It’s a cycle. Terms get appropriated and take on wider use, and in the process, I think, almost always broader meaning. But also in the process, I think, these terms can lose the meat of their meaning. And then, the question is, how do people who need to convey the original meaning of the term make their needs known?

 ‘Triggered’ is a perfect example. I think about this a lot. How do people with PTSD express these days that they are actually triggered when everyone on the internet throws this word around, makes fun of this word, overuses this word to describe mild discomfort, you name it.

 I think a lot about this in terms of self-care too. Back in the day, my various therapists and psychiatrists, as well as any other mental health workers involved in my care, used this term to describe non-pharmaceutical interventions that I could effect on my own to help manage what has been diagnosed differently over the years (mostly because the symptoms have changed over time), first called bipolar disorder, then schizoaffective disorder, and now happily back to bipolar disorder. (There was a big helping of PTSD in there at one point too.)

 Basically, my self-care involves stuff like eating healthfully, consuming as little added sugar and caffeine as possible, steering clear of alcohol and street drugs, exercising regularly, keeping morning pages, and living one day as much like the next as possible. (This basically means doing stuff at roughly the same time every day. Having a schedule creates regularity. Regularity, in turn, can do a lot to create stability. LOL though, because my current job makes this impossible and I am struggling a lot as a result.)

(10 Jan 2019 UPDATE (happy, happy): My job no longer makes self-care impossible. Turns out all I had to do was write a firm email outlining my scheduling needs. Turns out Germans really respond to firmness. It’s not even a problem…and life is better already. Thank goodness.)

 During times of crisis, my self-care might look different. Time to amp up the self-care, I might say to myself when I first notice symptoms. At this point of my life, my biggest challenge is fighting off the manics so these days, increased self-care might look like doing a lot of (relaxing) yoga, totally cutting out caffeine, added sugar, and alcohol, going swimming, spending some time with my mandala coloring books, listening to relaxing podcasts. Getting depressed self-care involves some of these things as well, but also revolves a lot around curling up with steaming mugs of tea while reading Neil Gaiman. Suffice it to say, I know what works for me.

 It also strikes me that a lot of these things on my list could be construed as generally healthy and good for anyone. And in fact, the term self-care has really taken off among everyone and their cousin and I see it mentioned all the time on the internet, and on the one hand, in this cruel, confusing world we all live in, I think it’s excellent that people are focusing on taking care of themselves to live and fight another day. On the other hand, I no longer know how to explain that I have to engage in self-care. For me, it’s not any kind of optional. It’s not, I will feel a lot of unpleasant discomfort if I do not engage in regular bubble bathing. (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself, I don’t actually have anything against baths, in fact I enjoy taking them, it’s just that…they seem to take up a lot of oxygen in the most obvious, overdone, mass-market conceptions of what self-care is.) But substitute bath for any number of things and the result is the same.

 No. Unpleasant discomfort is not what I’m talking about. Without self-care, I’m talking about a descent into potentially life-altering illness, and thanks to the suicidal feelings that sometimes accompany episodes of mental illness, death, or at least some harrowing hours/minutes/days grappling with the idea of it.

 And that’s a big, super-important difference. Living with unpleasant discomfort versus living with the specter of illness and/or death.

(If you ask me, anyone dealing with any kind of chronic health condition who engages in self-care to manage their symptoms is working along similar lines. In other words, it’s not just about feeling good, it’s about avoiding falling ill, or at least being able to live with illness.)

 So here’s my problem. I have to do self-care. For example, I have to work out as close to every day as is humanly possible. It’s not a luxury. It keeps me functioning at a basic human level and does a lot to keep my mood stable and anxiety at bay. It’s also true that most people feel better when they exercise regularly. How could this be a problem?

 My job sucks and if I can’t figure out a way to even out my schedule, I’m in deep shit. I can’t go three days in a row without exercising because I have a ridiculous schedule that has me arriving at work at 8 am and leaving first at 7:30 or 8 pm a few days a week. But that was my life for a few months. And, unsurprisingly, I started to get manic.

