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!

#ROW80 POST 13 – THE QUESTION

“What makes you think you have Parkinson's Disease?” Dr. Deborah Burke asked me this question after several minutes of very insightful discussion and quick, probing questions, which I readily answered for her. I had done my homework and I realize that these doctors at the USF Byrd Center have only so much time to spend with their patients, even the new ones.

Dr. Burke is kind and compassionate and again, possesses a kind of intuitive grasp of things, while maintaining a discipline (staying in her “box” as she terms it) to help keep a patient on track. And lordy, I am a handful and I know it. Having worked in a teaching hospital for 5 years, has given me the ability to understand systems at an extremely rudimentary level, but when you're working with doctors who are teachers by nature, they don't care who's asking the questions, even if it's a wet-behind the ears viola student.

The hurly-burly chaos of a huge hospital that housed some 9,000 souls, many from different countries, also sharpened my skills as an observer, rather in the way the ancient Greeks learned about how things worked. The power of observation is so overlooked; and is a marvelous tool, both within, as well as without. I, of course didn't think of this at the time, when Dr. Burke asked me a question, which literally shut my pie-hole, for a minute. I was flummoxed and several things came to mind, and I went “ah, err, lemme get back to ya on that one.”

She was okay with that. She had me do the walk up and down the hall without whackamole (my controlled fall thing,) some hand thing that reminded me of that awful Disney song “We Are Siamese If You Please,” (my father always cringed at that) and try to draw a spiral, after hers, which was shaky. She then had me write a sentence, which she said, almost apologetically, “this looks like essential tremor.”

We had already gone over the lack of smell, drooling and my horrible new voice, which is just, whatever it wants to be, except what it was for 56 years. Hoarse, croak, weak and unintelligible. I'm going to learn semaphore; the flag thing. Then I can lug around 50 or 60 flags. I'll get it wrong, and tell people to walk out into traffic, which is a bonus around here anyway. It will be quicker than trying to holler and then spitting on people. Another bonus for PD or whatever this is.

I have noticed that doctors of all stripe seem to be really hung up on the tremor thing, but it's not that simple. I have them at different times. They stop when I do something that requires real strength and I have tons of that. I can't play my viola because the delicacy needed to balance the bow and do spiccato and skip around and just even pull a long bow-note isn't in my bag of tricks, or it's hiding. So, I have to leave it alone. I get almost suicidal at the thought of NEVER being able to play, even if it's just for me and that is not going to happen. I am a master at interpretation and long, slow passage work. I'm not boasting, just stating a fact. But I need to be able to feed that beast.

Nobody puts Wolf in the corner.

Play me NOW!! I'm gahddamned history. I was built only 10 years after Beethoven died. PeeDee, ShmeeDee! Get off your lazy ass and play some 3-octave scales. A minor. NOW!!!!!

So, when I thought long and hard about what Dr. Burke asked me, I came up with this answer: intuition, but I didn't voice it. I had my first tremors a week after I was released from the mental ward after my Baker Act. In the middle of the night, when they woke me up. I had experienced some numbness in my hands and forearms in the hospital, but not tremor one.

The Byrd Center also houses the Alzheimer's study and Research Center

The only thing I knew at that moment about Parkinson's Disease, was that Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali had it. Why I made THAT connection, I have no idea. Rather than being scared out of my wits, I started reading about different pathologies and etiologies of various neurological conditions. I realized as I was reading, that I had been experiencing some type of PD symptoms for at least 15 years. 

I also realized, through remembered observation that my mother had that type of early-onset disease. Tremors, thousand-yard stare, along with her depression and suicide attempt(s). These were many occurrences with her. Not just once, or twice, but over a course of decades. Coupled with my father's alcoholism, and I was very upfront with Dr. Burke about this, along with my own history, she understood, what I was saying. I didn't tell her about my intuitive reaction. I'm saving that for the follow-up, whatever the diagnosis. She's been so accommodating and kind. This is the type of doctor you want to keep, FOREVER.

