#ROW 80 – 3RD QTR – SUNDAY CHECK IN – DEPRESSION STEW WITH A SIDE DISH OF NIHILISTIC SALAD

"THIS DIDN'T COME TO STAY, IT CAME TO PASS" -- NANCY COOPER

I have been dealing with this situation for the last 6 or 7 weeks, which is already stupid, because I have better things to do than play Hot Potato with Doctor's Offices, Insurance companies, Pharmacies and Drug companies (I have used my 1 Cymbalta coupon for the year already.) I cannot get a steady supply of my Cymbalta. I take 30 Mg per day and it works well for me. Years ago, shortly after my mother died, I took Zoloft and was unable to get over that muzzy-headed, terrible limp, don't-give-a-shit feeling. I was still married, to He Who Shall Not Be Named, and he being the narcissistic asshole kept thinking I was going to bring him into the picture, with my analyst. I never planned on doing so, because I didn't trust him. At any rate, as I was paying out-of-pocket, I soon had to stop the sessions, as I could no longer afford them. Talk analysis is a bit over-rated I believe when you're pretty sure you know the causes of the pain.


At any rate, I have fumbled along with this since the age of around 16. My mother was depressed and tried to take her own life, something I will never, never do. The horrendous trauma and the complete bewilderment of my father, along with his feelings of betrayal and loss, even though she didn't die then, pretty much put the cap on what was by then, a stormy marriage. I was 7.

I was 1 year old and my father was in school. He was my primary care-giver.

This led me to vow that I would NEVER have children, and to my shame, I aborted my baby, and kept that vow. Of course, I felt horrible, worse than horrible, but the alternative of adoption was not a choice I could live with and I knew that child would have had as bad if not worse a time as my own; I would have been a horrible mother. I cannot say that with hindsight, I may have been an O-K mom, I just know that I wouldn't have been stellar mom material. Don't get me wrong, I love children. I play with them and can talk to them and teach them and relate well. It was just never, ever in the stars for me have them, so I leave my legacy another way.


Depression is a huge battle. It goes on and on and on and on. And even when you're having good days, you just enjoy the HELL out of the them, because they don't last. But then, what does? Nothing goes on forever. Maybe, depression is God's way of telling us this isn't forever and always. But, look around. If you're halfway aware in this day and age, people are dying; in Syria, now. Back in the 50s, it was the Korean “Police Action,” 60s and 70s, Viet Nam. None of this is new. I will be depressed when I die; that is a statement of fact. How I choose to deal with it, is another matter


What is new is this, the nihilistic attitudes of people who just don't give a good goddamned about their jobs, their relationships, their reputations; anything. What follows is an excerpt of what I have been dealing with for the last 6 weeks and there is absolutely no need for this. I have supplemental insurance, I have Medicare and Medicaid. I have boatloads of friends who are willing to pay for the Cymbalta prescription I already have and none of this is necessary. I just need people to do their goddamned jobs.


Like I did, like I know my readers do. I took pride in my viola playing and being able to do the things I did. I was excellent at it and I have the reputation to prove it. The same thing in IT and I have awards on the wall here in my little place that prove I was good at what I did. I still am. I am 100 for 100 in fixing and rebuilding computer laptops this last month, my colleague and I, and we take pride in that.

I'll fix it for ya, but like violins and Mozart, Unless you're an IBM Thinkpad I hate the bastards.

So, why, tell me, why do so many people not care? A case in point. A friend of mine, Nancy, has a “hoosier” cabinet at her house not very far from her that belongs to me and was given me by my mom when she died. I left my 3rd call today in as many days to Nancy, and said “I thought we were friends. At least treat me as a person of some consequence and Just return my call. Thanks, 'Bye,”


I wouldn't have been so direct with her normally, but this is what it is like trying to get things done. Being depressed and trying to get things done, doesn't help. Then, I think I went too far and will hurt her feelings. Fuck it. I've been having my feelings hurt my whole life and no one ever gave a shit. I want to turn the back part of our place into a little music place, where I can practice and get to my music, but our kitchen is small and my hoosier will give me extra counter space. Besides, IT'S MINE.


Anyway, depression, and a lifetime of dealing with it, makes our brains different than other people's brains. I'm not going to say “normal” because I don't know what the hell that means. I never did. But what it's mean for me is a lifetime of combating feeling unworthy, unloved, useless and in some cases, helpless. Being bipolar can sometimes be a plus; I get a lot more done, like right now and I have to take advantage of that. It also keeps me away from the general populace, which is a very good thing, since most are stupid and will piss me off when I'm like this in a heartbeat. This isn't my Asperger, this is just badly-repressed rage, pure and simple. Asperger is a different sort of "doesn't play well with others," for all you MDs, DOs, PhDs, and other alphabet-soup types out there reading this shit.


It can also be a huge deficit. I have a low impulse inhibition from my essential tremor (which has been remarkable stable through this turmoil, although my COPD is really, really bad) and I will go from 0 to batshitcrazyinsane in less than 2 seconds. Cymbalta kind of mellows that out and I am more liable to, oh, I don't know, think about the consequences before I punch that cholo in the face, with a right jab, who is pissed because I can't find my wallet in my backpack, because I can't see. Maybe I should have just hit him for being so fucking stupid, since I have a cane and glasses and it's apparent I have some impairment. The reason for my insta-insanity? He was clearly impatient and I apologized. So, I said, "Hey, Cholo, you got somewhere to be? I don't think so, don't be so shitty about it." At least I didn't say "Chinga tu madre." There would have been a brawl.