 But I also can’t explain the situation. Nor can I so much as voice a concern, because then I’m told that we’re all in the same boat, even though this is almost assuredly not true because we almost assuredly do not all have bipolar disorder.  

Brief aside. Being told to toughen up is the worst when it comes from someone who has possibly never faced what you’ve faced or vanquished what you’ve vanquished. That is the one big drawback, I think, of life with a hidden condition. It’s a struggle unseen, and therefore a strength, even a tremendous strength at that, also unseen. And largely erased.

I don’t feel comfortable talking too much about my job online, but suffice it to say that my one non-resolution resolution for 2019 is to maybe be a bit more of an asshole and not give a shit what other people think about me and put myself first, because if I don’t, no one else will. And not because I’m a super magical princess who deserves to live a super magical life, but rather because I don’t want to get sick. And I think that’s an acceptable thing to want.

And maybe do some other stuff I really enjoy more often. Like drink more smoothies and golden milk and stuff. Try to read thirty-five novels instead of twenty-six. (I read a lot of poetry too last year, and some nonfiction and other stuff too. But I want to make 2019 my year of the novel.)

That is all. Thanks for reading.


Despite the bemused smile, I had a somewhat craptacular weekend.

Despite the bemused smile, I had a somewhat craptacular weekend.

CW: I briefly talk about suicide here, but no specifics.


I guess it was Suicide Prevention Week 10-16 September. I noticed a lot of social media posts about that and gave myself an occasional pat on the back for having successfully navigated through all that awful terrain to come out on the other side, not really even all that worse for the wear. But then…

At some point last year, I read an awful essay online in which a clear narcissist claimed that her “friend’s” suicide was a blessing in disguise because, really, the “friend’s” life was such a train wreck. I had some feelings about that (and my diagnosis was the same as the “friend’s”), and I wrote a response that you can read here. Basically, I made a list of experiences I was glad to have had (stuff like “sex,” “being an aunt,” and “coming from behind to win a relay”) and pointed out that those incredibly good things always exist in the history of my life. I then pointed out that one of the big problems with mental illness is that it can cause a person to lose perspective in a big enough way that all the good things seem unimportant. They seem like nothing at all.

Perspective is everything, or at least it’s a lot. Perspective can’t make us not poor, or not sick, or not whatever, but it is a way to see past whatever terrible moment the present might be dangling in front of our eyes. You know, in order to see into a possibly better future. This past weekend I was reminded that perspective is also really, really easy to lose.

Thanks to an organizational fail, I missed almost half my meds last week. Just the morning dose of the mood stabilizer, so the physical withdrawal wasn’t immediately apparent. (If I miss a dose of my night meds, there’s some genuine agony involved.) I guess I thought my extremely irritable bladder, 4 am wake ups over a period of several days, and bizarrely intensified sex drive were merely examples of my body being weird. Nope though.

I finally figured out what happened when I caught sight of my am meds tray sometime this past Sunday. For some bad reason, I had stuck it in the kitchen cabinet, which is never ever the right place for it. Out of sight, out of mind, unfortunately. By that time, my mood was also in the toilet. By Sunday afternoon, I found myself hunkered in front of the computer, slouched over, unable to move, feeling overwhelmed because I was supposed to go out to dinner that night. I understood in that moment how great I’ve always been at faking that everything is alright and look, isn’t my life a splendid adventure, let me prove it to you with these photos I’ve just posted to Facebook. There’s the added matter of living in Europe and getting to do things like travel and have a somewhat better quality of life that if I were in the US and not having to worry about health insurance. It becomes hard to say that, no, in fact, everything is not always grand. Suffice it to say, in that moment on Sunday, I knew I didn’t have what it took to fake anything. The thought of sitting in silence in a restaurant, pushing food around on my plate, or worse, coming up with inane small talk, kind of devastated me.

Maybe that’s the exact moment I started to lose perspective because I started imagining scenarios. You know, methods. Out of exhaustion, I think. Out of bewildering doubt. It all felt pretty awful in an almost all-consuming manner.

I posted something stupid and vague to Facebook that was really my way of saying: Someone please rescue me from the emotional hell I currently find myself in. Basically, I always want to be pulled away from the brink though sometimes it’s hard to get to a better place on my own. But the post itself was about something else.