We laughed when she said, “I'm sorry to keep harping on this, but your own depression, prior to your psychotic break, when did it begin? Because I get a sense of the chicken, and the egg and the alcohol and the chicken, the egg...” making circular motions, until she got all confused. I said, “Yes, I understand.” Grinning, I said “I was 16. My mom was the co-dependent and living hell. My father was not unkind, but he couldn't cope. I just saw blackness, but I never considered ending it. It's just been there.” Like anything, it waxed and waned. Situational and work, diversions; I took little medication. It's impossible to play the kind of music I've played and take anything. I didn't even drink caffeine. One year, towards the end of this impossibly booked tour, we were in Miami and had 3 performances of Gilbert and Sullivan's "Mikado." I was dead on my feet and drank a Coke. I could hardly keep my bow on the string. Oh, and the "Mikado" is 3 hours long. Disney makes you play like that; it's one reason I ditched them for Warner Brothers, besides who doesn't want to play "What's Opera, Doc?"

Fun Fact: "Ride of The Valkyries" by Richard Wagner (the rest of that entire scene is a bitch) can be played in 4th position on the viola and you barely have to lift a finger! But you sure flap that bow arm! Impressed? Yeah, me neither.

So, all this time; there are always stressors and prices to be paid. My parents were not bad people. I, by far, did not have the worst childhood. I have heard so very much more tragic stories from people I love dearly and people who are far better than I. I have no one to blame, not because my parents are deceased, but because they did the very best they could with the meager tools they were provided. My mother and I mended our broken relationship before her death, which I am so very, very thankful for. My father, in spite of his lackadaisical ways, was my primary caregiver. Although, my mother bore me, my father brought me home from the hospital and raised me. That is why, I was never a very good girl-child. Being an only child I would prefer to while away my time with my computers, music and writing. I made a decision early on to not have children, and I am glad I stuck by it. It was probably one of the few wise things I've done. JC is the other; he is my rock.

JC always knows how to show me a good time. I laughed like a hyena over this. Sweetbay is so used to us, they don't bat an eye at any of our goings-on. Of course, the store is on Nebraska Ave., 33605, where everything happens. This is just one of the many reasons I love him unreservedly.

It took 10 minutes of me hollering and telling jokes and being, well me to get him to smile. He usually looks like a wooden Indian, or like someone just told him his house burned down.

The other thing I have begun to experience and follow as in over-riding my logic and letting intuition take over, as in the case of PD (I am almost 100% certain that is what this is) is that with the winnowing away of more of my senses (sight, smell, some of my touch, hearing is odd, hallucinations sometimes, when sugar drops) is a heightened increase in compassion and empathy for others. This sounds like some kind of hypocrisy, because I'm not good around people, but I have Asperger, or "doesn't play well with others," as they used to say. My psychiatrist and I laughed about this yesterday; it's agreed that I have bipolar I, but "pseudobulbar affective disorder: cry at nothing, laugh at morbid shit?" I told him I've been accused of bad taste for years and I don't need a pill for it. It's my bad taste. Anyway, while still quick to humiliate and take on the real asshats of the world, both verbally and physically, I am even quicker to recognize and praise or aid those who need it most.

courtesy: James Thurber's "My Life and Hard Times"

Caption Reads: He Caught the Same Disease That Was Killing the Chestnut Trees

I read most of James Thurber's books by the age of 9 or 10. For some reason, I found this hilarious. I still do. Leave my bad taste alone. It's funny. I don't want blah. I want the misery, hopelessness and despair, because behind that is the joy, elation and hilarity of life.

Yesterday, as I was leaving my Psychiatrist's office and making an appointment for August, I felt this jolt on my right elbow. In any other situation, I would have whipped around and been pretty keen on finding out who was invading my personal space. Something stopped me from reacting that way, however. I carefully turned around, and there was this darling little girl. She was a child with Down's Syndrome and she had a cast on her right arm. She pulled on my shirt again, and waved and smiled. I waved and smiled back. Her older brother was there, too. He didn't have Down's Syndrome, but what the Hell. I pulled on his shirt and waved and smiled. He did the same. Their Mama grinned. I was so elated. Beethoven-elated. “Ode to Joy” elated.

So, I believe I have PD. We'll see what the DaTScan says. Then, as Dr. Burke says, “We'll go down SOME road together.” Very cool. DaTSca is June 20th, then I make an appointment for my followup. So, we shall see, what we shall see, no?

