#IWSG – July 2017 Check in – Depression Really Ain't All That

I'm not going to start this with the usual organ recital of how I had an essential tremor episode, landed in the hospital, came out and got the Plague that everyone had for about 40 years it seemed, but was closer to 7 weeks and then had my cell phone stolen, and then I went to bed depressed for two months, until I got sick of my own pitifulness and drop-kicked my ass out of bed. We've all been there in one form or another, and my particular pity-part seems to be “I suck, hate myself, never did anything good, am a rotten person and cannot do anything well...” What horseshit.

Any one who has to deal with mental illness goes through this cycle and we know that things will get better. I'm at my best when I'm fighting for something I believe in, or if I have a job to do. Simple stuff; easy-peasy. And I've got the tools to take me to next step.

Anyway, it's time for me to move on to the next step and get on with my life. Symphony rehearsal starts in about 7 weeks and I've been approached by NTI, a company that provides work-at-home jobs for people with disabilities; the extra money will help.

I NEED to start writing again too. When I'm really creative, it keeps the bats out of my brains and keeps me motivated. I'm sorry I just sort of dropped out of sight. Alex Cavanaugh and Juneta Key came looking for me, just as I was climbing out of that hole. Thanks, you two, and to any others who may have sent emails I missed, thanks to you as well! I know you care! I hope everyone has a productive #IWSG month!

DEPRESSION - SOME PEOPLE JUST DON'T "GET IT"

Israel Robledo

(Reprinted from ParkinsonsOutreach.wordpress.com)

"Having seen the news articles today about Robin Williams’ Parkinson’s Disease diagnosis, this post from May 2013 is intended to share that not all that hear the news will understand the serious nature of what those of us whom deal with depression and Parkinson’s Disease have to endure. As a result of the untimely death of Robin Williams, we have been afforded an opportunity to raise awareness to a higher level and educate others to the greatest extent possible.

Some people don't have a clue what living with depression is about and just don't "get it". These are the most difficult type of people to convince that depression is real because these are the same people that don't "get it". It took me a while to realize this when, a few years ago, I asked a co-worker what she did to cope with states of depression or "down" days. She responded that she never got depressed. So much of my time had been spent on trying to figure out what I was doing wrong in dealing with depression, and all the while I had not realized that not everyone was affected by depression.

I have come to the conclusion that depression for me is not something to be embarrassed about. A mental illness is an illness nonetheless, and it is something that needs to be dealt with, attention brought to it, and encouraging people whose lives are affected to seek help to make their lives more bearable, which leads to a better quality of life. I've said that I've dealt with the symptoms of depression for more than half of my life. I tried convincing myself that it was something that all people went through. I tried counseling, that for me was a waste of time and money when I kept being told that I shouldn't feel that way and that there was more to look forward to in life. I tried different combinations of medications (prescribed by a family physician) for depression that seemed to make the condition worse.

The break-through for me, came from having dealt with depression in spite of having a Parkinson's Disease diagnosis, and being depressed as a result of having Parkinson's Disease. For many years, Parkinson's Disease has been known as a movement disorder. It has only been brought about in the last few years that it also has non-motor symptoms associated with it that had been dismissed sometimes flippantly as "it's all in your head", or "you're too young to have Parkinson's Disease, so you must be making these symptoms up'. As most of the people that you meet whom live with Parkinson's Disease, and those also affected by depression, what causes the symptoms may be part of the neurological system that includes the brain, but it is definitely not something that we sit around and conjure up just to make our lives miserable.

My movement disorders specialist, by virtue of having listened to the issues that I was dealing with, aside from the motor symptoms of Parkinson's Disease, recommended as part of my treatment regimen, an anti-depressive, that thankfully allowed for relief from the symptoms of depression. I see it as finally being able to step on solid ground, with a fighting chance of having a good quality of life, and knowing that things can get better.


What frightens me is that there are many people living with the symptoms of depression that don't know where to turn for help. If this post helps someone to realize that living with depression is not something to be embarrassed about and that it is possible to get relief from the symptoms, then sharing my journey will not have been in vain."

I linked back to Israel's original post and posted it here, because it cannot be stated enough: Depression Kills. Pure and simple, and when coupled with a diagnosis of some type of movement disorder (my particular brand of hell is called essential tremor, e. t. or "Parkinson's Lite" all the symptoms, only half the meds) the effect is all the more devastating for the simple fact that where you once had one battle that sucked, you now have two, and they REALLY suck. Probably the thing that bothers me the least is the fact that I am legally blind; no biggie.

