suicidal and eventually I left school, in good standing, and came home. To what? Chaos.
After returning to Wayne State University to continue my studies, I met and eventually married an actor whom I met at the Hillberry Theatre at 1971. He was making a musical version of Ray Bradblury’s “Dandelion Wine” for his Masters Thesis. We worked on plays together in the Hillberry Studio and the Bonstelle Theatre. And at the Jewish Center Aaron DeRoy theatre. It was there that worked together on “Fiddler on the Roof”…with Doug in the tailor’s role. How fun.
He was four yrs. my senior and lived on campus in a roach ridden apartment with three other men. ( It was there that I became pregnant.) I eventually married Jim, barefoot on a beach, at dawn. We traveled in an old Buick to the West coast, after the wedding, in search of work. We constructed a tent every night and slept on the ground. I was an unhappy little girl.
Eventually we had to head back to Doug’s parent’s home, South of Chicago. We found jobs working for a traveling children’s theatre company which performed at private and parochial schools throughout the Midwest. We lived in dingy motels and traveled in a small truck, filled with our set, costumes, props, and four other ‘strange” cast members. At each appointment, we needed to rush in our pieces of the set- arrange lights, props, dress in costumes and perform. Then, we did the whole operation in reverse. We had at times, four bookings a day. I was an unhappy little girl. But, the marriage didn’t last; I was very sick. We remain friends- he opened a theatre in NYC which is still viable after thirty years..
I confessed my addiction to prescription medication, and I began seeing a psychoanalyst four times a week, who diagnosed me with an “atypical affective disorder”…bipolar disorder was not even in the PDR yet- this was 1971. I would talk and talk, as she sat there rarely speaking a word. During 1971-76, Dr. Berman hospitalized me for six visits to Sinai 4-south. And in those days, a patient stayed for five, six weeks. I have ghastly memories from hospitals. People, including myself, were treated with medication. These medications turned nearly everyone into shuffling, stumbling, drooling, inarticulate fools. I developed a severe inferiority complex, considered myself different and wrong/bad/sick, and shrunk from social intercourse.
During one final hospital stay, Dr. Berman said that Doug had to leave the apartment before I returned home. I never fully understood why, but followed doctor’s orders. Doug was stunned, quickly moving out, taking half our books, some wedding presents, but very little else. Of course, I came home to a vacated, quiet and empty apartment.
I bounced around to different living arrangements until I ended up in shame at home…where I hid in my bedroom. The “live-in maid”, Louise, the dearest woman, would bring me up meals on a tray, or when no one was at home, I would sneak around and feed myself. These are days that are difficult to remember, because I felt such severe chronic depression.
The next twenty years blur together, although some events remain in my memory. I was quite sick and miserable. I lived in a commune in my early twenties. I was the lowest on the social totem pole, and was ridiculed and chastised for my bazaar behavior. During the year that I lived there, I needed to maintain a charade. I was attending the ‘day hospital” for out-patient psychiatric patients, but told everyone in the home…that I worked there! No one noticed anyway.
After that living situation, I joined a group of high powered feminists, sharing a large home with three other women on the East side of Detroit. They worked at the Feminist Women’s Health Center, and were activists in the feminist movement. This influenced me, greatly. I remain a feminist at heart, although today- women do not understand what preceded them in the 60’s and 70’s when we fought for woman’s rights. A suicide attempt ended my residency with these fine women.
By the age of twenty-five, I was experiencing renewed health, and was now in the school of education at Wayne State University in Detroit, doing very well. I won the Horace Mann Honor Society Award for academic excellence- did my student teaching, and became sick again as I neared completion of my classes, dropping classes left and right. In the hospital again. I continued with the same psychoanalyst throughout my twenties- and until I was thirty-two when I confessed that I had started taking speed again. She dismissed me. I saw dozens of therapists after that, every flavor.
I still had my addiction to drugs and marijuana but- had an ethic- I would NEVER come to the theatre high!! Even though I lived apart from the ‘main circle’ of actors at the theatre- I was recognized for my skill as an actor, and did many plays. But, otherwise, I was an outcast. My close friend at the theatre knew I was mentally ill- and I guess that knowledge became infectious. But, I faced that outcast status with courage, because I was doing what I loved.
