07/04/2007
10:15
Reasonable time to get up, pleasant day weather wise, sunshine greets everyone.
I am in two minds what to do today, I hate Saturdays, usually end up in bed early so may as well devote the wakening hours to either study or stumbling.
Anger is often a normal response to serious life crises, like losing a job.
But it's a feeling, not an action, and action is what you need to solve problems.
When you face a crisis, expect to feel angry at first. But don't "go there" for long. Instead, quickly make a plan for resolving the problem. Then put your plan into action, check your progress often, and don't be too hard on yourself or others if results take longer than you expected.
Good piece of advice.
Take your medication as prescribed. Medication is a mainstay for treatment of mania. To have medication work effectively, you must take it exactly as your health-care professional tells you to. This is called medication "compliance."
Sometimes complying with your medication regimen is easier if you have the help of someone that you trust. This could be a family member or a close friend. This person should be responsible enough to help make sure you are taking your medicines when you should.
After you've been using medication for awhile, you may start feeling better. Really?
At the same time, you may also start missing some of the old feelings that are a part of your illness, and you may be tempted to stop taking your medication to get those feelings back.
Stop taking meds and learn to walk again, how to keep awake throughout the day, how to talk without slurring or having to think about it, and best of all having to figure out if the feeling you are feeling is real or brought on by the meds, if you stop taking them you no longer have to wonder if they are actually working.
You can once again believe in What you see is what you get.
If this happens to you, it's a good idea to stop and think about how those feelings that started out "good" could get out of control. ? cannot remember enjoying myself that much!
Remember what they did to your life, and the pain and heartache they may have caused you and people close to you? Or even the perceived pain and heartache. May or may have not done.
You can feel proud that you take action every day to control your symptoms. Do I really?
By doing so, you're giving yourself and those around you the peace of mind and hope for the future that you all deserve. Just keep remembering: It's the medication, along with the support of your health-care team, that's helping you keep your symptoms, and your life, in control. Is it really?
Once again I see taking medication as been hailed the crux of all recovery.
The room smells heavenly after smoking a single skin of pure skunk, the aroma is powerful enough to get me off my arse and wander afield to yonder neighbour to secure enough baccy to keep a single going.
He’s laid on sofa watching TV, curtains drawn to keep out sunlight, with no baccy.
I do not give up easy and begin going through an ashtray. Minutes later I have enough dust to hold a spark and I bid him farewell after assuring him that it is a pleasant day outside and we should be ashamed at being inside doing fuck all.
My argument follows on from the fact that I did not consider myself to be in need of medication when sectioned and therefore feel even less the need for it some several months after release.
Bearing in mind I was fully aware of the confusion in my head, and also aware that I was to blame in as much as many of my actions involved an excess of man-hours, cannabis and sheer mental effort.
Probably if the medication had offered some glimmer of feeling better in the form of a mild stone I may have took it better than something which seems to rip the heart and soul out of the patient.
As I said after the initial shock of being sectioned I realised that I was in fact somewhere safe enough to relax to an extent that taking dope would be pleasurable I reverted to my drug of choice and passed the time away till my mind was able to go through its long and painful defrag.
The hospital medication left one numbed and unable to control simple actions. The brain was no longer required because the patient feels unable to do anything or indeed think anything, you do really feel as worthless as an empty bottle.
The nearest I’ve seen to the effects of medication was once when I came across a rabbit with mixie; just sitting there with large vacant bulging eyes fixed upon something unseen. Sat, waiting patiently for the crack of a sympathetic walking stick to put it out of its misery.
My recovery was undoubtedly helped by my regular daily supply of cannabis, my ability to spot the apparent luxury of being supplied with extra large enamel, heat retaining baths with constant supplies of comfortably hot water. Also seeing and interacting with people who are in the same place, often in the same position but from a different world in terms of life’s problems.
One of the first things a patient does (if still capable of thinking for themselves), is to seek out someone with similarities but you can’t.
Everybody is preciously individual. Unique.
I love reading short stories so never tired of listening to their strange tales of their progression from the outside to being in the hospital. Some of the patients tell you their whole life story, the crazier ones intermingle reality with obvious fantasy and the value of the story increases as far as entertainment value is concerned.
Even though I write about my experiences and generally try to take the Michael out of the system I would never ridicule any of the patients or belittle their experiences. Whatever they say is true to them and that is what is important.
Some people tell only short stories when asked what brought them in here, police van or ambulance?
I found that to be the only ice breaker I needed to be rewarded with some first class entertainment and food for thought.
“Hearing voices, commanding me to kill family and myself.”
That was the shortest reply I ever got, and I must admit I gave that guy a wide berth for the duration of his stay.
One drawback to listening to others is that you get no nearer solving your own problems,
Why are you there?
Really can be an exasperating question when you can not honestly come up with any answers. Why are you here and who put you there?