Then I thought some more about being over and about how drastically tired I felt and also how unused I was (and am) to feeling despair. I’m a pretty even-keeled person on any given day. Analytical, cheerful, and if anything is ever wrong, maybe sometimes a little bit detached. There’s a bit of a sanguine thing I have going on.  A tiny bit of Spock mixed in, though unlike Spock, I’m not usually confused by emotion. Not this past Sunday though. Nopity nope nope.

What I realize about perspective, now, and maybe even did on Sunday, is that the practice of not losing it entirely is quite possibly in some part a function of experience. In that, I’m forty-two, not twenty-seven. In that, I’ve been through this before and come out all right, so somewhere inside me I know I’ll probably come out all right this time too. But the thing about suicide is, once you’ve explored the option, you always kind of know it’s there. Probably the only thing to do is to teach yourself that it’s a bad option.

I don’t know. I felt like utter shit. But at that point I walked into the living room, explained to my husband about the missing meds, again, that I felt like utter shit, and that I had no desire to go to dinner. He was very sympathetic. I still felt like my mood was in the toilet, but much less overwhelmed all the same. I wasn’t going to have to fake anything in a restaurant that evening. A tiny bit of pressure, off. Faking being okay is a special kind of depleting and can make everything much worse, in my experience.

Then a close friend, a local, sent me a Facebook message regarding my post (which was about how I felt my Facebook self was awfully curated and how overwhelming that sometimes feels) and about how, yeah, she felt that way too sometimes. Anyways, we got to chatting, and I explained the entirety of the actual situation, and her response was really cool.

Over half a week later, I’m back on my regular dose, and yes, yes, I feel like myself again. (I know everybody has feelings about meds, and I certainly have mine. Hint: it’s a complex issue and sometimes I think one thing rather than another thing only to change my mind. However, I’ve definitely encountered people who act like meds are mostly a negative because they somehow diminish the true person. What I have to say about that: I enjoy living life as a sanguine Mr. Spock more than as anyone else I’ve ever been. This doesn’t mean I don’t feel passion, because I actually do. I just don’t experience self-destructive fits of it.)

I don’t have too much else to say other than another word about experience. I’m pretty big into practicing self-care and I think this is ultimately what pulled me far away from the brink this past Sunday. As in, self-care is enough a part of my life that when I finally hit an actual crisis, it became kind of automatic. As in, my mind caught itself engaging in a pretty destructive mode of thinking and shunted over to: You feel like shit. Shrug off a responsibility [dinner at the restaurant], go make a cup of tea, and climb into bed to read some Neil Gaiman. That is actually how I spent the rest of the day, at least until I took a much-needed nap.

Again, my essay from last year included a list detailing a number of experiences I’d had that I felt were important, but again, easy enough to forget during a crisis. I figure I’d end this with a list of comfortable things that, at the very least, help me pass the time when I feel like shit. Friends aren’t always nearby. There’s something to be said for self-soothing.

Without further ado:

·         The writing of Neil Gaiman—He is my go-to author when life gets weird, or I’m feeling excessively neurodivergent, kind of like I don’t fit in this world, or I just plain old can’t concentrate on anything else.

·         Graphic novels and comics in general—Again, pretty easy on the brain, but often intelligent and worth some genuine mulling over. I also have a growing collection of Dutch-language graphic novels and comics, and the process of figuring out the Dutch is kind of my version of putting together a jigsaw puzzle. (For a native speaker of English who is fluent in German, reading Dutch is not much of a stretch.)

·         Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries—Please don’t make me explain this one to you. Instead, if you don’t already understand, just watch for yourself. I think you will come to agree that Phryne Fisher is the bee’s knees. In general, occasional marathoning through selections on Netflix or through my DVD collection can provide a place to be and a way to pass time during especially troubling hours or days.

·         Geo Epoche—This is a German-language popular history magazine that puts out themed issues, with stunning illustrations. I’ve acquired quite a stack. Paging through an issue can be hypnotic and a way to engage with curiosity, even if all I’m doing is reading captions.