The nihilism is perhaps a defense for people like Becky, the receptionist at the Psych's office who, when I called for the 2nd time Friday afternoon, after talking to Juan at Simply Health and very kindly faxed doctor's authorizations to both my Psych's offices and then waited, per Juan's instructions for 1/2 hours, said, “Hi, This is Mary Walla--” she cut me off, with "hold please" and put me on hold. For 20 minutes. All I had was a simple yes or no question. All I wanted to know was did she receive the paper work that Simply had faxed to both offices. I tried to call the other office, as well. It was 4 pm on Friday, September 13, 2013. I tried and I tried and I tried. I couldn't get through to anyone at those offices. But to just put someone on hold and then turn off all the phones? That's the second time Becky has done that to me.


As most people in the medical community know, you cannot stop treatment for depression and then start, stop and start, stop and start. It's like that for lots of conditions and illnesses. Depression is one of the worst; the yo-yo effect is horrible and JC is threatening to put me in the hospital. But he can't. As long as I'm lucid he can't. I know he's worried about me, but this is not like the time I WAS Baker Acted. I had a psychotic break, then. I feel this; as the author Harlan Ellison interview I heard on NPR, “I wake up angry.”

My parents introduced me to Ellison when I was about 8. I've read his work off and on ever since. He is a keeper.

I agree with that statement. Rage against the machine. Rage against the injustice. Fury at the outer trappings of a society so corrupt it knows not when to fall. Fury at the men and women who lie, cheat and steal their way to the top. Fury at the connivers who pass meaningless, porous laws and then compel the citizens of the land to live or die or be imprisoned by them. Work up that kind of fury that is pure and hot and meant to burn away all the corruption, sybaritic don't-give-a-good-goddamned about anything, nihilistic people who have turned this world into a cauldron of rot. Then, turn that fury to good, write letters, run for office, go to law school and become a constitutional scholar. Stoke that fury. Because this rot is here to stay and it's chromatic in the sense that it runs the spectrum; top to bottom. THAT's how I'm going to deal with this situation; I hope. 

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

PARKINSON'S DISEASE

I have talked about the fact that this is Parkinson's Disease Awareness Month, as well as the Blogging Challenge from A to Z month. What I haven't talked about is the advancement of and discovery of my own manifestations of this complex, progress and elusive disease. It's different for everyone in the way it develops and how we choose to react to it. Simply put, Parkinson's Disease is a condition where your brain ceases or slows it's production of Levadopa, a sort of "governor" endocrine chemical that regulates several of your autonomic bodily functions. Without it, weird things happen.

Well, not quite this weird. I thought I was taking a picture of the cat in the next room. This is the stove. It's fun being legally blind, or bland as my "friends" tell me. One of them said I had a future in Paranormal TV.

Depression and other mental aberrations are a frequent companion, as well as the physical symptoms. I have more trouble with tremors and later in the day, in my hands and my head and neck than any other part of my body. I do have dystonia (fancy-shmancy for cramps) in my feet when I sleep and have horrific sleep disturbances and pain in my shoulders, chest, neck and back. The pain is atypical from normal aches and pain of aging and often mimics heart attack or stroke. The back pain is not at all typical and is a deep throbbing, almost to the beat of my heart and so deep that it can become incapacitating. I have had most of these symptoms going back for the last 15 or 20 years, which would put me in the category of young-onset. They were never constant and months would pass without any symptoms at all. I did not have tremors until last March.

 

This is the cat and JC. You can see 2 white feet and also tell we're slobs about bed-making.

A little history is necessary here. I was homeless from September, 2010 until August 2011. I spent 2 months in the hospital, taken from my then-house in a domestic. I had to learn to walk again. Lots of stupid on my part, but I learned and learned for good. I have a great life now. I was already legally blind and had been since 2004. Anyway, after all the trauma and an admission that yes, I was clinically depressed, I started treatment. I received my full Disability based on my hospitalization, after 5 months, a highly unusual move by the SSA.

So, after all the trauma and drama and blah blah, I moved out of my homeless shelter. That's actually how this blog started; with my Homeless Tales, but, my sweetie and I got moved and life was good. Until February of 2012, when for some odd reason, I started being just hyper. All the time. I couldn't slow down, I couldn't sleep. At all. I don't think I slept for maybe 1 night out of 8. I was doing ridiculous things like solving quadratic equations, blogging, gaming and watching “X-Files” all at the same time. I had always multi-tasked, but this was ridiculous.

This is the cat through my fancy lamp. I give up.

At some point, I slipped and I don't remember a thing. Just huge hunks of time are gone. The next thing I do remember, is being in the Mental Ward of St. Joseph's Hospital and I had an attendant. I was not restrained. Pretty soon, a psychiatrist came in, and asked me “What were you trying to do? Kill yourself?” I said, “No, but I couldn't sleep.” I had been out of sleeping pills and taken a bunch of benadryl, according to JC and I believe him. The doctor talked to me for a few more minutes, and he decided then and there to lift the Baker Act. He was nice and visited me a few more times. I noticed then, that I was having some tingling in both hands and the psychiatrist brought in a neurologist to look at them. I have very strong hands and there was no weakness in either of them. So, they kept me for a few more days and sent me home. My own psychiatrist tested me and said I was bipolar, which I know now to be true, although at the time, I thought, WTH?