But, as to depression and movement disorder, you are talking about two things that are just overwhelmingly hard to deal with. As Israel so rightly points out, you spend years of hearing idiot doctors say "it's all in your head" or supposedly well-meaning friends tell you to "pull yourself up by your bootstraps". In my case, this advice led to some near-homicidal behavior on my part, because I know it's all horseshit. The doctor was one of these guys who had one foot out the door on his way to retirement, and when he tried to blame my condition and my description of my symptoms on my bipolar diagnosis (which was new) I looked at him and said, "But, I had these symptoms BEFORE I was diagnosed!" to which he had no answers and no more straws at which to clutch. The primary concern for him, was that I was on Medicaid, and I would have to wait another entire year for Medicare, although I already had my full Disability, in a record 5 months time. 

To my one jackass roomie, who tried to tell my other roomie in the homeless shelter that she needed to "pull herself up by her bootstraps", it took two men to keep me from throwing her off the porch. So reminiscent of what I had heard from my own mother, although she herself suffered from depression and tried to commit suicide when I was seven years old, it brought a white-hot rage at the unfairness of such a statement. My poor mother, caught in the grips of a suicidal depression and a bleakness that was unfathomable at times, naturally took it out on me, the only child. But, her childhood was far worse. One of the wisest decisions I ever made was to NEVER have children and I can enjoy my friends' kids and now, grandkids.

But, this is about a man who was loved and adored by millions. What I find so striking and in hindsight, seems so apparent, but isn't it always, is this: Robin Williams comedy always had a tinge of the desperate to me. He WANTED and NEEDED to be liked so badly, and tried so hard. What seemed so effortless to some, seemed frantic to me and this is no criticism; it is an observation. God knows, I've had my share of neediness, and it's not worth a shit. I got waaay over that with husband number three, the God-Forsaken William Nunnally, philanderer extraordinaire. What a poseur and phony. 

But I am mentally ill; make no mistake about it. I tell everyone. I have seen God in an ice cube, licked the windows and tried to sleep in the fridge, during a psychotic break, after no sleep, because my Daddy died in his sleep. The fact that he died in 1987 and the psychotic break occurred in 2012, some 25 years earlier, makes no damn sense whatsoever, but there you are. I lost time, and spent a March I don't remember (Mental Awareness Month!) in the hospital. When I came to, the first thing the doctor asked me what I was trying to do. I wasn't entirely sure, but it wasn't trying to kill myself. I was trying to keep from NOT dying. . . or something. He lifted the Baker Act, which he declared the shortest in history, and turned me loose three days later.

I manage the SHIT out of my disease and my e. t., but I can pull the crazy card, when needed, since I live in an area where Batshit Street and Dumb Avenue intersect. We had the great good fortune of having the stupid guy who was a pain in the ass in the Family Dollar Store, become a pain in the ass to one whole city block, two blocks south, a week or so ago. Somehow, word got out that "he had guns or something, and a girl or something" and this part of town, being this part of town, the next thing you know, the Tampa Police Department show up, with what looked like fifty SWAT teams, and evacuated all of the block on 18th Avenue. So, no one could go to church, or the diner, or whatever the hell they do on Sunday mornings. 

Anyway, seven and a half hours later, they figured out with infra-red, or something; maybe a crystal ball, that there was only one individual in the house, so three or ten of the SWAT teams kicked the door in and cleared the rooms. They found the culprit, hiding in a back bedroom, curled up under one of the beds. I guess his Hogwart's Cloak of Invisibility had worn off, or the warranty was no good. Honestly, did this igmo think that once the TPD hauls out the heavy artillery, they're just gonna go away?

I bring this up, because I am in a Clinical Trial and occasionally I have to leave at around 6:15 am and catch the bus, to go downtown to get another bus to go to Armenia Avenue, where the Clinic is. It's usually calm and quiet, but a few mornings ago, I was standing there in my armor, with my cane and backpack, dark glasses on. Here comes Otis, or Ice, or whoever, after being up all night, pants dragging around his ass, and he starts in "Dey bitches took all mah money and cigs, now I don't usually ask, but" -- I hold my hand up. "Stop right there. I am not giving you any money and I don't smoke." So, Otis/Ice/whoever starts again. I hold up my hand and repeat myself, a little stronger this time. Take number three, "Dey bitches--" I explode "WHAT FUCKIN' PART OF I'M NOT GIVIN' YOU ANY FUCKIN' MONEY AND I DON'T FUCKIN' SMOKE, YOU FUCKIN' FUCK!?" Dude left the scene like his ass was on fire. I do not hesitate and if they want to get physical, I can do that to. Living on the streets and mental illness will do that to you.