Reminiscent of nights spent stoned around a camp fire and there’s always one who looks up at the sky and comes up with the why are we here slant.
When the importance or exhaustion caused by problem solving dies away you realise that reality is not a tradeable commodity in a mental hospital.
The whole experience of actually being part of a mental hospital community is one of surrealism to the nth degree.
The mind is able to play upon the ability to distinguish between beauty and despair and allow one to brighten up the existence by taking notice of some of the works of art dotted around the place. Thus the pain of listening to a distressing tale can be dismissed by walking alone along the corridor and taking in the art work on display, ( usually after a spliff).
I now take the time to roll the dust up into a joint, some readers may have presumed I’d already done that by the writing recently, but no I resisted and have done well to last this long.
I’m listening to a snare drum and didgeridoo playing in front of tribal mutterings. Just though I’d mention that.
Beauty really is only 5 skin deep.
I load the J generously and am rewarded by the bastard burning at a rate of knots down one side, fucking hate that.
Anger being only one letter removed from danger begs recognition for its existence when it becomes the prevalent mood.
The saliva trick cure the problem and all is as it should be at the office, until,
The next fucking track explodes through the speakers and knocks my head sideways. Supposed to be Chill out music, not frighten the crap outa yer sounds to have heart attacks to!
Read about a little gizmo yesterday, and anyone who ever knew me slightly would know I love gizmos.
This box of tricks is called a walkman,
Okay stick with the looney,
Please.
It makes music from the irritating noises that life surrounds you with; the cars, the road drills, the scooters that sound like blenders, people shouting, talking on phones, you know the sounds that usually piss you off no end, every fucking day of your noisy sad lives.
O.K. music may be a loose description of the output but output there surely is to make indistinguishable,(That’s one helluva word!), the noise around you. There are several controls which allow you to alter sensitivity, staccato-ness, new word,
“Fucking neat,” I thought about uttering, hence the marks,
I then realise I live in the Graveyard.
Coffin dodgers alley, they call the estate.
All the misfits are put together and they are left to form whatever resemblance of a social group they can muster. Its like part of an ongoing experiment in social conditioning.
Estates are built to accommodate the more important needs of its residents.
Hell after being scared of answering the doorbell for nearly twenty years a guy wants to live somewhere where he can leave his door open 24/7. or at least he can if he doesn’t value his life.
One of my basic needs was to be shut up, isolated and separated by distance, both mental and factual from my previous way of life, secondary need was total silence, an environment in which the art of being alone can be honed and perfected.
I’m still talking about the walkman, thought I’d forgotten and started to ramble with the dope, No.
So what good would such a machine be to me who lives behind the security of double glazed units to block out the sound of the trains going by at regular intervals like an audio pendulum marking out one’s life into half hours.
No impulse no output.
Jesus my life is different from someone’s who could use such a device to better their quality of life. In a way I’m peculiarly jealous.
Little tacky ticky tacky boxes, ask your Grandparents to understand ticky tacky and a singer who wore sweaters like no other human being.
He became famous for wearing sweaters.
Now how fucking difficult was that?
How come no one since has become famous for, wearing sweaters,
Was he a one off, original?
Little boxes, all look the same; yep they all look the same, all have same fittings, layout, only difference is what each tenant has chosen to turn their space into.
Often the insides resemble the stereotypical settee, chair, TV, table, arrangement, some ever cling to the 60’s looking dining table and two chairs. Wallpaper akin to what their parents would have chosen, and in some cases the parents had to choose the paper because they also had to do the papering.
Some of the single males have opted for the minimalist approach to furnishing and cleaning.
Opting for the laissez-faire approach and any growth can happily share the refrigerator until it gets big enough to become a threat.
Another feature of the walkman is that you can add orchestrations and even choose the instrument to overpower any noise which is persistently present, phone becomes flute etc.
I then realised that my world is complicated enough thank you, without me playing sadistic mind games on an already overstretched brain. Bit of a Cow goes wuff-wuff type of syndrome.
I must admit to having been in the past, annoyed at the amount of noise I was getting subjected to by non-stop advertising on plasmas hung off every wall of the almost empty pubs, people talking loudly in conversation and on phones, also the background noises of the establishment itself.
Then of course there was the prat.
The prat can take on many guises, traverses creeds, sex, colour, any form of segregation.
Quite often the prat is a complete stranger, but one look and you fucking know,
“He’s a prat”,
And you’re usually right, he can bombard you for your thoughts on the contents of the daily newspaper which he automatically assumes you have read when in fact you haven’t bought a paper to read for thirty years.
Or he’s the outsider who thinks this area is “ adorable” and we should feel proud to live here.
“Fuck off, misses, Fuck right off.
Don’t tell us what we should feel about our area. Pride doesn’t rate high on list.
The outsider with partner is worse,
The wife rattles on about, How nice a place to bring up kids,
You remember the three stabbings last week.
I sometimes look forward to the appearance of the old prat or prats.
The pensioners who used to come to Redcar in the old days, they will sit and quiz you about your memory of the town at a time when they lived here,, hell I only knew the house and the pub.