Medication helps that. But, that psychotic break was a point in time for me. Pre-psychotic break, I did not display overt Parkinson's symptoms. Post-psychotic break, I do. The tremors started, very faintly at first, a week after my hospitalization, and have only worsened. Having this has made me dig into the literature and watch a lot of really horrible videos on YouTube, with boring doctors from the 60s, wearing giant suits from Robert Hall and huge black, plastic-rimmed glasses. But the information is sound, if you can stay awake through their lectures..

Nobody has the same PD. We all have designer PD. My friend Jim Adams and his wife Penny who run the P.A.N.D.A. foundation for Parkinson's have similar symptoms, but others are present as well that I don't have. My symptoms have tremendous psychological overtones. I have periods of dementia and have learned how to deal with them and overcome them. They are usually brought on by a precipitous drop in my sugar, although, I am not diabetic.The great thing is, I remember them now. Actually, to me? The hilarious thing is this; I'm legally blind. Before all of this, I had trouble getting the mascara wand back into the tube. Now, it's like a midway carny game. Some days I can't comb my hair. Not that it's an improvement anyway. Now, instead of being 15 minutes in front of, or behind my next or last stupidity or gaffe, it's more like 7 minutes. When I'm in Chat rooms, I tell everyone to get out their Mary decoder rings and live with it, 'cause I ain't fixin' no typos. And it's great for those nights when I don't want to cook, which is happening more and more frequently. “Honey? Do you mind cooking?” “No dear. Here's a nice bowl of Cheerios and water.”

It is what it is. I love life and this is just another speed bump. I have to think back to when I first was blind. I was incredibly angry and frustrated. This hasn't been so bad. There are times I get down. I had an incredibly dark period, not so long ago, but it always passes. Time will fix it. As Stephen Frye says, it's the only way to approach a bipolar condition. That can be applied to anything. The choice is up to us. My fabulous friend YumaBev, who writes "Parkinson's Humor" is one of the most singular upbeat, terrific people I know. Her life has been one of tragedy and heartbreak. She recently had DBS, which is short for Deep Brain Stimulation, to help curb her symptoms. Like most brain surgeries, you have to be awake. That right there is reason for me to NOT have that particular procedure. If you are going to be poking around in my noggin, I want to be stone-cold out. "To each his own," said the pig as he kissed the cow. Anyway, Bev blogged about it and she was scheming trying to figure out a way to live-blog her surgery. It was pretty hilarious. But, that's Bev, one of my true joys and inspirations in a world that has few.

This is pretty much how Bev always rolls! My hero!

BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “M”

MIND, MOOD and MEMORY

I blogged about this for the Parkinson's P.A.N.D.A. Foundation once. At least I think I did. As I remember it. The funny thing about these three “M” words, is that they are closely linked. We tend to remember our experiences colored by our moods at that moment; good or bad, or blah, or happy, or mad. An obvious statement if ever there.

But, how reliable are our memories really when we are mentally ill, or are dealing with something like a bipolar condition? Or Asperger? Is it possible to go back later on and dissect some incident of the past in a rational manner, when you weren't in a rational state of mind during the incident itself?

My brain is attached to my mouth and it's going constantly.

I think if one is able to look at one's own behavior dead on and honestly, that answer is “yes.” I've done it. Over the past year, I've learned a lot about what it means to live with all manner of odd behavior; running the spectrum of being numb (not catatonic) to just short of schizophrenia. I have a cousin who is schizophrenic and has been most of her life. Consequently, I am shunned by the rest of my surviving family. Not that I give a damn.

Other than my first psychotic break, I've been able to either get on top of my episodes of dementia and remember them, and I've only come close twice to full-blown psychosis again. These are usually brought on my physical triggers and I know I have to get to a hospital. The saving grace is, I remember them. I didn't the first time and that must have been a doozy. The 2^nd time, I called 911, here came the fire trucks and half of the Tampa Police Department. Oh my! I remember Officer Fair and he lived up to his name.

Officer Fair was nice, but nervous. I think he thought I might bite him. My dad cured me of that when I was 4. He bit me back. That shit hurt!

So, either because I'm a fast learner, or because I don't want to spend my life in either the Mental Hospital or Jail, I figured I should learn some of the triggers. Frustration, total lack of understanding by people who should know better and problems with my sugar play huge issues. It's amazing how large a part some of these things can play, especially if they build up day by day. But, everyone has these issues and they don't go off the deep end. This is where the Parkinson's comes in. It is a constant emotional roller coaster. Up and down. There is no even keel. It's like bipolar on speed.

Every once in a while, I get the bradykinesia (freezing, or stop-action movement) associated with Parkinson's. It's weird, just weird. Mostly, I'm ahead of myself. Chronos is broken.

Anyway, I think it is possible to go back and mindfully dissect those memories. Bad mood, good mood, to draw conclusions that will help in the future. I really, really don't want to wake up in some Mental Ward, having been Baker Acted (committed in Florida) again after a month's sleeplessness, with a psychiatrist asking me, “Just what were you trying to do? Hmmm?” 

Source: www.parkinson.org and me.