Aside from that, I have to say that we are here for each other. I have a network of friends online, and in real life who suffer debilitating depression. I have been depressed this summer, but it's situational and personal, and mainly the reason I have not been writing. Like Stephen Frye, the sun will come out again, that I know. It's not over for me at all and my health is good. My life is not at all what I imagined it would be, but it's a rich and full life. I'm not a failure, and people respect me and what I "do" although sometimes I'm not even sure I know what I do. I still fix computers from home and help my neighbors. I even have an audition coming up, which I never expected. Trying to play with e. t. is a bit challenging. I have to play when I'm on those meds.

But, for someone like Robin Williams, who was so very gifted and so loved to have taken his life is such a goddamned shame and unconscionable. People still treat mental illness as if it were something shameful and it's not. It's a cold, hard reality and it's a lying bitch. If you listen to her long enough, you'll buy into her lies. I choose not to, because I scream, shout, yell it from the rooftops and from the mountains: I am MENTALLY ILL! But it's not who I am.

I want to give a very special thank you to the Parkinson's Foundation and to the Byrd Center at USF. They are one of the Parkinson's Centers of Excellence and they have provided me with the most AWESOME neurologist in the world and the finest of treatment, which my Medicare does NOT COVER AT ALL. Although I have e. t., it is said 1 in 4 people with e. t., go on to develop Parkinson's Disease. This is not a death sentence. It is a life sentence. We live every day in this moment; it is all we have. Don't waste it!

BLOGGING CHALLENGE FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “D”

DEPRESSION AND

"PARKINSON'S DISEASE OR NON-PARKINSON'S DISEASE, THAT IS THE QUESTION"

NOTE: April is a busy month for lots of folks. It starts off well, with April Fool's Day, which I personally celebrate every day; sometimes several times a day, or an hour, if I'm having a good run. As well as this fine Challenge, Blogging from A to Z for April of 2013, April is also Parkinson's Disease Awareness month. I have Parkinson's Disease. Or not. That is the question. Stick around long enough and you will all find out the answer to the worst-kept secret since the H-Bomb recipe was sold to the USSR, back in the 50s and since this is my blog on Thursdays, I will be posting my posts here and at P.A.N.D.A. Even if you don't know anyone with Parkinson's Disease or any type of movement disorder, or you are not a caregiver for anyone, or are dealing with any type of chronic illness, you might want to browse this site. The men and women and this community are brave and wonderful, hopeful and funny people. They are my battery mates. Now, back to our Challenge here at A-to-Z!

I could be coy and state that here we have a multitude of “D” words, but today is Thursday, day 4 of the A-to-Z April Challenge and it is also Parkinson's Disease Awareness Month. I blog on most Thursdays for the P.A.N.D.A. Organization, which is a wonderful group that provides support to folks with Parkinson's, or PD, or their caregivers. Most people associate this movement disorder with Michael J. Fox, who has young onset PD, or Muhammad Ali, who may or may not have acquired PD or Parkinsonism during is delayed career after his boxing license was re-instated. Like so many neuro-muscular with all of the inherent symptomology and untangling of the physical and mental aspects, it is hard to pinpoint any one specific cause for these conditions. My PD or not-PD is not yours and vice versa. It's hard to quantify and eludes labeling.

My friend, YumaBev (Twitter @YumaBev and Parkinson's Humor) is a HUGE advocate for PD. She sings "I don't need no rockin' chair, 'cause I'm rockin' on my own!"

I am currently among the undiagnosed and non-medicated for that,  and my story is not unique, although my manifestations of the disease or condition or visitation, for the more celestially and whimsically inclined are unique to me, as are my outlooks and reactions to the whole shebang. I have had a whale of a journey to get here, just right here, right now, typing this to you A-to-Z-ers and P.A.N.D.A. Folks. I guess we all have these sorts of stories where we come in after the intermission and are trying to get caught up.

You haven't missed all that much. Just know that people with neuro-muscular disorders of any stripe, I find, tend to suffer from depression and black it is when it hits. There is of course, the usual raging debate, about whether or not this really exists. It does and it is ferocious in its callous disregard for a person's progress. Pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps is not an answer. More often than not, the etiology is biochemical, as I found when I had a psychotic break after not sleeping for a month and woke up a month later in a mental ward with tremors and a patchy short-term memory. The fun was only beginning.