We ran the whole shebang. Built sets, put up risers, vacuumed before every audience, putting out furniture in the small lobby, cleaned bathrooms, managed subscription members, rehearsed into the late hours of the night. I represented the theatre at the Chamber of Commerce in Royal Oak, and got to know many of the other store owners…this was very early in Royal Oak’s development. Our costumes were often chosen from our wardrobes, although eventually we had a seamstress who built some costumes. I remember tracking sand all over the theatre rug, when we did Edward Albee’s “Seascape”, hunting down WWII uniforms, cots, netting, props for my youth theatre show of “Mash”, dressing and changing in cramped backstage quarters, making prop food on a burner in the tech room before a show.
My thirties and forties were lost to my illness. I suffered severly with social phobia and anxiety disorders. The medication was more than inadequate- I would have blurry vision, fuzzy speech and many other side effects from the crude medication that I was taking in those early years. This just compounded my difficulty. Medication is much better today- especially with the introduction of SSRI’s in the late 80’s although there is still NO way to measure the chemicals of the brain. I was hospitalized twenty-three times during the following thirty years. A real loser, except for my career in theatre. Unlikely combination?
It was unfortunately during this long stretch of time, living on the very outskirts of society, my social growth suffered. I lagged far behind those of my own age, whom were marrying, purchasing houses, advancing careers, raising families. Was oblivious to this other lifestyle. I did not learn the appropriate skills required to live effectively, comfortably among other people. I performed my way through social interactions, still avoiding other people, because of my fear. This loss of social development affects me to this day.
I found it very difficult to enter, or pass through a room full of people, so I would stand at the doorway watching, but, not entering in most cases. I wished to be invisible, But, I remained functional as a teacher of creative dramatics and theatre arts in spite of my difficulties. I would literally walk out of a hospital and into a classroom. Thank my Dear Lord for this ability. Teaching theatre is my passion to this day. Performing in a play is a powerful tool for offering positive opportunities to young people in which to succeed every time. Skillfully directed, anyone can act! And they did!
I taught creative dramatics to all ages in The Southfield Public School System (after writing a proposal for a grant in The Special Ed department) I was successful in earning the grant and taught ‘emotionally impaired and learning disabled’ students for six years. I leaned that creative thinking and performing did NOT rest on cognitive ability. I was very successful- did local cable presentations of some of the plays, and received many letters of recommendation- I have a pile of them.
However, on one occasion, my class of the emotionally impaired was invited to perform at another school as guests. This was a big deal! An honor. The entire Special Education Department was recognized for this. Before we left to go to the other school on the specially charted bus- I could not find the script to the play anywhere, frantically looking. As it turned out, a few of the children forgot their lines, and I was helpless- just stood there, mortified. Everyone was looking at me to do something. The show groaned to a stop. A very long stop. We could not continue. The children were devastated, the teacher embarrassed and furious at me. I lost the job.
However, from the years of 1979 until 1986 I was still taking speed, stealing it. I felt that it was necessary to take medications in order to function. I would wake up, take a pill, and then lie back down in bed to wait for it to work. My days were full of rehearsals, college, traveling to different schools to teach, daily living skills. And trying to maintain relationships…which was not my strong point…a lot for me to handle. Often overwhelming.
I lost every one of the jobs I earned except one. I remember at Roeper School. (a school for the gifted) the Headmaster discovered that I was on speed. She took me into her office. She allowed me an opportunity to go into a setting where I could overcome my addiction. Unfortunately, I returned to school still desperately needing speed and she let me go. She told me: “you are the most creative teacher I have ever known. What a shame”…I’ll never forget that!
At the age of thirty-five, in 1985, my mother institutionalized me in a private, unlicensed group home and used all the money I had inherited from my grandmother and father to pay the $2,000 a month fee. Ethel said, “I just couldn’t handle her anymore”. My mother did not like to even look at me when I was sick…when I needed her to assist with my medication regime- she would leave each days dose on the back porch for me, in a little plastic bag, while she remained in the house. These three years in the crowded group home, were the worst in my life- oppressive, morgue-ish, cold, off the chart madness..but I did not have access to drugs anymore, and stopped abusing them.
I ran away- and lived in a cheap motel on Woodward for five months. I used my bathroom as a kitchen and ate mostly fast food and pizzas. It was a relief to be free of the restrictions and rules of the group home. I made a number of friends at ‘The Palm”; we would hang out at the pool chit-chatting and have meals together. A number of families rented kitchenette rooms and lived at them motel for a long periods of time. It was a comfortable place.
