Trump is Tactless

Trump is everything I despise
How can he be in office I contemplate
My families' voice is silenced under his regime
Not just mine, but generations, you ask why: listen, listen, listen, I cry
We all suffer from mental illness
But we are kind
When on the right medications we bloom and succeed
I received awards from senators and legislators
Sometimes I struggle but mostly I try to believe
That the doctors will discover the right medications for me
I must persevere
I can do no less
Before they dump the dirt upon on all that I have left
I have been foreclosed on
Lost a roommate through his own troubles
Wandered aimlessly
But somehow I've always landed back on my feet
I must leave this world knowing I've made it better not just for my family and me
But for future generations who suffer a malady
I speak aloud because there is so much wrong in society
I had a teacher who taught me "I am only one, but I am one"
Meaning as long as I am here I must be a voice for those in despair.
So I will press on and carry my message
Even if I am on bent knee
And I can only plea
I must leave this world knowing I made it better for not just myself, but for those I encounter in society.
So many within are young generations throughout the world are lost without direction
If one thing I say resonates then I will be pleased
Perhaps one less person ambling in the land
Because there are others like me who are willing to take a stand.

Ramblings

A quiet mind is my desire
As life takes its course
To find that light of fire
That does not dim and wane and does not glow so brightly that it burns and sears the brain
Rendering one at a pinnacle of writing, but places one in a constant of insanity
Creating formulas and mathematical equations such as time = infinity and a proof to go along
Begging and pleading with doctors to please slow the brain, but don't make one a bumbling idiot
With drool on the face, hands stiff and robotic while one struggles with the gait
Shoelaces removed, no razors to shave and clippers taken away from the women who is insane
No dignity left here
Afraid to participate in society as rumors will be shared
Of a woman who dared to live, but fell from the precipice so many times
No one wants to see this woman who is insane
Please God she pleads why oh Lord me
Have you turned a deaf ear
On this writer who had a good career
Trying to struggle out of the void
That society has stamped across her head
Please God I am not dead

Reflection

Her pen went dormant for many years as life seemed to pummel her from her passion in the world. She vowed now to rise from the embers of a harsh life and refused to allow herself to be written in past terms of existence.  She would face the challenges of her dilemma and write because that was her pillar of strength, the God given talent she would hone again to achieve the life she desired as life could tear one down, but only if one allowed it to.

I don't want life to happen to me, I want to happen in my own life, she thought.  As difficult as that may be, she knew her very survival, that which gave meaning to her life; writing, would once again be her salvation.  So without further adieu she lifted the very pen that had been a dead weight in her hand and slowly methodically began her life story, my story.

As a young girl, I was raised by a Catholic order of nuns, known as the Daughters of Charity.  Their influence on me would last a lifetime.  I strayed from the Church based on my adult life, but somehow Catholicism still had a lasting influence on my guilt ridden existence.  It seemed my very life would be that of contradiction. Perhaps if I lived in black and white my life would have been easier, but I live in color. How to reconcile this belief with who I am remained foremost in my mind as the very influence of the Church was my surrogate Mother, my aunt the very embodiment of the childhood faith.  She is ninety years old and I, 53, so how would I ever reconcile my life with my faith or the influence of that faith without completely losing my mind.

Perhaps upon her, my aunt's death, would settle this dilemma, but then there are my three brothers who remain steadfast in the Catholic Church.  I now find myself living in an apartment with a man, whom I love, not married to, with very little money, no car and terrible health problems, but he is the pendulum of balance for me or what I think provides me strength.

We do everything together:  laundry, cooking, cleaning, appointments and so much more.  Public transportation has an advocate in us.  He is my safety net, but I feel compelled to try to be on my own because his health is questionable.  He is a man who knows how to tackle problems, he faces things head on.  Nothing seems impossible with him.  His go to it attitude whether cooking or challenging the difficulties ahead provides me strength.  We are able to accomplish everything because he never sees challenges as obstacles we can't overcome.  Writing remains necessary to my survival to reconcile myself by with my former life.  I have fears, but I try not to voice them.