Testing for PD doesn't exist and I, in the course of the past year, with careful observation of myself, reading, conversation with other Parkinson's Disease patients, memories of my life and my family life (I am an only child, no offspring and both parents deceased) can conclude that my mother suffered from PD or PD-like symptoms as well, though she was never diagnosed to my knowledge. After the committal to the mental ward, the psychiatrist, who concluded that I was absolutely no harm to anyone or myself, but was bipolar and prescribed accordingly and sent me on my way, also noted, that this was the least troublesome committal he'd ever dealt with; bipolarity is part of the Parkinson's. I think one of the reasons for that is I am in my late 50s, although I had exhibited symptoms for years.

I probably have more of the mental issues than physical; I do have tremors and they have really been troublesome of late. I can't play my viola without it sounding like a machine gun. ViolaFury is definitely not pleased. This brings out the not really happy part of me. This is not good. I will have to think nice thoughts or take a time out... from humanity. Just kidding. But, it really points to something that I mentioned briefly in my Beethoven post. Pissed much?

I don't do this well; by the time we're here, hostages have been taken and Haz-Mat is on the scene... Just kidding.

Mad? ViolaFury is my nom de guerre for a reason. She puts on her boxing gloves when she needs them. She may need them. I believe I mentioned the Roman empire and Emperors during their Triumphs in Ancient Rome; in a not very well-written way, I was trying to allude to their mortality and how they were reminded of it by slaves during the triumphs. Beethoven, in his way, did that to Bonaparte in his 3rd symphony. We all do that, while perversely "facing the tiger." I can put up with the spastic typing and not being able to comb my hair or wear make up. That's minor stuff.

But if I can't play Wolf? I can't play my gorgeous Guidantus viola, built in 1837, only 10 years after Beethoven died, to his (the viola's) full potential and play as I am able to play? I put on my Roman boxing gloves. They used to be made out of leather, with metal studs added and were called cestus, to inflict greater damage. I am a boxing fan; a HUGE boxing fan. I may have to dig those bad boys out of storage, and strap 'em on, to take on PD or non-PD, that is the question, because "nobody puts Wolf in the corner." Metaphorically, of course, but for real? I wish, in my little brawler heart.

Wolf and I, playing William Walton's Viola Concerto in a windstorm. The rainstorm pictures didn't work so well. Wolf doesn't like water.

In all seriousness, this is fine. I'd much rather have this facing me than the horrible black sorrow of depression, the fear that all of life is ending and the mourning over the horrific cruelties we inflict on one another with so little thought, or worse, with so much planning and intention to do the greatest harm and evil possible. If life is to have any meaning it needs to be fought for and won hard. Every single day is a celebration, an ode to happiness, joy, a will to express ourselves the best that we are able to and to love one another freely and without reservation.

If I didn't have the challenges I have had previous to this moment, I would have nothing to say or express, nothing to sing or play or write about. This is my song and this is also what my Parkinson's Awareness has given me.

#ROW80 POST 18 – IN MEMORY OF RASMUS RASMUSSEN

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to write this today, I feel so strongly and am so lost, sad and very bitter about this. The best way for me to do this is to tell the story quickly, chronologically, surgically and get the hell off the stage and let others tell it.

Back in 2007, when I was playing Runescape pretty obsessively and was a very mediocre player, I met a very, very fine player and a fine man, when I joined the Clan SpiritZ. A player named ‘Sal.’ SalSomething, he probably remembers what the rest of his player name was; I don’t. Anyway, I knew who he was, through the RS grapevine. He was pretty much like Zezima, a legend. Actually, as I later found out, he’s better than Zezima, in my humble opinion. My respect for Sal has only grown as I’ve gotten to know him over the years. Sal rocks, as a player, a computer whiz and an all-around great person. Shit, let the waterworks begin.

Time goes along, he and I are on SpiritZ Council together. It’s like I have diarrhea of the mouth, he says 3 words, where I say 8 pages of nothing, to say when one of the other players comes up with stupid ideas. He gets it done; he says, "no", I say "blah," repeat 8k times. We’re perfect that way together. We both keep in touch through my losing it, taking abuse from a domestic partner, and being hospitalized, homeless, getting an apartment and on SSDI. The whole thing, Sal’s right there, saying his 3 words, but being encouraging to me, as I blabber all of this to him. He listens to me and says 3 words at the right time. 