·         Physical activity—Even if it’s just stretching, going for a walk, or a few sets of push-ups, moving often makes me feel at least a little bit better. In general, I try to do cardio every day and weights every other day, which seems to be doing a lot to keep me at a baseline level, where even “I feel terrible” is not as bad as it could be.

·         Mandala coloring books—If for no other reason, a really nice adult coloring book is a reason to splurge on high-quality colored pencils. Anyways, psych wards have crayons and pictures to color in for a reason. Coloring is genuinely relaxing and a good way to create some mental space but not quite as strenuous as those dreaded (in my book)…da da da dum…mindfulness meditation exercises.

·         Hanging out with my cat—My cat is actually a tiny, furry psychiatric nurse. Enough said. Okay, this is not technically self-soothing. This is being soothed by an adorable little beast who purrs constantly whenever I pet him. But, I mean…

That is all.


Unicorns make everything better. They really do.

Unicorns make everything better. They really do.

Esmé Weijun Wang is a writer I follow on Twitter and whose newsletter I subscribe to. You can check out her website here. I read and admired her 2016 novel, The Border of Paradise, which is full of juicy, gothic goodness, and started paying attention. After learning that we have the same mental health diagnosis and that she also writes for people who are specifically dealing with balancing ambition with having limitations, I really started paying attention. Her eBook about productivity journaling, available here, came into my life at a time when I really needed it. I’ve been doing it for five weeks and five days, counting this morning,--this is the longest I’ve kept up a routine like this--and I’ve noticed a difference in my stress-level and in my attitude toward getting things done.

I’m not going to say much about the actual process of productivity journaling here, mostly because you can read Esmé Weijun Wang’s excellent instructions, but I will say that I’m keeping the process fun for myself by using different colored pens for each section of the journal and by marking each day’s date with a cute animal sticky note. (So far, I’ve used owls, foxes, and cats.) I also keep all of my productivity journaling materials in my unicorn rucksack.

Yes. I said that. I have a unicorn rucksack. It is basically a black sack with a screen-printed white unicorn on one side. Very classy. I also have a beige tote bag that says in big pink letters: “Komm Einhorn, wir gehen…”

This literally translates to: “Come on, unicorn, we’re going…” but I choose to see the situation as such: My unicorn and I are at a party, but we are done socializing, so I turn to my unicorn and say, “Come on, unicorn, let’s go,” which is kind of code for: “Come on, unicorn, let’s blow this pop stand and go home to watch Netflix with the cat because as we both know, that is where true happiness lies.” Obviously, what I am saying here is that my unicorn and I are one hundred percent simpatico, and though I don’t know if that’s a word in English, I think you know what it means. (A French lady used it in a conversation we were having once, and I liked it.)

Anyways, unicorns aside, I am the kind of person who really, really thrives on routine and structure. Even when on vacation, I try to impose some structure and on the occasions I don’t, I find myself getting weird and anxious. But it is possible. However, too much structure, or better said, boring structure, inspires rebellion. Too often in the past, I have thrown off the tyrannical chains of self-imposed structure, basically because I wanted a little breathing room, only to find myself desperately in need of that structure all over again. Suffice it to say that colored pens, animal sticky notes, and unicorns are keeping this particular try at structure fresh and fun. Hopefully, I’m not jinxing myself by writing about this.

(Another thing that is keeping my morning routine fresh is the Daily Guidance section of my productivity journal, which, again, you can learn more about here. Basically, I read some poetry and follow this with some deep breathing exercises. Right now, I am working my way through Emily Dickinson’s oeuvre.)

I also schedule fun stuff, relaxing stuff, as part of my daily tasks. Because I am ambitious. But I do have limitations. I cannot keep up with my peers in the sense that I’ve always noticed I need a bit more down time than they generally do. So scheduling tasks great and small as well as more relaxing type of activities is helping me stay balanced and focused.

Also, since I’ve brought up mental illness, please read this op-ed by Rebecca Chamaa in Teen Vogue to find out what was actually offensive about Anthony Scaramucci’s bizarre on-the-record rant to a New Yorker reporter.