#ROW80 1ST QTR POST 18 – PARKINSON’S DISEASE OR NON-PARKINSON’S DISEASE, OR WHATEVER NOMENCLATURE YOU WANT TO GIVE IT, IS FLAT OUT A BITCH

I’ve been keeping my chin up about this. I’ve been on the sunny side of the street and I’ve been being nice to everyone who deserves being nice to, but oh, sweet Jesus, if you haven’t been nice, I have been the wrath of God and then some. My already vituperative, waspish and extremely verbally-crossing-over-to-the physical side has been sorely tempted. I’ve worked damned hard to not give in. Yeah, I know I'm bipolar. Yeah, I know I have Asperger. I piss most people off, so what. 

I am just so damned tired of being on the verge of crying. Not once in a while. Not just at the sad parts. All the damned time. What the hell is this? I don’t really think that the fact that 3 Blind Mice were running around London during the Restoration is cause for tears, but there you have it. And if I do start crying, Holy Mother of God! My tremors and all of that other bullshit gets worse! What the Hell?

I'm not gonna cry over a bunch of damned blind mice 

Is this some new facet of PD blah blah blah of which I’m unaware, like with the twitching underside of just my tongue, which I still get, or is this part of some other weird condition? I suspect it’s my PD blah blah blah, because I had this briefly when I first manifested overt PD blah blah blah symptoms. But still, how ridic, you know? I like the laughing part better.

Last night I almost busted my spleen over this cat who was working as an Elmo character. I guess he got cranky towards the end of his shift, because he started running around telling people he "worked for John Gotti." The jokers on The Smoking Gun said “today’s episode of Sesame Street is brought to you by the letters “W,” “T,” and “F.” That’s way better than blubbering over 3 Blind Mice.

Who knew Elmo was a made guy in the Gambino family?

Honestly, this PD blah blah blah is like the joke from God. I can understand the losing shit and putting the paper towels in the refrigerator and following myself on my blog, and flinging food around the kitchen. The legal blindness just makes it extra-special. I insist on trying to wear make-up because I look like a walking, talking onion with out it, so I put it on and tend to wander around with some interesting effects. Actually, I put it on between tremors and have always worn it lightly.

My hair is what it’s always been, a mess, so no changes there. Clothes, the same. But for god’s sake the one thing I can’t do is take stuff out of the oven, or put it in if it’s hot. I burnt myself twice in one week on the synovial side of my hand. The carpal side hollered as if it had been burnt. I can deal with all of that, and the weird twitches, tics, pain, ear hooting, sundowning and all of the other crap. I can deal with all of it, but one thing.

I cannot deal with the crying. If it's this pseudobulbar affect I've heard affects people with PD blah blah blah, I'm going to have to learn to deal with it. some how. I hate crying; I couldn’t when I was a kid, because my mother wouldn’t let me. It was a sign of weakness. So, here I am, fighting this stupid fucked-up autonomic response to I know not what and I won’t let myself do it. No wonder I’m bipolar. No wonder I never played well with others. 

No wonder I have no self-esteem and just feel horrible. I realize that that is probably not true, but our minds work with our rotten little demons and tell us this shit and make us feel more unworthy, if such a thing is possible. Trying to work through this is hard. It’s almost a year since I was Baker Acted. I know anniversaries cast their own spells and I’m wondering if a little visit back to the Laughing Academy isn’t in order. But I hate the thought of doing all of that and JC hasn’t been well, either. So, we shall see. I feel better just talking about this; sometimes, that’s all it takes.

ROW 80 POST 42 – THE RISING OF A DARK NIGHT, PART 2

I didn’t realize that when I wrote this piece that there would be a part 2. Aaron responded to my 1^st post and that spurred further thought. So here we are; I want to quote him:

“I hope this will get people to become more proactive and realize that so much was lost yesterday in innocence. The young man that did the senseless tragedy is responsible. All of the events make me question a world gone mad. A world where we teach our young boys not to cry or feel emotion. We show them examples through the media of other men that are bumbling idiots or uncaring fathers. Young men are unprepared for the perils of the world and they don't know how to get help when they need it because we are teaching them to "be a man." In my opinion, a man is a person that is not afraid to ask for help or too prideful. I will continue to blog and hopefully show the world that boys and men need positive role models and maybe I can make a difference.” -- Aaron Brinker, dadblunders

That is the heart of the matter right there, I believe. Boys are taught to be “men” and not show their feelings. They bottle up their emotions. I recognize this, because I was raised this way, by my mother, not my father, perverse as that sounds. My mother accused my father of being “weak,” when he shed tears, yet she was the one with the psychosis, as am I. To my detriment, I do not cry easily.

In general, when tragedy strikes or we deal with injustices, we turn to humor to use as a bulwark against the pain. In the case of the killings of Americans in Libya and the subsequent furor over the extremely provocative “Muslim Rage” cover in Newsweek, which was completely tasteless, Muslims and non-Muslims, like me, hung out at #muslimrage to make fun on Twitter. “#muslimrage “I hate when the hummis goes off.” It became ecumenical: #catholicrage “when the priest drinks all the sacramental wine.”

Humor is wonderful as a balm and to diffuse even the biggest blowhards, but it can’t bring back the dead, nor heal the broken-hearted. What we are left with is often a sense of bewilderment and helplessness. For someone like me, I understand all too well, how the heart of darkness can intrude.

I have written before of my mother’s mental illness. She was raised by people who were incapable of raising healthy children and should never had had any. The fact that the youngest son of 3 is relatively healthy, but clueless is more a testament to my mother’s care and protection of him as a child, than any actual raising done by his parents, my maternal grandparents.