I have my famous melt-down (well, to me) when I stay up all of February and forget and am hospitalized most of March. I meet Andi-Roo and read her “Depressionis a Lying Bitch, Wouldn't' You Say?” and I understood clearly for the first time why I went through all of that shit, and for the very first time in my 56 years, my life was drilled down to that crystal-sharp diamond point. It matters. Cruelty and uncaring-ness, attitude. It ALL matters. How we treat one another, how we treat ourselves. This is life. We should care about it passionately. But not to the point that we bruise, bully, maim and injure others.

My psychiatrist understood immediately that I wasn’t depressed-depressed from all of the ‘homeless’ stigma people threw at me. It was deeper than that. We started medication for bipolar. We’d have to change meds, later to Topamax. I went on Runescape and ran into Sal. I had been in a “manic” phase, but I was like that most of the time anyway. I said, “Hey, Sal Hi, blabber blabber blabber blabber blabber blabber blabber blabber blabber blabber. I’m bipolar.”

Sal said, “So am I.” I said, “I didn’t know.”

He said, “I may have mentioned it. I ” I know now he did. Because the week before last, the day after I read and watched the video that George Takei urged everyone on FB to watch the special message he recorded for the Presidential election, which I did, although I’ve already voted for President Obama, and you can see here Sal popped up and responded to a comment I’d made to Zeitgest2012, in a most “unSal-like” way. We talked back and forth for a few moments. I just knew something was not right with my friend. What we talked about is precious to me, it’s ours, but what I learned is a very, very close friend of his died by his own hand.

A very dear and talented man that he met in the asylum, named Rasmus Rasmussen killed himself. Sal and Rasmus Rasmussen met in the asylum during their respective stays there for depression. That is what they are called in Europe, “asylums.” We don’t call them asylums here. We call them hospitals, or state hospitals. I’ve gotten to stay there. I’ve had other friends go to asylums and state hospitals and hospitals. I just am so, so very glad that Sal came to talk to me. This is why I always reach out. A fine, and beautiful person is dead because he was bullied and because he felt alone and because he was silent. Frankly, I think we should call them asylums, here, too. Because, my dears, that shit is rough, asylum-rough. We're sick, but it's a sickness that you have to be tough to weather and we just simply cannot do it alone.

This is just beyond the pale. Rasmus Rasmussen produced music and wrote music. His music soared with birds. He wrote of eagles, crows. His spirit was expansive. His was so vast, the earth couldn’t contain him. His was so generous, he gave kindly and expansively and helped others to share their music. He worked with different genres, lots of black/doom metal, but I’ve heard tons of life-affirming music that he has written and produced. My muse and protector, Beethoven; were he alive, he'd be into all of this, metal, rock and roll, all of it. I listened to Pink Floyd's "The Delicate Sound of Thunder." Younger friends don't believe me when I tell them that I like Rammstein. 

I can’t really do justice with words when a tragedy of this magnitude occurs, and make no mistake it is a magnificent tragedy, in the most ironic sense of the term. That a man, from Iceland, is bullied to the point of extreme mental illness in a European country that should be a guiding light for civilized behavior is ironic. I would expect that of the United States. That the same man; ferociously gifted and loved by many, should feel so bereft and loathed and alone and in agony that killing himself is the only way to end that terror and pain is so pointedly, catastrophically wrong, that it’s really a crime against nature, and that’s ironic, isn’t it?

The only thing of any good, any worth and I think it’s damn fine, is that someone reached out. Someone went to someone. Sal. He came to me, to tell me about his friend. You see, none of us with mental illness are weak, or need to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. We’re stronger than the hottest cauldrons of Hell. We burn hotter than the Sun. But eventually? We’ll break, if we don’t have a lifeline, or just a voice out there in the wilderness. So, for Rasmus Rasmussen, his spirit out there now, up there flying with the eagles, swifts and crows he so very obviously loved, you haven’t died in vain. You’re remembered. I may not have know you then, but I do now, Rasmus Rasmussen. Thank you.

There is a beautiful tribute from some fellow collaborators and musicians at the wonderful blog, "Let Me Introduce You" This post is written in English, but it seems the "home" language, if there is such a thing anymore is Italian.

So, Sal, this is for you, especially, and all of our friends, for everyone, really. "Nessun Dorme" by Giaccamo Puccini, from the opera, "Turandot."  This was the last opera Puccini wrote and it was unfinished when he died. I've played this opera several times and when the tenor sings this aria, I always cried. I'm a real professional. Musicians don't go into music to make money. So, let me get off the stage, and let me let love take over. This is love for everyone. We're all the same.