#ROW80 - WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – POST 9 – EXPLANATION REQUIRED (AND LONG, LONG OVERDUE)

First, a short explanation, before the longer one, and a warning. This is being directed at my 3^rd ex-husband, Bill Nunnally, and it is vengeful. The reason it is so, is that I found out recently that he is currently the Head Poobah at Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services, out of Lakeland or Sarasota, but is now the Chief Quality/Performance Officer for an outfit called Heartland for Children, headed by Terri Saunders. A little background here; my mother worked for them and had her B.S. In psychology. Part of me can't help but think that one of the reasons he is there, is because she worked there. I take it as a slap in the face, although I walked out the door in January, 2005, never to return. I had recently been released from the hospital with congestive heart failure and the atmosphere was so corrosive in the house, I was afraid of having a heart attack and dying. I truly believe to this day, that Bill wanted that to happen, and was doing his level best to make it so.

After Bill (henceforth “Crapweasel”) and I were married, he very arbitrarily decided to give up a 70k job a year at IBM and get his B.S. In psychology. No discussion with how it would impinge our standard of living; he just did it for himself, as he did most things. I would have preferred he not do that, but that was his unilateral decision, as were many major decisions in that marriage. After graduation, he worked at a number of menial jobs for shitty pay, like he was going to save the world, and that would make up the difference. My assumption is that he is about as good as saving the world as he is at marriage. I was number 4. Shame on me. Over my ever-screaming instincts, I felt I may be able to reason with him. I wasn't and over time, I was scared of him. But I was afraid of my mom too and all of that old baggage came home to roost in spades.

He ended up at HKI, which is one of the more corrupt social welfare organizations. This is a for-profit that handles children's services for Hillsborough County. When I was homeless, I saw first hand how bad the place was from what had once been the purview of the state. By that time, Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally and I had long been divorced. I saw children see-sawing back and forth between horrible foster parents and even worse birth parents, while incompetent social workers, who were having affairs with the parents and mis-managing the cases dragged out these cases. The kids were a mess, pulling out their hair compulsively, biting their fingernails, being dragged around and used as bargaining chips.

Our marital problems started before I started showing signs of Parkinson's Disease, but at the time, I had no earthly idea what was going on. First, I lost my vision and lost it rapidly. What I didn't know then, but would shortly find out is that I had congestive heart failure, probably because of my Young Onset Parkinson's Disease. He started screaming and yelling at me; mostly about how I was lazy and about my “many illnesses.” The one exchange that stands out? Bill “Crapweasel” yells, “We need money, and all you do is sit there and look at that goddamned book!” I was trying to look at the larger pictures in a Time Magazine, since it was really all I could see. On the one hand I was so frightened and alienated and also bored, I needed to take my mind off of this whole mess. So, he's yelling at a blind woman. I couldn't drive and had been fired from Chase Manhattan. I sued them and won with the ADA act, but that came later, after I fled from my home. And who in the hell is going to hire a newly-blind woman, who can't drive? What would that job description look like? Christ!

The cane is for beating the shit out of people who step on me. Picture taken when it was 55 degrees Fahrenheit and I thought I'd died and gone to Michigan.

Every day was a complete and utter hell. His old room mate from before we were married had moved back in with us, as he had lost his job; Bill felt sorry for him and he was treated better than I was. I ended up in the hospital with congestive heart failure. 2 weeks later, I drove home, vision only in one eye, hopelessly scared of what I would find. I found my mom's cat so sick, he wouldn't or couldn't eat. I had to take him to the Vet. The Vet was so kind, but he told me, “look, I can run tests on him, but it will be over 500.00.” I didn't have that kind of money. I had about 100.00 and Bill “Crapweasel” was giving me no money. I had no job, no prospects of one and the idiots at Unemployment cut me off when I was hospitalized because I wasn't out looking for work. Seriously, who is going to hire someone with one eye and a bad heart? I was coming up on my 50^th birthday. Karma is a bitch they say. His granddaughter was born on my 50^th birthday, so in that way, he will always be reminded of that time. I hope he remembers it with shame, but how can you shame a person who has no honor, compassion or empathy?

You would think that the person who, as a child had a capricious step-mother, named Virginia, who alternately tried to mother and then pushed away young Bill, after he was abandoned by his birth mother, or was she run off by his father, also named Bill, the son feeling the fists of his father, slept in the auxiliary room beside the water heater, would have more empathy. Many were the nights I slept in my truck in the Publix parking lot, because I could not bear the thought of sleeping in that house. The tension was so great and my heart, not yet healed, would go into arrhythmia. 

Gulf Coast Jewish Family Service's Mission Statement. Items circled in red were absent in the male partner of Bill Nunnally's 4th marriage.