Later. Until we meet again, I’ll be riding my unicorn through the streets of Bonn (and following my morning routine, of course).


A crude drawing? Yes, but the subtext it describes is also crude.

A crude drawing? Yes, but the subtext it describes is also crude.

I suppose we all have our burdens, right?

I would be willing to suggest that one of the burdens of being an English major (besides having to come up with creative answers to the inevitable “What are you going to do with that major?” questions) is that those of us who have been drilled in hardcore textual analysis often lose the ability to lose ourselves in mindless entertainment. Nope. We are too busy reading the subtext of whatever media we’re consuming.

(For a really humorous example of reading subtext, check out one English major’s take on James Comey’s resignation letter here.)

Merriam-Webster online defines subtext as “the implicit or metaphorical meaning (as of a literary text).”

Naturally, a movie or television show can also have a subtext. There’s the main story, and then there’s all the other stuff going on under the surface. Take the BBC’s Luther. Great show! What a performance from Idris Elba, right?? Such interesting characters! Look at these relationships forming, and breaking, and reforming, and rebreaking. (And on, and on.) But wait. What if we dig a little deeper? There’s…something else here. Oh my god, yes, WTF IS THIS SHOW’S PROBLEM WITH MENTAL ILLNESS??!! In the Luther universe, having a mental illness seems to mean that you are going to murder a lot of people in interesting, gruesome, and I dare say innovative ways.

Or take the subtext of almost every cop show ever: Your damned civil liberties are preventing us cops from doing our job! The fact is, in our show, episode after countless episode, it is our disregard for your pesky civil liberties that ultimately allows us to snag the (truly) guilty party. So stop complaining!

But I digress. Because really, there is a Beowulf tie-in here.

Here it is: I watched The 13th Warrior. The thing is, I watched it again. The embarrassing fact is I’ve seen this movie many times, and I am always left feeling somewhat entertained. That being said, part of the entertainment factor, for me, is imagining what Michael Crichton & Co.—Michael Crichton wrote The Eaters of the Dead, which the movie is based on and had a big role in the film’s production, even taking over directorial duties at one point—were ever thinking in their ever living minds. Like, did they think their gross, misogynistic subtext would go unnoticed?? Because it didn’t. I am on the case.

Let me lay this out for you, reader.

The 13th Warrior has a few things going for it. In a nice twist on the white savior film, an Arab man goes north and plays a pretty big role in saving Hrothgar’s kingdom from the evil that plagues it. Antonio Banderas (okay, not an Arab, a Spaniard) plays a version of Ahmed Ibn Fadlan (a real life diplomat and chronicler who met up with some Vikings in the tenth century and wrote about both their hygiene practices and gruesome funeral rites), and this 13th Warrior Ibn Fadlan brings his wits along. In fact, it’s this character’s smarts that save the day, in the end. In The 13th Warrior, Ibn Fadlan is constantly figuring things out first, things that save other people’s lives. So, the Northmen may have one up on him in terms of pure brawn, but Ibn Fadlan is the one who actually gets shit done.

Also, Beowulf. And the Wealhtheow character is pretty fierce.

Buuuuuut…the movie kind of goes full-throttle misogyny after that.

So. Hrothgar’s kingdom is under attack. There are these somewhat mythical life forms who come and kill people and gnaw on their dead bodies. Get it? They are cannibals. Gross! Well, it turns out, their whole society is organized around some sort of worship and/or adoration of a female figure. How do we know this? I will tell you. The Northmen are checking out the aftermath of one of these grisly murder scenes. The cannibalism is established. Again, yuck. But just who are these folks who are doing these awful things?? Ibn Fadlan finds an important clue. This is where it all begins to go wrong for me.

Turns out that one of the people-eating marauders has inadvertently left something behind. What might that be, you are probably asking. Okay. It is a figurine that happens to look just like the Venus of Willendorf figurine (except maybe without the head, it’s hard to see…also the figurine in the movie appears to be made of darker stone). But it’s basically the same shape. You know. The roundedness. The breasts. Okay, I am thinking by now. Sweet Jesus, I am also thinking. Because because. But no, my eyes are not deceiving me. The film is really doing this. They are going there.