ROW80 WEDNESDAY JULY 25, 2012 CHECK IN DAY 16

Here I was this morning, rummaging around on the internet. Oh! Look at the picture of this cat; he's sitting in a recliner and he's apparently unraveled an electric blue sweater someone had knitted. The sweater appears to have been the size of Missouri from all the yarn strewn around. The caption reads, "Yeah, I didn't know I could knit, either." Ho ho ha ha. High hilarity indeed. I just love shit like that.

And so it goes. Linda Ellerbee used to say that when she signed off each episode after the excellent show NBC News Overnight she co-anchored with Lloyd Dobbins. This was an experimental new show that was on after David Letterman around 2 am-ish, on NBC back during the Piltdown Man era, whenever that was. All I remember is that it was summer and I was between semesters in school. It was a bit more in-depth and off the wall. Of course, it lasted about 4 minutes and was whisked off to TV Heaven, where Good Shows Go To Disappear.

So, while I was traipsing around the internet this morning I ran across a fascinating article regarding Christopher Nolan's Batman Trilogy. I happen to be a Batman fanatic. I'm not going to get into the horror in Aurora. Journeyman wordsmith that I am, I cannot get close to describing what I feel at all. Complex feelings, especially ones on this horrific a scale take me a long time to process and define, if I ever am able to. I like to be able to clarify and this I just can't sorry. It's sufficient enough for me to say it's on a par with JFK, MLK Jr., Challenger, 9/11,  and all the other "where were you's when it happened?" It's that indelible.

Language is a funny thing and once again, the language has transported me somewhere I hadn't anticipated on being. I wanted to talk about the beauty of language. I was reminded of it when I was reading the article, in today's The Daily Beast, regarding the Nolan Batman films. The author Richard Rushfield praises Christopher Nolan's cinematic trilogy, while explaining that the fanboy approach of donning a mask and wading into violence doesn't exorcise the demons, but rather, may invite them in. All pretty and florid enough and I'm paraphrasing a bit here. I like playing with verbiage. Always have. Anyway, that wasn't the phrase that tickled me. Farther on in the article, this jumped out at me:

“and orphan boys can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.”

No matter how much I tried to concentrate on the rest of the article and it's a fine one, I kept looking back up: “and orphan boys can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.” I can see, carefree boys, once hungry, shoeless, circa 1930s, which is when I always picture these nameless kids in Batman: “and orphan boys can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.” They are having the times they should have had, before they lost their parents.

My father lost his father at age 11, during the Depression. I think he sublimated most of his feelings and memories. He was my primary parent for a number of years, as my mother worked several jobs as he finished school and she also worked nights for many years, so I got to know him better than anyone. In retrospect, like everything else, I'm better at knowing what he was about than I knew him face to face.

My father was like a big kid. I do not remember him talking about his young life. He had two sisters who were several years older and he lived on a farm as a youngster, but he must have felt a lack. I'm probably grabbing at a straw that has been stretched from here to Jupiter but I bet my Daddy was a frightened little boy at the tail end of that Depression. He never said anything about it, but we carry echoes and feelings from our parents' pasts. I feel some loss, even though I never was without a parent, and it resonates in a way that it doesn't to me if I substitute "girl" for "boy." "And orphan girls can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.”  Hell, they'd probably eat me alive. I cannot put my finger on it and I have no one to ask. So, in my Mary Confuse-a-Story way, I just make shit up. Or do I?

My father's mother was a wonderful woman, a stout Wallace, born in 1890, died in 1985, remembered Kitty Hawk and marveled at Man walking on the moon and felt bad about the Challenger, but she was very, very pragmatic and had no time for children's fears or vapors. They were crofters and I remember her killing a chicken on Sundays for dinner. When we visited, I think we had electricity, but there was no running water and we had to use chamber pots. What an adventure. What a pain, my mother said.

When we moved to California in 1962, I didn't see Daddy's Ma again until I returned to Ann Arbor in 1979. She was tough. She still lived near the upper peninsula of Michigan in Indian River to be near my Aunts, Mary and Shirley; she didn't care for California. She thought it was too "bright and fast." I think my father thought so, too. Anyway, this is probably my worst all over post ever, from a writerly point of view. I just can't seem to get it organized. But you know what? This whole thing has been a crap shoot from the beginning. I'm not going to stress. I'm still embryonic and I have a long way to go before I start thinking about Pulitzers or Peabodys. Yeah, I know; I'm delusional. So, while I know this isn't my best effort and I apologize, I know it's probably not the bottom of the worst slush pile you've ever read.