An online 53-minute co-parenting workshop, part of Florida ACCESS and the "system." I love this, because this is either the most clueless, or the most ironic slide I've ever seen. Bill was also only the 2nd person EVER to bully me. The first was my mother, but she got over it. He never did.

I told the Vet all of this about the money and my situation, and he said, “spend all the time you want with him. Normally euthanasia is 100.00. I'll do it for nothing.” I said my goodbyes for an endless amount of time and then held him, as the Vet put him down. I cried all the way home. The room mate buried him, (an aside, I got a package from the room mate a while back, with his phone number, saying “Call me some time. “We'll get together.” Yeah. As if.) but then when Crapweasel got home from work that night, he told Crap what had happened. Crap wheeled around and said “You murdered Dwayne!?” very melodramatically, as if I had just killed a room of small children. Oh, goody. More mental cruelty. I can see it for the melodrama and shameless manipulation that it was now, but then? It just was too, too sad.

I just looked at him and went back into my computer office where I was sleeping. It really takes a certain kind of special hypocrisy to voice this. This is the man, who, when his own Great Dane was dying under the front porch, tried to make me help him drag him out to the back 40, so he didn't have to hear his screams.

The truth is, Bill Nunnally is a weak man. He cannot face weakness in others or flaws because he himself is so utterly weak in character and flawed. He likes to think he is a survivor, yet he has to use others to do so. When he returned to school, I started paying half the bills again, when prior to his unilateral decision to return to school, he was earning far more than I was at the time, so he picked up the larger share. Without me, he would not have been able to go back and finish his B.S. He exhibits delusion, self-aggrandizement and self-righteousness here, along with the most stunning hypocrisy and amoral behavior I've witnessed in many a year.

And, of course, what pseudo-lecture would be complete without a pseudo-psychiatrist? Dr. Phil has platitudes to spare. Having lived through the cauldron of psychosis and Baker Act, coming out the other side, relatively whole and knowing myself a whole lot better and owning up to my own faults, addictions and failures, but recognizing my strengths, I see all of this for the money-making shams that they are.

While I was in the hospital, Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally got a girlfriend, because his wife was “broken.” He kept bitching about my “incipient weirdness.” Well, it takes guts to live with someone who has Young Onset Parkinson's Disease. JC's seen my dementia, tremors, been with me many times to the hospital and been with me through my Baker Act. Yup, been there through my committal. He's there with my legal blindness. He's also there with my triumphs, writing awards and laughter and good times. Unconditional love is just that. I wonder what Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally's bosses at Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services would make of his being unsupportive and unfaithful to an ailing wife. I'd love to be a fly on that wall.

YOPD is not a choice and after thinking back, I am convinced my mother had it. There are no more completely "good" days. But through force of will, and the realization that life is truly to be savored and experienced, by damn I'm experiencing and loving it. I am still the same fuck-up I was, only more so, but I'm smarter and tougher and I got that from my PD. I also developed an insight and a very complex set of tools to help me navigate this new life. Couldn't ask for a better trade off. Hell, I should have left you years earlier.

After being hospitalized for 2 months and homeless for 11 months, I received full disability; no 2 year waiting period. 5 months; record time. Tremors, bipolar disorder I, pain and all the other ills that come with it are just part of it. What I experienced 12 years ago is nothing compared to what I deal with now, but I am tough and clear-minded. I also don't let go of things, until I am goddamned good and ready and this baggage is going out the door, here and now. If I hadn't found out that Bill Nunnally was now working at a place that my mother loved, I wouldn't have written this post. But, I feel her memory somewhat defiled. I deal with negativity in my own way. This is my burden to lay down.

Bill? When you thought I was depressed after the death of my mother? That wasn't it. I just realized that the one person who loved me for me was gone, because I knew you didn't. That is also one big, fat giant turn-off and I really didn't want to have sex with someone who didn't love me anymore, if you ever did. Creepy-crawly time, but then part of me always knew you didn't. You saw me as a commodity and an object. You will never give yourself over to any woman, because women are beneath you. Actually, you have it backwards. You are beneath me. Asking for money all the time. What kind of man are you? You can't even be truthful to yourself. I know I'm an alcoholic; I told you that. I stopped that shit.