One night I woke up to the sound of the local police shaking me and yelling at me. A horrible way to be wakened from sleep. As a matter of fact- it was my deep sleep, that prevented me from hearing the volume on my TV. I had aroused suspicion about my well-being when my TV continued to blare throughout the night; no one could rouse me. Someone finally called the police. No harm done, but I remember seeing the bewilderment on the faces of the officers as they tried to understand how I could sleep through all the noise. Of course, I did not tell them that I was prescribed heavy duty sleeping pills.
In my classes, we would methodically go about mounting a full-fledged production dozens of times. This process served to elevate the young persons sense of self respect. I treated my students with respect and camaraderie. I had no issues with classroom management skills. After warming up with improvisation, we would get down to serious work. I would chose a play, we would audition, rehearse in a professional manner, learn lines, rehearse some more and finally perform live on stage! One of the highlights of my life took place standing in the rear of the darkened theatre, watching my students perform…filled with gratitude for the opportunity to have helped shape in some way, their development. If a student entered my class in the beginning, a bit shy, withdrawn, self-conscious, then, after the entire process, and finding himself pulling off a role in a play, transformations have occurred
In between shows and other activities, I would fall-away, crash and attempt suicide- five times. After a suicide attempt, a stint on a respirator, I would find myself AGAIN in a hospital psych ward..they were dreadful places- (one of my commissioned plays deals with this). I’ve visited many, many hospitals, private and public in the Detroit area. One does not often experience any rehabilitation in these places- no way! They are holding…cells, preventing ostensibly, folks from killing themselves. Suicides are messy, and must be curtailed…that was the only operative philosophy.
After one particularly long stay at the hospital, I decided to separate myself from my other and her money, finally. Now, without any insurance- I was told that I now needed to go to a state operated institution in Pontiac. I was instructed to bring only one suitcase, to avoid having my belongings stolen! I was stoic. I was on my own. What a ball the other patients had as I gifted them with my clothes and belongings. Two armed officers met me at the elevator and escorted me to a police van. I sat in the back of the paneled van on a little stool. The hospital in Pontiac was a huge, dark haunted place, with tall gray walls covered in vines. I was led in, had my purse taken and was ushered into a totally white empty room with one molded orange chair in the middle, where I sat for about an hour. It was cold and quiet.
After seeing the doctor, it was determined that I was no longer a threat to myself or society and was let go. But, I had no where to go, and six dollars. After that- I knew that it was time to strike out on my own, completely forget my mother, and get out….I would find a way.
It was at that crucial time, that I remember a theatre I had heard of, fairly nearby, that was run by Christians I had heard. Even though I was raised Jewish, I had the impression that Christians were kind people, perhaps even caring, and this is exactly what I needed at this point.
So, I attended their next membership meeting.-(I WAS ALWAYS A SURVIVOR)! Every tine I would leave a hospital, I truly believed that that would be my final visit- and now I was on the road to recovery, happiness and a hopeful future. HA! How untrue! Yet- I had optimism, most of the time. This optimism had a hand in saving my life, I believe strongly.
I met with the Artistic Director of the Christian theatre the following day- and she asked me, based on my experience, to direct a one act in their upcoming season. After that, when she learned about my living situation, she invited me to come to live in the spare room in her home. Free room and board- I stayed there for a years. They included me in the activities of the family- and I experienced my first Christmas with the Bennigan family. A warm, cozy, memorable occasion.
I did direct the one act that season. After the show opened, I was unable to attend the performance, due in part to my enormous social anxiety after years of isolation, and because I had developed a fear of leaving the house.
The day after the opening, a Saturday afternoon- one of the actors in the play I directed called me to find out why I had been absent the night before. She came over to where I was living in Redford with the elderly woman, and I ended up pouring my heart out to her- something I had never done to anyone, that I can remember! My illness was a carefully kept secret. She understood, with compassion and graciousness and invited me to attend her church. From then on I lived with the Bennigan family.