I am starting to go to the grocery store by myself, but getting lost in Seattle last year on the buses put a pretty good scare into me.  Even though my son wasn't well last year, he did his best to take care of me.  When I think about what happened in Seattle, I realize how confused I was.  I missed my flight home and that was a very bad adventure. Being bi-polar puts my life in a state of disbelief to what I thought was possible as a child.  My medications were reduced and that contributed to my entering mania.  I was only supposed to be in Seattle one week, but I had an extended stay of about four weeks. I left the airport despite having a flight for two days later.  My funds were low and I could not go back to the hotel where I had been staying and sleeping in the airport when my mind was in mania was not a possibility.  I left in a determined trance to make it across a major highway on foot.  It was crazy and a taxi cab driver who was Arabic saved my life when he darted in front of another cab and slammed on the brakes shouting, "are you crazy" and actually I was.  I didn't really even acknowledge him.  I made it into the city. I spent three days at the YWCA after having taken a bus to Othello and walking and then taking a bus back to Seattle.

It has been a while since I first began this post.  I am happy to report I am now on the road to recovery as my sleepless nights seem to be improving.  I bought a car this week and have very little debt.  Just having the ability to get out is lifting my spirits.  My boyfriend has been excellent in being able to help me.  Sometimes I can get disorganized, but he helps me put things back in order.  I am trying to be positive about things since I first started this reflective blog.  More to be shared later.

Manic Mode Panic Mode

Sleep is so essential to my not entering mania.  Unfortunately, I am not on a normal schedule yet. My goal for the moment is not to panic.  One of the difficulties is when I was young and working for newspapers I had a greater tolerance for functioning and remaining sane.  I am trying to remain calm about the situation, but it is frustrating. Hopefully, my doctor can figure it out.

I see my friends who I have worked with moving into different directions and finding success.  I know all the right people, but my mind needs to cooperate. Today one of my friends was written up in the Detroit News for his documentary film on a basketball player named Curtis Jones.  Buddy Moorehouse was nominated for an Emmy award for his film called Fouled Out.  Buddy Moorehouse was my editor when I worked as a freelancer for the Brighton Argus.  To read the article Tuesday, February 21, 2017 section B of The Detroit News entitled "Perfect Shot" capped greatest game."detroitnews.com. This should be a quote within a quote, but I need some lessons on the blog. The article is written by John Niyo.

My plan is to be able to restore myself as a successful writer, but for the moment I am on my own sabbatical as a matter of necessity.  I need to visualize myself working again as many things are going in the right direction.  I just have to be patient with me. I am confident despite my slow recovery that things are improving overall.

Rebel of Rigidity

I never wanted to be a rebel, but in my life, I discovered rebellion is a necessity in order to survive. To lose myself again would be a devastating blow.  I have lived between sanity and insanity too much of my life.  My insanity has lingered in the form of bipolar disorder; so how do I emerge from that. I now take pills, which I hope will keep me from flipping out again.  It has as much to do with sleep and learning how to live with the lack of it as much as anything.  My chemistry is a blessing and curse at the same time.  It has caused me to act on impulse and yet, I flirted with a sort of genius at the same time. My moments of mania have resulted in some of my greatest works in writing and art.  Tempering my soul results in a void in my life, a listless existence.

I have wandered halls of some of the best artists I have ever met.  I refuse to exist for one moment in time. A time when one excelled for a moment that is reveled in as the pinnacle of ones' life.  I have had many such moments, but I have a drive, which forces me to continue to strive for another such moment. Those with my illness have had many idle moments, but without the internal chaos, I am not sure I would have emerged with another pleasurable idea.  Some of the ideas are definitely ludicrous but being able to accept myself with the crazy thoughts allows me to move forward.  I am a survivalists because I have to be.  My children need me to strive over my bipolar existence so they will see a model of acceptance.

My mother lingered, in what was then called schizophrenia, but I actually think she existed with bipolar disorder that was not accurately diagnosed at the time.  She went through the hell of insanity, in which treatments were brutal.  The irony is: I for a time was hospitalized in the very same place as she. Somehow I thought I could save her.  Ah, but for the thought.  She too was a survivor though; as was my father.  He too was diagnosed with schizophrenia, but his was brought on by WWII. He definitely was bipolar and misdiagnosed.  It was from my father that I developed a love of poetry and the arts.

So why am I a rebel?  I was raised with the discipline of the Catholic Church.  I was raised at St. Vincent Sarah Fisher Home for Children for ten years and a Catholic Church for my entire schooling through grade twelve.  The turmoil in my life has caused me to exist in the outskirts of American Society.  I am the one many have cast an askance eye to when I was completely out of my mind.  So how do you override yourself; through acceptance.  I have finally learned how to accept me for who I am, though at times I struggle because of the rigidity of family members who still practice the Catholic faith.

A memoir in progress perhaps this will evolve as a book.