So, here's the kicker, Bill gets a girlfriend while I'm in the hospital, fighting for my life. I stole his phone bill. Yup; I sure did and called the tapioca-headed bitch and basically told her that if she married Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally, he would do to her what he was doing to me. He came home that night, full of self-righteous indignation and high dudgeon. “Where's my phone bill.” I had my blind eye towards him; I liked that part about being blind. “I don't have it.” He had the temerity to say, “You're a liar.” I almost, almost, almost said “At least, I'm not a philanderer.” Damn, I so wish I had. Unlike you, I was faithful throughout the marriage.

I realize there are faults on both sides, but when one goes out to deliberately kill a marriage, there is truly something wrong. The mental cruelty practiced was at a level I had not witnessed since my parents' marriage. You told me at one point, that you were hoping I would “just pack my shit and leave.” Eventually, I did before you could finish me off by letting my own ill-health engulf me. I don't normally talk of this and I will not again, but I think for once, someone needs to stand up and say, “you know what? Bill Nunnally, you're a flaming asshole and all of your talk of helping children and saving and doing this and that is pure bullshit. You can't even take care of a family properly. Who in the hell are you to try and teach others?” Family to you are those vapid daughters your crazy ex raised. Their idea of a rich life for them is Cheer and trips to Disney World. Oh, and yes, those who can't do, teach. Unfortunately, that maxim went out ages ago. The most skillful of teachers are those of us that can do and do it quite well.

taken 02/2013

Yeah, Bill you asshole, I have 2 beautiful clear eyes; I finally got that 2nd surgery, it's just that my brain doesn't see one image. It's called Parkinson's Disease. I'll probably outlive you; I'm happy. Because you're not my problem anymore. This post is strictly because of your WTF move to Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services, and because it's your Birthday! A slur to my mother's memory if there ever was one, you giant bag of dicks.

What I got from the divorce settlement about covered what I put monetarily into the marriage, but the scars run deep. It's okay; scar tissue is tough. You did however, keep my mother's iron skillet, which had been her mother's 200.00 into a good violin, 200.00 into a good Australian Shepherd and a mix-master his daughters got me for mother's day. And you never, ever attempted to pay me back for the 5k for my IRA, which you promised you would, but then, what did I expect? A man's word is his honor and you have none. Today, May 22, 2013 is your Birthday. I hope you enjoy this present from me!

P.S. Before you start hollering slander or libel or any of that nonsense, think of this; I'm legally blind, have young onset Parkinson's Disease, am Bipolar and on full disability. I'm pretty sure a lawyer would take that up in a heartbeat and it will not hold up in a court of law, and do you want that kind of press? I gave in on the divorce. If you want to have a fight over who said what? Bring it on. I will not back down, because it is the truth and you know it.

P.P.S. I debated with myself for quite a while before deciding to do this. This is from my gut. I have found as I've aged that my gut instinct is reliable and not to be ignored. I could have set up false accounts and yada yada yada. I certainly have the computer know-how and the black art to leave no traces, but I had rather bring this into the open. Lest Bill think I am kidding about slander and libel, let me just say that there are things I know that I am sure he would rather not have brought out into a courtroom. Behavior witnessed at the house on Annie Street, that I did not participate in. Let me leave it at that and you leave it and me alone. I'm done.

===================================================================

Update: This is dated 06/21/2013 - Per Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services, "Mr. Nunnally no longer works for them and left the Agency last year to pursue another venture." So, I did fail to notice that the date of the lecture was from 2012, which indeed it was. But, this also brings up another point. His entire life has been spent in "re-inventing" himself. I don't know about most people, but I had a goal and mind  and achieved that. When I was confronted with husband #2, who didn't want another violist, I was forced to do something else, but I continued to play the viola. It was mere happenstance that I also loved working with computers. I don't feel a need to "invent" myself as a snake sheds it's skin. I may have lost my way, but I don't bully other people or resort to passive-aggressive behavior to get my way. So, wherever Crapweasel is and what he is doing, he clearly is not working at GCJFC anymore. There was a parting of the ways and is now no longer an issue. I don't wish him well. I suspect his karma is catching up to him and his restless ghosts are even more so. Good riddance, and I do hope  your continued existence here on this mortal coil is hell, indeed. You've earned it.