I had never stepped foot inside a church- I had never even uttered the word “Jesus Christ” or knew anything about this strange faith. But, very fortunately, first thing, I sat down with their “lay” pastor, Paul Patton (now Dr. Paul Patton, head of a Theatre Dept. at a major, private University in Michigan). He had formally worked as a high school counselor in Detroit, but had a huge heart for service to to others and love. He was also a musician, playwright and actor- and opened the Christian Theatre about which I spoke as a ‘Ministry’ to help people who needed encouragement and a place to belong. Well, indeed, we got along fabulously- this was about 1988, and he introduced me to a church member who was a highly skilled therapist. I saw Megan for nine years.
It was in Megan’s office inside her lovely Ferndale home- that I first realized that I existed inside my body. Now, I realize that this sounds strange, or unimaginable, but let me attempt to explain. I liked my lips, and immediately knew that there was a sensation INSIDE MY SKIN that created, initiated that action. That some force internally had dictated that simple action. And that that was indeed Laura deciding to lick her lips. It was a seemingly unrealistic epiphany, I’ll never forget to this day how that felt- that discovery.
What followed was a long discovery phase- learning who Laura was- a part of myself had already clearly been demonstrated to me, a large heart- an artistic ability, and a good teacher. But not much else. It was a long journey that followed, carefully and lovingly guided by my therapist- of uncovering the many parts of my personality, functional and dysfunctional. I had learned to trust a very wise woman and was fortunate.
At the age of forty-one, in 1991, after a brief courtship I married a man whom I did not love enough, in order to be with someone, for security, company.. We fought, argued and nitpicked almost the entire time- except when we learned that the best arrangement was for me to stay upstairs and he would be in the basement with his rock collection.
As I gained weight, he admitted out loud that he no longer found me attractive and did not want to have sex. I would outright ask him. “Brad, do you want to make love?” “No, sorry, I don’t…I’m just not attracted to you anymore”, and I grew larger. I left him after nine years, alone again. The two suicide attempts during our marriage did not help, either. Today, we still fight occasionally, but he helps me out with money and gifts, fixing things in the house, bringing in carry-out meals, rides to the doctors for support… and I’d “cut off my right arm for him”. We have indeed matured. He is a dear man.
However, in 2002, after a particularly long depressive episode, I still did not know how to manage my illness. I traveled to Topeka Kansas, to spend four months in a clinic, a world renowned psychiatric hospital campus for therapy…out of pocket. It was a pointless exercise in spending lots of money- although I had a pleasant vacation away from home.
Shortly after returning home, I seriously did not want to live anymore. I was living alone- as I did most of my life- with little or no support network. My psychiatrist resorted to convincing me that I needed ECT treatments- a series of ten, to feel like living again. It was my final resignation. I would comply. A last resort. I had to be at the hospital at six in the morning. I hired a young man to pick me up, and drive me there and back, because I was sedated- “put under” for this extraordinary procedure. The electric shock treatments induced a seizure. I would lay in the post-op room for hours staring at the ceiling in a room with many other “beds” until the sedation wore off. This is still a cruel undertaking by our culture.
In 2001, I applied for Social Security Disability. I qualified for a very low amount- but still it was something…and I still had a little bit of an allowance from a trust my father had left the three children in 1980, at his untimely death. I moved around a lot- in some cases because I was ridiculed by neighbors, and a few other places- I had to leave to go into the hospital and could not continue my rent. And then after the recession began, our trust dropped very much in value, and I started to be scared about having enough money to live, for the first time in my life.
After losing most of the rest of my money in the about 2005- I switched to Community Mental Health care. This was a valuable opportunity to receive no-cost therapy, quality therapy, and I remain grateful to the underpaid, overworked staff in community mental healthcare. After a couple years they recognized…my talent, and commissioned me to write two plays ($1,000), that could put a personal face on mental illness, in an effort to dispel the negative stigmas our culture has about mental illness in general.
”Cry Dignity” was a full length play, about a young man with a bipolar disorder, and his real life struggles in school and at home. I worked with what the system called “Consumers” (of mental health services..like this label fooled anyone. I preferred “client” and insisted that in reference to my status, I was a “client”!) Due to the fragility of my cast members, we continually found that we had to replace a role after an actor needed to leave. This extended the rehearsal period significantly, because we basically had to start over each time we introduced a new actor into the play. I received the annual award from Oakland County Community Mental Health Authority for contributing to the effort of “Stigma Busting”. An honor.