Yada yada yada. A lot happens. Turns out the people-eaters are just normal human men who live in a big cave under the earth. (EARTH!! My god, the femininity of this. The subtext continues its subtextual horror show. And yes, I know, Beowulf went down into the mere. Still. This is all really too much.) The Northmen, and Ibn Fadlan, go in those caves, and find, among other things, a HUGE version of the female figurine, as well as a murderous high priestess or something who leads the cannibalistic mother-worshiping evil-doers all in their people-eating perversion and must be killed!! Also, just in case I, the hapless viewer, am somehow unaware that this character is BAD and EVIL, she is wearing a snake. I guess snakes are bad. I guess because Eve, in our Western imagination. But have no fear, the Beowulf character does indeed dispatch her. But not without being scratched with poison first, which will ultimately lead to his death. (Poison. Such a woman’s way to murder.) In the end, the über-male Northmen, along with Ibn Fadlan, save the day, although not without losing some comrades.


Okay. Maybe you are like, calm down, Jenny Drai. Because you are all like, in the original Beowulf, our hero goes and fights Grendel’s dam, and she’s female. So there’s some basis for this in the poem. Why do you have to read so much into everything?

Aaaaaaaargh because I was an English major, I would respond. Again, with those super heavy burdens making my life super-difficult.

Besides, I wouldn’t say that the dam is the brains behind the operation in the poem, whereas this mother-type figure in The 13th Warrior really is. In fact, as Jane Chance points out in Woman as Hero in Anglo-Saxon Literature, Grendel’s dam is portrayed as weaker and more cowardly than Grendel. Her real monstrousness, to an Anglo-Saxon audience, may have also had a lot to do with her usurpation of traditionally masculine roles. (Again, I’m getting this from Jane Chance.) Instead of keeping the peace, Grendel’s mother runs off and avenges her son’s death. Tsk. Tsk.

But whatever.

Okay. So, basically, my eyes are burning holes into my head the whole time I am watching this movie, but I am also really having a good chuckle. Again, this weird subtext is all too much. Like, it is not really a subtext, is it? On the other hand, maybe subtlety would be more dangerous.











Brought to you by healthcare.

Brought to you by healthcare.

I was excited yesterday. I have only three chapters to go, and then I’m finished with the first draft of my Beowulf novel. Since I’ve approached this project a little differently, and have been writing multiple drafts simultaneously, I am already caught up on the second draft. So. Three chapters. This feels awesome. Super exciting. I am so close to finishing that I can almost taste that Aperol Spritz I’ve been telling myself I’ll partake of from my drinking horn, to celebrate completion.

Today, though, I find myself thinking about other things.

About Republicans, or, Rethuglicans, if you will. About how I am stable, and healthy, and about how these two facts rely on my access to healthcare.

Being diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder is not the worst thing that could happen to a person. Definitely not. But it can be a real bitch sometimes, and there is hurt and pain involved.

My worst episode involved me living through a month of being gripped by a belief that I could be controlled. (Literally, there was a shadowy figure dressed in a long dark coat involved. I know. Kind of cliché. But that’s what happened.) The symptoms were bad, and frightening enough that I also developed some genuine post-traumatic stress, directly related to the episode. Because, why not? Life is just not hard enough.

Largely, I am okay these days. (That episode happened when I was 30.) Largely, access to medication, and maybe even more importantly, to a year of the kind of weekly therapy where I talked not just about the here, or the now, but about deep-seeded psychological issues has saved my life. (Literally, because, you know, suicide.)

But, you know. Without healthcare…

And I am doing stuff with my life. I write, and I read, and I help people, and sometimes I don’t because I’m also a jerk. Basically, I’m a human being.

In my mind, and in the minds of many, there seems to be an intrinsic value attached to being human, but more and more, I have to accept that this value is nothing approaching universal.

I’m tempted to declare that of this moment, I will no longer share space with anyone who believes they should not have to pay for the healthcare of others. With anyone who does not understand that they too may become vulnerable. With anyone who does not believe that we are all in this together. Tempted. Very tempted.