July 11, 2013 - Postscript - After several attempts to send messages to Bill's daughters, Katie and Kyle and his son-in-law, John Holley, who posed what was probably the stupidest and most obvious request ("Call him, you have his number. Well, no I don't; we've been divorced 8 years) with no response, I am ceasing my rather quixotic journey here. Rather than force someone who behaves in such a craven and cowardly manner and with no decency or honesty, whatsoever, I will finally let it rest. My mother would certainly understand and tell me to move on. I had gotten him out of my head years ago. This time, he's gone for good.

#ROW80 POST 3 – THIS WAS THE WEEK THAT WAS

My title is not just a title from some old, cheesy TV show that my parents found beyond hysterical. This was just one of those weeks, where something had to “happen” every day. It was a happenin' kinda week. Yeah. And with all of the hoo-ha, me and my pal, PD or non-PD, THAT is the question, it takes 87 times longer to do any one task and I'm knackered after being on my feet for half an hour.

Here I am, already breaking my promise to poor #ROW80, but I did get nominated for the Liebster Award and it took me a whole day, what with the typee-typee, linky-linky, thanky-thanky, and my own general batshit behavior. Y'know, the kind where you get out of your blogging chair, walk into the kitchen or outdoors and start something else. Slam-bang! There goes 2 whole hours, so maybe it's not quite fair of me to say it took a “whole day.” Whatever. There it is.

No, I had to go to the DMV with proof of my blindness, which is odd, since I don't have a Florida license and I applied for and received my Florida ID card. I had my ID stolen awhile back by one of the fine denizens here on Nebraska Ave., 33605, a crack ho, unsurprisingly. If it had been one of Tampa's socialites... what? Oh, yeah, General Petraeus and his mistress and that socialite are in Tampa... never mind. I wouldn't be surprised if a Fortune 500 heiress here in Tampa stole my ID either. All the weird and con-artist stuff happens here, too. I digress.

Yes, this really happened. Yes, I almost peed my pants laughing. Yes, JC had to pick me up off the floor. I LOVE Florida. 

To get a new picture ID, I had to get a copy of my certified birth certificate. This took forever, because I wasn't born in Florida, but in Michigan. My parents weren't born in the US and since I've taken to tormenting Governor Rick “Sparkles” Scott at every opportunity and starting Moveon.Org petitions, I know he was probably looking for a reason to pull the “birther” nonsense and ship my happy ass back to Scotland to go live free with the other Wallaces. Scott, who has all the charm, charisma and intelligence of a crowbar tried to get rid of all the “non-registered” people and wouldn't allow early voting here (which I started a petition and raised national attention with) and spent oodles of money on, netted exactly one guy. I can't even remember where dude was from. France or Neptune. I dunno.

Meet Governor Rick "Sparkles" Scott-FLA (R). This is as charming as he gets. I suspect it's the lamp that gives him his charm. He'd be charmier, if he were wearing said lamp.

Well, after we went round and round about the ID, because by rights, I should have just been able to get a replacement. Florida (Governor “Beelzebub” Scott) said no. I said the hell with it and went to the Michigan state people and the county I was born in (why I didn't think of this first and finally was able to procure a copy of my certified birth certificate. So, that's done.

Meet Governor "Beelzebub" Rick Scott-Hell (R) without his charm lamp. (Actually the sophisticated program called "Paint" allowed me to bring out his true nature.) I'm sure he'll write me a nasty-gram. We're not on good terms these days.

Wednesday, I was at my own doctor, who was able to pull some strings with my supplemental insurance company, so I can continue to see her. She's a great doctor and I really don't want to start over with someone else. Not with what's coming up with the Parkinson's Foundation Center of Excellence in June, on June 6^th, D-Day. I get to be General Eisenhower. I wanted to be Rommel; he's so cool. But he's already taken. So's Omar Bradley. Montgomery is too, and Ewww. So, I can be Ike. Great! I looked at the Facebook page for the USF Parkinson's Center. It looks like a bunch of dancing. I hope we get to do “Gangnam Style!” That would be great. Or the Harlem Shake. Well, I pretty much do that now. Hell, when I walk in the house, it's more of a controlled fall, where I aim for the spot I want to land, and shuffle my feet. Actually, I haven't fallen since that day when I was homeless and I fell behind the washing machine; when I knocked myself out briefly.

My brother-in-law became a colonel in the U.S. 3rd Army and quite a good one, he was such a fan of Rommel. Much to admire here. I would love to have met the man. I would love to drive tanks! Whee!!!