THE EFFIVCACY OF E. M. D. R.:
The most striking, and important event in my life! occurred at the age of approximately fifty-seven, in, 2007, when I began seeing a therapist trained in a unique therapy called EMDR*- Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy. My dear therapist was highly skilled, well trained and educated in EMDR, for which I was extremely grateful. We used this new ‘PTSD’ technique for two and a half years. I disgorged many of my painful memories- (AND those that I did not remember until that point in time).
The process included Marilyn tapping my knees, after locating the pain in my body and associating it with a memory. As she tapped, I would hang my head and wait- within a few minutes: SNAP! And I would have a tantrum, screaming obscenities into a pillow to my mother, kicking my legs and hitting the couch with my fists. I had no control over this behavior. Also, through this purging process I cleansed all the negative messages about myself that I had carried with me all those years. It was freedom….(you can’t spell ‘FREEDOM’ without E. M. D. R)! This wild episode would subside after about ten minutes- and I rested for a long time before I drove home. This may sound like “hocus-pocus- voodoo” or something, but it worked! Marilyn always said that I was a hard worker! (please refer to addendum)
In 2011, walking along a stone path in the back yard of my apartment, I tripped and fell head first into a newly pruned bush. A sharp branch pierced my right eye, “a global rupture”. I was in surgery at the University of Michigan hospital for four hours. I lost sight in that eye.
Now, some people said how well I took this “ tragedy”…ha ha, it was a piece of cake. After EMDR- I learned to accept everything and still remain stable. If one does not accept what has actually happened in reality, they can chose to blame someone/thing, get angry, internalize the pain, feel sorry for themselves, cry and experience depression. Each of these reactions causes suffering. One must just accept. Makes life a lot easier. There has been no one event in my life that even compares to the past misery of the hospitals and agony of my illness. Nothing
.
When the value of our family trust dropped completely, 2011 I was told I could no longer receive money. This left me without resources- and in an urgent position. Because I was out of money- I had to navigate through the system to find a place to live. I was stable, and intelligent- so I started to research. What was out there?
I applied to a HUD subsidized senior home, where I reside now. A long two-story red brick home, with approximately one hundred single bedroom apartments and four double bedroom units. The hallways are very long, the lobby lounge area has old and worn furniture. But, most everyone here is eager to make friends, and behave kindly towards each other. Yet, we are very good at keeping our personal business to ourselves. I have food stamps, medicaid, and medicare. Social Security disability. I DO NOT MIND staying on a stringent budget. After much practice, I know how to buy what I need, not what I want. I have learned from experience- that money IS NOT the source of happiness.
At this time, in the present day, I know that I do not succeed well in male/female “dating” type relationships. It could be my social isolation, retardation. I’m not sure. But, I try anyway. I visit available free dating sites online, constantly checking to see if I have received a message, wondering what I should write on my profile to get across the message that I AM A VALUABLE person- worthy of getting to know! I’m more frustrated by this state of affairs than disappointed. Living alone can be a hardship. But I believe that this is where I will live out my life- so I feel right at home!
I experience life like I have never known it. I still teach, and do short plays- but I have some joy in my life. I have been a vegetarian for three years now and am in excellent health. I have just a few very close friends, whom I adore. I feel very, useful here, in the senior home, and I help out a lot of other folks in the building, because I have a computer and a car. And I listen and interact with everybody. I love. I’ve learned to stay in my body at times, and in the moment at times. I meditate when I remember to do so. I spend some time in my jewelry studio, a hobby of twenty-five years or so. I’ve shown at galleries and art fairs, but mostly give my jewelry away, or sell it at a reasonable, very reasonable price. I seek out causes to fight for, letter campaigns to write, political change to endorse; I wave my sword at windmills most likely, but the 60’s activism has left it’s imprint on me.
I can say, unadulterated- that I am content. At peace and content! I wake up eager to start the day. I ‘manage’ my illness. I’m on a medication regime, which I follow religiously. I do not stay in highly stimulating places for very long- leave an event as soon as I recognize that I need to. I lay down on my bed to rest periodically during the day, with my beloved Pomeranian “Buddy”, my roommate. My sleep patterns are regular. I am in touch with my body and understand my limitations very well. I am stable, do not experience depression or mania. Hallelujah!
With much help along the way, I did it! And I’m here to write about it.
Thank-you for the privilege.