Strangely enough, all of this has a Beowulf tie-in. Yes, I swear to god, it does. (I’m talking, for the most part, about this strange idea AHCA supporters seem to have about their own good health.) Stay with me, because I am going to explain this, albeit as briefly as I can.

 There is a part of this very old epic poem that is sometimes referred to as “Hrothgar’s Sermon,” delivered, yup, you guessed it, by Hrothgar, in his hall after Beowulf defeats Grendel’s mother. (If you need a refresher, Hrothgar is the Danish king whose hall, Heorot, has been plagued by Grendel. It is to Hrothgar’s aid that our hero, Beowulf, comes.)

Since I’m feeling a little lazy, and don’t feel like searching through Heaneywulf to find this gem, I am going to quote the Gareth Hinds’ version. It’s a pretty good paraphrase of the sermon, and also, I just poured over this graphic novel version yesterday, so the book happens to be conveniently at hand.

Here goes (and again, I am quoting the Gareth Hinds version, and this is only part of it):

“Take thou, therefore, good heed, O Beowulf, against pride and arrogance. Choose the better path: profit eternal. Now, indeed, thou art in the pride of thy strength and the power of thy youth; but there will come of a surety, sooner or later, either sickness or the sword; fire shall consume thee or the floods swallow thee up. Be it bite of blade or brandished spear, or odious age, or the eyes’ clear beam grown dull and leaden.”

“Come in what shape it may, death will subdue even thee, thou hero of war.”


(To paraphrase: Maybe your life is great now, but bad times will come. Because that’s how life works.)

Why don’t Republicans understand this? I know it. I gather that most of you know it. The anonymous poet knew it. To me, this shows just what outliers the Republicans are, with their truly awful vision of what can conceivably  be called “healthcare.” Their values don’t fall within normal human bounds.

But just in case you are even mildly okay with the AHCA, let me lay this out for you. You are probably going to get sick someday, or suffer injury or accident, or need elder care, or at least this will happen to someone you love. Your illness (or their illness) may make you poor, or it might not, but you may still need help paying for healthcare. And, even though you are sick, or injured, or old, your life will still matter. But so did all of our lives, all along, that you couldn’t be bothered with. Because we do matter. Just because we’re human.

Hmmm. Beowulf. Maybe I’ll work on my novel some after all.

Till next week.

PS. Slightly tempted to spam Paul Ryan with highlighted versions of Beowulf, but is he even accepting mail???


There's a person in here, somewhere.

There's a person in here, somewhere.

Play along.

Imagine you’ve been diagnosed with a mental health condition. Then live, for a while, in the world. Hang out online. Be present for social media. Facebook, Twitter, what have you. It’s hard to avoid those platforms these days. Especially if you are involved in any sort of field where you have to put yourself out there.

What I think you will find, dear play-actor, is that there exists a wealth of people, some wholly unrelated to you, who would like to tell you what to do.

There are the people that insist that all mental illness is exactly like a physical illness, with roots in biology and genetics, and that, therefore, psychotropic medication is the only appropriate treatment.

On the other side of the spectrum—actually, not quite, because I’m skipping Scientologists—are the people who can’t open their mouths without screaming: BIG PHARMA!!

In between are the people who maybe are not totally opposed to meds, you know, in the case of people who really need them, but who nonetheless like to post memes about how the reason so many people are depressed is because, I don’t know, they aren’t spending enough time in forests. Or, maybe a daily portion of cashews would help.

Perhaps you’ve seen some of these. Perhaps you’ve shared them.

When you do, I kind of roll my eyes. On the other hand, I see your point.

Here’s me: at some point in my twenties, and into my thirties, my personal world experienced a series of rather terrifying collapses.

Bring on the string of diagnoses: first bipolar disorder, which was in vogue at the time, then temporal lobe epilepsy, then, d’oh, not epilepsy, rather PTSD, but, nope, not that either, let’s go with schizoaffective disorder. (Schizoaffective disorder is kind of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, meeting somewhere in the middle). I spent about a decade in various forms of therapy (though never the kind of intense weekly therapy where I could actually talk about my deep-seeded issues), in different support groups, and on all kinds of meds. Mostly mood stabilizers and antipsychotics. I remained a mess. A messy mess.