I came to just as the Pimp and the Drug Dealer were rushing around, trying to get me a chair and pick me up, as I was bleeding from the head, and screaming for 911, as Ray stood there, like a rock, watching. I looked him in the eye. Two killers. Me, should the need arise and he, because. I made him blink first.

That's been almost 2 years now, so I'm not really afraid of falling anymore. I'm a lot stronger now. It's mostly the eyes; 2 of everything and I'm done with trying to pick which one is the right one, so I settle for “general direction of,” and go for it in the house. I'm much more disciplined outside of the house; plus I have a cane. Pretty secretive about it, too. You cannot show weakness; in some ways, it's like never having left 7^th grade. I'm really good at playing “Statues.” I get to my bus stop and just stand there, like a still life. After a while, other people forget I'm there, then I start hearing the trash talk.

Yesterday, some girl came up and was trying to buy drugs from this guy, who was already wrapped way too tight. One young lady was leaving her shift from Checkers to go home and was ignoring him. He'd been trying to get me to sit down, but I never sit at the bus stops. He keeps jabbering at me; so my selective deafness kicks in. When this other woman shows up and tries to buy from him, he freaks out and starts waving his ID around.

Here's a new tactic to avoid arrest? Show everyone your ID? Soz, if the Po-Po do come looking for you, and talk to people, some tapioca-head like me(?) will say, “nah, couldn't be him. He's honest as the day is long. I saw his ID and the other 112 IDs he was sporting, so he's good!” Another WTF moment on Nebraska Ave., 33605. The bus finally arrives.

I'm just going after some of my new prescriptions, after my Dermatologist's appointment, which was a howl. Turns out the lip cancer, which was extensive was not as bad as we first feared. The doctor is a gem and I'm glad I found him. He walked into the office, looking like some kind of hippy, or one of the denizens of Nebraska Avenue. Shapeless pants, colorful shirt, faded; washed many times. I'm glad he's not in Hair and Beauty; seriously, that's the worst dye job ever, but he's affable. He looked me up and down. It was our first meeting. As he was checking out my hands, he noticed the braces. “Carpal tunnel?” “For the left.” He noticed my right hand, looked at my knuckles; 2 of which had sustained crushing injuries.

If you can get past the whole French Queen nonsense, the story has a good deal of truth, although, Sir William died with no issue. They did get the ranginess and color of that branch of Wallaces correct. The line is carried down from a second son (not mentioned in the movie) and the family eventually reunited and went back to crofting (farming.) The larger mystery is this: "Wallace" is old welsh for "foreign" or "alien," although the Wallaces were pretty established in 1297. This means they were not from any waves of Viking invasion, nor were they Picts. Best guess? Eastern Europe (Wallachians) or Ukraine or possibly around the Black Sea. The Scythians did garrison Hadrian's Wall. Like I said, best guess, or WAG.

“What happened here?” I sigh, “Fighting.” He said, “Well, you're here, so I presume you killed the other guy.” I laughed. Wallaces are like that; we don't take kindly to being agressed upon. We agress back and then some, so that said aggressor will think before repeating. Anyway, the doctor is outstanding, checked over my skin, took care of the little tumor on my lip, some barnacles on my arms and head and sent me on my way. I was so glad to get home after that, and the pharmacy. JC, dear JC had made up my side of the bed, so I could sleep for a while. I was exhausted.

A note about Parkinson's Disease and an important one: at my own doctor's office, it was discovered for the first time, that I have a higher than normal (actually VERY high amounts of antigens (unspecified) in my blood) which have never been present prior to my psychotic break. This is consistent with Parkinson's Disease as being described sometimes as an autoimmune disorder and would also explain higher rates of breast cancers, and possibly skin cancers. I, being fair, redheaded and blue-eyed have had dealings with skin cancer all of my life. Parkinson's Disease is also considered a psychological as well as a neuromuscular disease, so it wears many hats and is one of the reasons it is so very difficult to diagnose and treat. My own primary doctor pointed out the Allergen-PD link to me on the very same day that Penny Adams over at P.A.N.D.A. wrote about it. YumaBev over at is facing her own battle with breast cancer, which can also be seen as an opportunistic disease. Due to our lowered immunities, we're all dealing with strange conditions and illnesses. What I thought was my 87^th bout of pneumonia, may be no more than a very severe reaction to... something undetermined. Stay tuned. Sunday Check in coming up! And This Was the Week That Was.

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!

#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.