My mother suffered as a child; much of it, she wouldn’t speak of. Suffice it to say that my childhood was pretty awful, and though when she died our relastionship was mended and I loved her dearly, it has taken me 57 years to gain the insight I’ve garnered. This is no one’s fault. Insight and growing is arduous and change really, never stops.

Anyway, I was a lousy girl-child. More a boy-child in thought and temperament. I was taught to fight back and make bullies pay and pay hard, although my mother bullied me ferociously into adulthood. My father, being the mellow soul, watched over me to make sure I came to no real physical harm. He too, was a victim of emotional bullying from her, but was staying in the marriage I believe, until I was grown.

She left him when I took off for music school. To say that I have Asperger  syndrome (note: at the time this was written, ABC News has helpfully highlighted the fact that there is NO link between violence and Asperger. I thought I was just socially inept all these years...) and do not relate well with people is to put it mildly. After a series of disastrous relationships, broken marriages, drug and alcohol problems, homelessness and ill health, Parkinson’s Disease, or non-Parkinson’s-Disease-that-is-the-question, bipolar, mental illness, psychosis, but perversely, great careers, I’ve finally figured out that I’m not the person my mother wanted me to be.

Gee, what a shock. So, I hate when I start on one topic and it ends up here. But, in explaining all of this, I’m also telling you, that there is something in me, that lurks. That is very dark, indeed. I try to keep it tamped down. It is “impulse.” It roars up, like a lava flow. It tends to come out at the oddest moments. It engulfs like a hot wave and it does, indeed fill my limbs with heat and light. I feel it when something good is about to happen and when I witness the bad. It is something atavistic and it scared me, at first.

It feels about like this looks. For real.

"Angel" is about a vampire who was given a soul and spends his time trying to find redemption and forgiveness for all the wrong he has done over centuries. I can relate, and identify somewhat with both sides of his character, and also how quickly he shifts from the light to the dark. Maybe we all walk that tightrope carefully. JC always says to me when I leave, "Be nice," and in the main, I am. I know I carry something that can easily be used as a weapon. I'm aware that I have to play chess mentally and try to be adept in situations that may need defusing. Not my greatest forté; diplomacy. I've been better lately, with JC's help.

The man got on the bus shortly after I did; I was riding to my local grocery store. The man was short 11 cents. He fussed around for a minute, searching his pockets. We waited a good while. The bus driver was not moving until the young man coughed up the 11 cents. I’m in patient, but not-THAT-patient mode. I sigh. My PD tremors were not noticeably bad. We were still waiting.

This young woman comes tearing up the aisle and puts 11 cents in the change hopper. The two of them go running to the back of the bus. The bus lurches off. The couple come tearing up and plop down in the only seat; the one in front of me and they have a baby. They’re both frantically fussing over their baby. They’re both neat and clean. The baby is clean and bundled up. This family is homeless and they’re on their way to a feed. 

They’re probably new in town. This is my home bus route. Everyone knows me on this route. There are several feeds and services for the homeless along Nebraska. I had an extra 5 bucks, so I handed it to the woman, as I got off the bus, saying to her, “It gets better, honey.” The man started to cry. My limbs were on fire. I hop off the bus and hear “Ha ha, Viola, you a crazy bitch!” My usual fan club.

I think this dark and light is in all of us. I see reports about these young men. They’re described as “geeks, loners, bright.” They may be “geniuses.” I’m no “genius” but, what is that, anyway? Everyone is peculiar. We could so easily be that way, or could we? I cannot for one minute imagine harming another person, especially, a smaller, weaker one.

My psychotic moments are rare and I am not a harm to others when they occur. I get confused, which is funny, because I am confused most of the time anyway. I call it my confuse-a-what. I remember them now; I didn't when it first happened. This is all beside the point. My fears, or psychoses have to do with my overarching fears of not having any security, so if everything isn't so, I freak out. Well, it's really funny if you think of it like that, because when is anything every like it should be, we're talking about PEOPLE for goodness sake! Nothing is ever where it should be! But, moving on, this isn't about me. I'm really harmless, unless I decide not to be and I'm iron-clad on being harmless, unless someone gives me a damned good reason not to be. See? 

But there’s no balm, no easing for wanton destruction of innocent life; here’s where I can’t stop the confuse-a-what. Other than trying to help pass stricter gun-control laws. Other than talking about this now and speaking out against the NRA and starting one of my endless and famous SignON.Org petitions which delights Rick Scott, Governor of Florida and his Minions. Other than that, I got nuthin’ as the song goes. Except an empty heart over this. This tears me up. Both JC and I are stricken. Everyone is devastated and when people are so universally affected by a tragedy of this magnitude, something is deeply, desperately wrong. We have ignored so many signs and warnings. We may not get another.

#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 POST 13 SUNDAY CHECK IN – DYSTONIC DISAMBIGUITY, OR JUST SAY IT ALREADY

Arresting title, isn’t it? I had my first experience with dystonia in my right hand the other day. Dystonia is just a fancy, schmancy word for “cramping” up. But if this is a cramp, it’s an odd one. It’s more like “ball o’ fingers.” Anyway, it went away and life went on. It always seems to do that.