I have a lot of feelings about all of this. Of course, there were all kinds of people telling me what to do. Sometimes, I even listened.

Later I ended up on different health insurance, and had regular therapy sessions, a whole year’s worth, with a Jungian-influenced depth psychologist. We talked, week after week, about the real stuff. The stuff that was breaking me. The stuff, that if I stared down, might stop breaking me. More than anything, I guess, this is how I became a bit more whole.

It’s not like my life is perfect now, because whose is, but I consider myself mostly recovered. (I’m not even in therapy.) I take a minimal amount of medication, which my body is dependent on (more on this in another post), and practice self-care. You know, the basics. Exercise, healthy diet, the occasional adult coloring book. I safeguard my personal time and always make sure I have an hour or two, once in a while, to do nothing.

By which I mean absolutely nothing. Maybe I’ll lie face down on the sofa and daydream. Okay. Technically, daydreaming is something. But, hopefully, you see my point. I put no stock in being busy. To my mind, busy is a luxury.


As I’ve gotten better, I’ve become rather curious about the system that shaped so many years of my life. I have a lot of questions, and I’ve read a few books. My interests include the history of the system itself. Psychiatry. How, I want to know, have we gotten to the present point?

First I read Anatomy of an Epidemic: Magic Bullets, Psychiatric Drugs, and the Astonishing Rise of Mental Illness in America, by Robert Whitaker. I would say it counts as a polemic. Definitely more anti-meds than I think a lot of people who take meds might find comfortable. What I remember most about the book is the rather convincing case he made that the rise of bipolar disorder diagnoses in youth was linked to the prevalence of Ritalin prescriptions (or other drugs like it) in cases of ADD/ADHD. Put a kid on speed, I guess, and see where that takes you. Or, at least, that seemed to be his point.

I next spent some time with Richard Bentall (who I’ve recently come back to). This guy is kind of a hero of mine, and I’ll spend at least an entire future post talking about him. For now I’ll say that his basic argument seems to be that mental health professionals should focus on treating symptoms, not diagnoses. He also argues for what he terms judicious use of medication. (He started making these arguments years ago, and I’m happy to report, that at least in some quarters, his ideas have been adapted.)

In February of this year, I read Andrew Scull’s Madness in Civilization: A Cultural History of Insanity. What became clear to me after reading this book, in rather stark terms, was this: viewed through the perspective of history (whole centuries of it), those who have taken on the role of treating the mentally ill have rarely gotten it right. But, and this is important, what they’re doing often seems right at the time, or at least is the best they can do. Sometimes, what’s not right is even celebrated as innovative and groundbreaking. It’s probably worth mentioning that Egas Moniz received the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1949 for developing prefrontal leucotomy. In other words, a form of lobotomy. So, maybe in the end, not so great. (In what may be one of the biggest cases of karma coming round, Egas Moniz was later shot in the leg by a patient.)

Suffice it to say, I view mental health professionals (and their advice) with a dose of what I think is very healthy skepticism. Kind of like, okay, maybe meds, for now. Until the next better thing. Whatever that might be. Hmmm. Can’t wait to find out. (A big part of me hopes this might involve high quality, affordable therapy available for whoever needs it, when they need it, but you won’t catch me holding my breath.)

Essentially, my take on mental health treatment revolves around the idea that no one can put themselves into anyone else’s shoes, so we should all do what feels right for us. (And I’ve met enough people who really seem to experience life a bit better on meds. Better enough that the cashew/forest walk people should maybe hush up. Why? Because some people are allergic to nuts, and none of us can really live in the forest.) This may mean accepting that mental health and/or illness need not be all one thing, or have one cause. Widespread, overarching theories, perhaps, need not apply. One-size-fits-all ideas could take a flying leap out of the nearest window. Those who struggle with mental illness might, for a change, be regarded as unique individuals, with their own vastly different, but highly relevant personal histories, and treatments tailored specifically for them.

I think that would be nice.

Till next week.