Never went anywhere else.
Tales of dancing and romancing on the sand dunes, happy wrinkled lips telling fond memories in the middle of a wrinkled happy face. Nice prats.
There’s the sport prat.
He’s read the print off the racing pages and consumed all of the match reports.
He usually starts with something like, “What about the match then?”,
I fall for it every fucking time,
“What fucking match?” I ask politely.
Well that’s it this guy begins to spew forth sport related news and opinions.
If after a couple of minutes I haven’t heard the names of the two local teams I tend to switch off, or usually tell them.
“I have no interest what’s so fucking ever in sport”.
Then there’s the local yokel who remembers you from your drinking heydays and insists on telling you about things which happened to you or around you when you were obviously too pissed to remember.
No one likes to remember mistakes made in ones life and most of my mistakes were made during the drinking days, so often these meetings were embarrassing.
There’s the guy who comes in with his wife, gets settled around a table in front of a half of beer and tells his wife, not to be long as she quickly disappears through the door.
He looks at the half pint in front of him,
I look at him looking at the half pint of beer in front of him.
We both look at each other looking at each other and nod in silent agreement.
“He’ll be needing more than that, she will be gone quite a while!”
The half pint is raised drained in one and five minutes later replaced with a pint glass.
Usually the poor prat is only a quarter of the way down and his beloved returns dragging him out because she had failed to find something to titivate her senses.
Obviously he leaves his drink, always the same look of regret in their eyes as they take one last look at the glass before turning towards the door.
There’s the young prats with their phones, breaking their necks to outdo each others fave rave.
Do not get me wrong I’m not totally against mobile phones, but when prats’ phone goes off and he asks me what to do, “he’s just got it”, I could merrily scrap the lot with some extra virulent phone virus which credits an offshore bank account with amount on card before embedding itself into the very innermost workings of the receiver.
Amazed me how people with the apparent worse eyesight seem to buy the smallest phones.
Do these people rank themselves to be of such importance that they should be available 24/7 in case someone somewhere may need them.
Or do they realise that if they happened to fall down ill in the street the probability would be that people would likely ignore their plight and may even refuse pleas for help phoning assistance. To them then the phone is a must.
Seems strange that a predomitarily silent and secretive generation have texting diahorrea.
Prats who read the print off newspapers.
Are usually safe company, as long as they keep their heads in the paper. Some prats have it off to an art and take all day to read about something which has already happened and will be history come the morrow. You spend most of the day keeping up to date with what happened yesterday or earlier today.
I suppose I could use the walkman to listen to the news or listen to music which I didn’t particularly like, now why would I do that? listen to something not selected.
By now I’ve realised that I wouldn’t have a lot of use for it, took about the same length of time it takes for me to realise I do not need the latest gadget or item on the shopping channel.
There are hundreds of paths up the mountain,all leading in the same direction,so it doesn't matter which path you take.The only one wasting time is the one who runs around and around the mountain,telling everyone that his or her path is wrong.
This being human is a guest houseEvery morning a new arrival.A joy, a depression, a meanness,some momentary awareness comesas an unexpected visitor.Welcome and entertain them all!Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,who violently sweep your houseempty of its furniture,still treat each guest honourably.He may be clearing you out for some new delight.The dark thought, the shame, the malice,meet them at the door laughing,and invite them in.Be grateful for whoever comes,because each has been sentas a guide from beyond.
I’ve searched a lot of poetry sites during the last few years and still stumble upon the best unexpectedly.
The harm is done by the serious, thoughtful, earnest journalists who solemnly, as they are doing at present, will drag before the eyes of the public some incident in the private life of a great statesman, of a man who is the leader of political thought as he is a creator of political force, and invite the public to discuss the incident, to exercise authority in the matter, to give their views, and not merely to give their views, but to carry them into action, to dictate to the man on all other points, to dictate to his party, to dictate to his country; in fact, to make themselves ridiculous, offensive, and harmful. The private lives of men and women should not be told to the public. The public have nothing to do with them at all.
When you look back on your life, it looks as though it were a plot, but when you are into it, it's a mess: just one surprise after another. Then, later, you see it was perfect.
Sometimes there are little glimpses of the perfection, amidst the mess. It is at those times we feel blessed beyond measure.
Forgiveness is the fragrance of the violetwhich still clings fast to theheel that crushed it.
That’s good.
The Yankee Motto
Use it up,

Wear it out,

Make do,

Or do without.

You can't teach a pig to sing.
It's a waste of time and it annoys the pig. Can’t argue with that.

You may be capable of great things,But life consists of small things.
-Den Ming~Dao

Here's to the crazy ones.

The misfits. The rebels.The troublemakers.

The round pegs in the square holes -

the ones who see things differently.

They're not fond of rules

andthey have no respect for the status quo.

You can praisethem, disagree with them,quote them,

disbelieve them,glorify or vilify them.

About the only thing that you can't do is ignore them.

Because they change things.

-Apple Computer Ad, 1997

See, they’ve been exploiting the crazieeees again.