I’ve decided that if I’m going to do this writing thing, I’m going to go whole hog. This dipping a toe in, and then waiting around to see if anyone notices, or goes into a lather, or the world melts, before dipping in another toe is ridiculous. I never really did that as a musician. I just went out and flopped gloriously for a while. I failed auditions right and left and worked at stupid jobs. I played half-assed gigs and started getting better gigs through word of mouth. Better playing and not being so green helped a lot, too. I ripped and snorted my way through the musical world and had a grand time.

After I went back to school for computer science, and was applying for jobs, I received job rejections, due to my lack of experience in the field. Rather than worry about that, I threw my c.v. and GPA and all that good shit out on the Florida jobs network, packed up my wondrous viola, "Wolf" and went on a tour with some half-assed orchestra for a few weeks to make money.

When I came home from the tour, I found out that I had a response from IBM. I interviewed; they hired. I went to work. For the next 3 years, I worked for them. Sometimes in-house; sometimes from the road. Sometimes from my own single-wide. I helped a guy rebuild his utterly hosed O/S2 system on his ThinkPad 360 once. I remember pacing back and forth in my living room, watching the clock; it was 6 am. He had an entire hard drive’s worth of contracts worth millions. I had a plane to catch to Atlanta at 11 AM. This was before anyone saved anything on remote servers. We still had the portable hard drives that smoked and caught fire. Guess what happened to his backed up data? So, we were able to fix his badly scrambled OS/2 system, which was good for our in-house support team. It helped that I knew the difference between system file and a text file. I also knew not to erase my hard drive which is more than I can say for MS Engineer Dave who did that very thing at Verizon. Oops.

Anyway, with all that in mind, instead of just dipping in one or two more toes, I’ve decided to put myself out there and go for it. If we’re going to write, let’s not pussy-foot around. Let’s just get it over with, kind of like when you decided you no longer wanted to be a virgin and any old dick would do. Well, not quite like that. Good thing my folks are not still alive to see that one. Who am I kidding? I really hate ambiguity, almost as much as I hate obfuscation. Yet, sometimes, as much as I try to clarify something, or cut to the chase, or get to the point, I end up with such a tortured phrase, that when I do go back and read it, it either a) means nothing, or b) means something else. The worst of all possible worlds is c) d) and e) ad infinitum, where you return to it, repeatedly and it means something entirely different in a Rashomon-like way, every time! Argh!

So, with no further ado, I have decided at the urging of the lovely and extremely talented Jade Kerrion the author of "Perfection Unleashed" to participate in NaNoWriMo. This NaNoWriMo is a National Writing challenge where one writes 50,000 words in a month, that will, hopefully, turn into a novel when I am all done polishing and waxing. How insane am I? Well, that is a question. Since I am the one who stayed up all of February of this year and was Baker Acted for most of March, which by the way, I remember almost none if, with the ironic exception of St Patrick’s Day, and the last part of March, I guess on that count, I’m fairly qualified. Judging by my past life’s history? I’d say it might be business as usual and a good move for me.

I’ve certainly made some progress in this whole write-o-sphere:

1. 2^nd ROW80 (could be posting more) 

2. Editing essays from past (no, future, Duh) posts Homeless Chronicles in Tampa

3. Start planning out word count for NaNoWriMo

4. Bone up on my "Perfection Unleashed" portion of Jade's Blog Tour! Yes! For January 2, 2013. I am very excited about this. Further updates forthcoming for this portion. She along with, Jess Witkins' Happiness Project are also GoodReads friends, too. As is Amberr Meadows at Like a Bump on a Blog. 

On that note, does anything ever have a completely non-complicated acronym or just words anymore? This whole “PD non-PD” thing is driving me even more batshit. I may as well be typing with my elbows anyway. Dystonia = cramps. Dementia, Delirium = crazy (bipolar.) Tremors = shakes. Enough. Pictures say a thousand words. 

Smooth, even strokes when I move quickly. No tremors.

I slowed my movements down about 10X, you can see the "tremors."

They are not constant. This was done at about 6 pm.

Post 14 is going to be a very special post for a very, very dear friend in memory to another dear person who died recently. You will understand more why this hits close to home after the post. This will be in honor of someone close to me for someone close to my friend. I didn't know this young man, but that is not the point. I still grieve.

ROW 80 4th QUARTER POST 6, SUNDAY CHECK IN – P.D. OR NOT P.D.

I can’t even begin to create a riff or a parody of probably the most famous soliloquy in all of English Literature. Sorry, Hamlet and Shakespeare. Besides, it’s a monumental waste of time. I’m not in a time-wasting or a particularly jolly mood. That’s not a good sign.

Anyway, my oldest friend from California called yesterday, to see how I was. Her daughter, named Sheila, coincidentally my mother’s name, is getting married on October 20^th, which also coincidentally, would have been my mother’s 81^st birthday, so we talked quite a bit about both Sheilas. This is all rather odd, because my friend forgot that my mother’s name was Sheila when she had her daughter and her daughter’s day of her marriage just happened to fall on the 20^th of October. Oh well.

My friend really called because she’s been reading my blog and knows what’s been going on over here on Nebraska Ave 33605 in the last few weeks. Bless her. She and I usually spend enormous amounts of time on the phone; just hours. Lately, no. I know she’s busy helping Sheila get ready for her wedding. Sheila is her baby and as pragmatic as my friend is, she wants it to all go well. “We didn’t order the nightmare option,” she said to me yesterday. She’s been my friend all these years, mostly because she’s funnier than I am. Not really. She’s clear-headed and loving and steadfast; we had lots of stupid adventures in school.

So, I told her this whole mess of going to the Neurologists on Thursday and having to run (stagger and hit walls) up and down halls, keep trying to follow and touch the Dr. C. Fuo resident’s finger when it’s clear I have barely any vision and no depth perception. I actually have bruises on the inside of my elbows by my pulse points where she used the hammer to see if I had reactions. After an hour of this, and her talking too loudly to me in very heavily accented Chinese, she left the room, saying she’d be back in a “few minutes.” I had a jacket on, but was frozen. About 20 minutes later, she comes back with the attendant, Dr. Gipson, who with no introduction barks out “Why are you here?” and you know the rest.

My friends says, “Gee, nothing like a little humiliation to go with your frustration at no one listening to you.” Bingo. She wins the kewpie doll. I have heard everything from thyroid, malnutrition, (which I have, and I fight constantly) anemia, (B-12 injections, which I give myself once a month) bipolar, (I take medicine for) neuropathy, (yes, in my feet, not in my face and ears and chest.) I suspect they are putting it all on “ hold” until I get out of “medically needy” (State of Florida picks up the tab for 960.00 per month) to March of 2013, where Medicare and Simply Health take over and cost State of Florida 0.00. That’s my suspicion. Maybe, I'm faking it. That's the worst implication anyone can ever make and that makes me killing-furious. Anyone who knows me, knows that would never be the case. I've spent over 1/2 century with my mother's repudiations of living falsely ringing in my ears. Yeah, I'm a slow learner, but getting almost dead and homeless finally made that shit stick and it stuck hard.

Before I can ever, ever call bullshit on anyone or any institution around me, I have to be willing to ring the bullshit bell down on my own head, and I'm not seeing it here in the mirror. If you'd like me to play what-the-fuck-scramble-metaphors-Nebraska-Ave style, we do it swell here. I once overheard someone tell a pimp he was an astronaut because of all the space between his eyes. I learn the 'hood well. But you get my point.

So, rather than fight this battle and bore the daylights out of my poor readers and myself, this is my plan. So far, the TGH Neurology Department is 0 for 3 in my book. I worked at a Teaching Hospital; one of the finest, the University of Michigan when I was in school. It was chock full of fine people who loved nothing better than to answer your questions. They didn’t give a shit if you were a student or some guy off the street. They were there to teach and they taught. I learned a whole bunch.

This month’s nerve-fuckery has already started. 2 nights ago in as many tries, I burnt the bottom of my hand on the heel on the left side on the oven grill. I’m going to have to have JC pull the baking pans from the oven. I can't feel the heat so well and I sure as hell cannot see the distance. JC can pull the racks for me. No biggie. It’s just one more pain in my ever-growing pains in my ass. Anyway, I burnt my hand on the synovial, the left side. So, of course, my carpal nerves, on the right side screamed all night. Assholes.

It’s shit like that that the lack of dopamine causes your nerves to do this weird stuff. The worst thing for me is the racing heart; my pulse gets up to 120 or 130, blood pressure is normal. I weigh 102 lbs. I don’t have tremors all the time, especially in the morning. Most P.D. patients don’t. As many as 35% of Parkinson’s patients never develop tremors. I know that I have the problems with the mood swings. For the last 3 weeks, I’ve been really weepy. No particular reason; actually it’s probably a very good outlet, because it does control the impulse to want to hurt thems that deserve it. Bodily. I may have to resort to beheading. Just kidding. I have an appointment with my Primary Care Physician on Tuesday and I’m going to ask for a 2^nd opinion. I also have one or two friends who are out-of-network, as it were; I’m going to scratch around.

I find something else that is good. I laugh at some of the… Most. Idiotic. Stuff. Ever. I’ve always been this way. @YumaBev (follow her on Twitter! and at her blog, Parkinson's Humor) almost put me in a coma with her “Energeezer” comment. I commit what I call “cyber-terrorism” that in reality is no more than saying something asinine in response to someone else’s goofy picture on FB. Those eeCards are a riot. Time-suck wasters certainly, but chilling out is vastly under-rated at times. Cracked.com is a wonderful site to bust a gut over. Bonus points for learning cool shit, too. Robert Brockway, my favoritest columnist, the "Word Puncher" is one of the finest writers and the rawest. His "Lion Drome" segment nearly hospitalized me, it was that hilarious. Good times! 

Bryan on Runescape and I raise hell in our Clan Chat. Every time we start some awkward exchange, Killa pops in. This is typical:

DD: Yo hoe

VF: Fuck you

DD: Penis

VF: Tee hee

Killa(logs in): What the hell is going on here?

DD: Oops. Busted again.

VF: ha ha

In reality, Bryan is that old soul. We all know one or two in our life times. He’s the one I met three years ago. We still talk. There are three people from Runescape that I have known for several years since before homeless, since before sick, crazy and that I will always know. Bryan’s one of them. I don’t know why, he just is. We all have them. I don’t question. We all have some of these souls in our lives; they enrich us. JC is one as well. That was quite the digression. Stet; I’m in a hurry, today.

Laughing releases dopamine and I feel better for a while. The pain recedes; my nerves quit giving me hell. The pain in my shoulders and neck and head may stop. I also get out of my own whatever-this-is. I know other people have it far, far, worse. Thank God I don’t have ALS. I pray to all things Holy for people and their families who must deal with that. I know this isn’t it. It may be P.D. It may not be P.D. I’ll find out. From doctors who will care. For me.

ROW 80 4th QUARTER - POST 4 – TRIP BACK IN TIME TO GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS AND JEFF’S DEATH, PART 1

After my much-anticipated trip to the Neurologist and what I was sure would be a slam-dunk “bed-side” diagnosis of my Parkinson’s Disease (you have to exhibit 2 of 4 symptoms, there are NO quantifiable tests), I came home in a frazzled state of mind. Worse than my usual state of mind and felt I had been set up. I had all of my paper work and all of my ammunition; MRIs, EMG test results and corroborating documentation from leading neurologists.

The verdict? “We’re not sure you have Parkinson’s Disease; you also have malnutrition, you need your thyroid checked, you take B-12 injections every month, you’re blind. You have mild neuropathy.”  They blinked at me and here came the zinger, “You’re bipolar.” More blinking. “We must rule out stoofs.” This after almost two hours of neurological TORTURE and making me run into walls and try to touch their goddamned fingers. I CAN’T SEE, YOU STUPID SHITS; DON’T MAKE ME DO IT 20 TIMES. I am not an act in a circus.

No. Fucking. Shit. Guilty to all of the above, but for one, assbites. This shit has gotten WAY worse, every fucking symptom I just told you about over the last 2 MONTHS. The tremors, the pain, the ear-hooting, the 1000-yard stare non-vision, the neuropathy, all of it. I’ve had all of that other shit for years. So, tell me, Dr. Mengeles, why the FUCK didn’t you just come out and say “We’re going to wait until Medicare will pick up the tab in March of 2013. We have no intention of lessening your suffering until then.” Fuck you, you Nazis. And Dr. Mengele? If you ever, EVER barge into a room again and say to me “Why are you here?” in that tone of voice as your first word of greeting to me? I will behead you. I mean it. You suck. You can just goose-step right out into traffic.

This Guy Would Have Been a Better Doctor

I was all set to go off and sulk for 2 months or stay up for a month or set my hair on fire and run down Nebraska Avenue, 33605, but the last time I chose number 2, it earned me a stay at the State-Subsidized Happy Acres. Rather then eat a bunch of pills, stay up for several weeks, have a psychotic break, try to climb in the fridge, go back and play “Wheel O’ Death” with those fine folks at St. Joseph’s Hospital, I decided to write about it instead. Besides, and this is the worst, not the possibility of dying; the fact that I would do something so wantonly callous and thoughtless to JC and possibly leave him behind. That leaves me colder than cold.

One of our compatriots from the shelter died, precisely 5 weeks after Wade died. Jeff wasn’t well and didn’t really take care of himself, but he had a companion who looked after him, Dana McKinney. Ms. McKinney is a dear and loving woman. She promised Jeff, that he wouldn’t die homeless, and she saw to it. I weep now as I write this. I couldn’t always understand their connection. They were rather like 2 children. He would get a bit huffy and leave her behind, but in the end would always return where she would be waiting patiently. Sometimes, when people aren’t well, they require a great deal of patience. We all require a great deal of patience.

She would come by and visit us after we moved, every so often and they were doing okay. He was still working, but had put on a great deal of weight. I didn’t really care for him, because he could be loud, and I was concerned for her. As always, I’m on the outside. I once again, for the millionth time, have had the lesson, “Thou Shouldn’t Judge,” driven home. So has JC. He was critical of Jeff as well and worried about Dana; we needn’t  have.

They moved about 2 months ago. About 2 weeks ago, Jason, who still lives at Happy Acres texted us with a very confused message about Dana and Jeff had died. I called Dana and got an answering machine. She, then called Jason, who called me and we were on some weird 3-way phone connection. Jason is in the main Guy/Frat Party house standing next to Mike, the Manager who’s on the house phone talking with Dana, who’s on the hospital bedside phone at St. Joseph’s with Jeff, who’s in the process of dying. Jason’s on the phone with me, so we have this fucked-up round robin of death thing going on. I want to do nothing so much as hang up the phone. This is so Nebraska Avenue, 33605. Touching, yet a scramble-fuck-wheel-o-mortality of hilarious. These are dear, dear people. We really do care. Possibly because in many cases, we’re the only family we have, as fucked up as we are.

I can hear beeping and yelling from the hospital. I can hear some kind of football game “12 to 3 Bobcats!” and cheering. I can hear somebody threatening someone with a knife “Yo Dude, dem’s my Twinks; I be cuttin’ yo ass! Git yo hands off ‘em!” and rap: “BOOM-dada BOOM-dada BOOM-dada” in the Frat House. Dana’s quiet hitched-in sobs. Jason’s breathing. Mike and I are silent. I’m standing next to JC. He’s looking down at me with his blue eyes. He has such blue, blue eyes. Beautiful eyes, with black lashes. We always argue over who has the prettiest blue eyes. He does, by miles. I look down; I’m welling up. Gradually, I notice the sounds dying out, the TV goes off, music stops, the banter stops, I can’t even hear Jason’s breathing. Just Dana’s quiet  sobbing. It’s absolutely silent…. No beeping. Utter silence for maybe 20 seconds. A long time on a phone. First Dana, then Jason says, quickly, “Jeff’s gone.”