Blindsided

I remember being happy.

I remember going into elementary school and having friends. I remember learning how to play the triangle and maracas. I remember coloring and hamburger lunches. I liked my teacher and and my teacher still liked me. I was still smiling in my school pictures.

In grade three we had our pictures taken at two different times. The first was the individual picture, the one for dad's wallets and grandmother's tables. This was taken in the beginning of the year. The second was the class photo and this was taken in the spring.

Sometime during the fall photo and the spring photo the demons grabbed a hold of my mind and started to divide me into pieces that I would only understand 15 years later. I gained 20 pounds. My smile was false. The first trickles of dark thoughts began. I lost all my friends and struggled in school. My teachers hated me because of my unpredictability.

My question is: Why the fuck didn't anyone notice?

I was normal and then I wasn't.

I was thin and then I wasn't.

I showered and then I didn't.

I had friends and then I didn't.

I know it was a different time then. Mental illness was talked about very little, and certainly not in children. I was told to 'cheer up' and 'grow up'. I was supposed to shake it off. But after 3 years of the same behavior in a school of 60 kids, there was no way I could fall between the cracks of an overloaded system. There was me and 3 other kids in my grade four class. There was me and 4 other kids in my grade five class. I was never sent to a counselor. I was never sent to a doctor. Nothing but blame for my behavior. Did they just think I wanted to be like this?

Now please listen.

My anger is not for me. It is not for the 15 years I spent suicidal fence.

I just want to know who is taking care of the 8 year old Tiffanys now?

I can see them in the school that my daughters go to. I can see them in the mall with their moms and in the grocery store.

Kids just aren't bad. Kids aren't continually disruptive without a reason. We need to ask questions.

Are they like me? You just cannot think that mental illness is an adult disease. Kids are struck everyday with diseases that only adults should get. If a kid can go into kidney failure or get cancer, how can it be justified that their mind cannot also be altered by disease.

Are they being abused? Are they being neglected? Are they unloved?

I cry thinking about 8 year old Tiffany; however, I am not crying for myself. I cry for the 8 year old who is in his room right now, listening to the voices in his head, and wondering how he will be able to go on. I am crying for the little girl who is hearing her dad come up stairs and wishing she had a lock for her door.

It is our job to protect all children. All children. Children do not have the words to talk about what is going on so they use their actions to tell their story.

We need to listen to their story.

Scratchy

I don't feel well.

It feels like my brain is on its own axis. I turn my head and my brain keeps going. Even though everything is moving faster, my thoughts and my speech, my brain seems to process the movements slower. Maybe it is because its overwhelmed and the movement is too much.

It is hard to write. The thoughts are going through my head like a freight train. I am trying to put something down and I keep having to erase it because it has nothing to do with what I am trying to express.

I am avoiding conversations. I have usually started thinking of something else and ignored most of what they have said. Luckily I have come up with a coping mechanism that has allowed me to pick up on certain words. I use these words to ask questions and start the conversation over so I do not appear rude.

I am able to work 10 hours a day, and then come home and work just as hard.

I sleep poorly. I am riddled with dreams and wake up exhausted. I can see my doctor about getting some help but the priveledge of getting sedatives must not be abused.

I know I am close to the end because I am starting to see things. I see bugs in my food and people in a room when I am alone. My brain feels scratchy.

It is the end that I fear because what is there to meet me is terrifying. I may just slide out of it.

I may not.

I don't want to be sad. I don't want to want to hurt myself. I don't want to make my family hate me.

I just want to be normal.

I need a crazyectomy.

Marilyn Munster

"Cleaning the bathroom relaxes me" my youngest daughter tells me.

She was the only baby in the hospital when she was born and this is the only way I know she wasn't switched at birth. She slept through the night the very day she was born. She knows when to stop eating when she is full, she likes to clean, and she makes friends easily. She is a grade ahead and reading and doing math 2 years ahead.

More significantly, in a house where 75% of us are being treated for some sort of mental illness, and belonging to a family that is plagued by it, she is normal.

To me, it is like watching a documentary on a different culture, being in awe of a societies practices and customs. Watching her is watching what could have been.

What is most amazing about her is the way she accepts the craziness around her and finds a way to help, instead of deciding to resent. I tell my children that it feels like there is sandpaper in my brain, or my mind is on fire when I am not doing well. I tell them that even though I appear angry at them, that it is not their fault, it is mine. I will not know for sure if these words mean anything to them until they are adults, but I feel that most of my words are making it to her. Now if she is fully tattooed, dropped out of high school and living with her crack dealing boyfriend at sixteen I supposed that will be a sign that I hurt her more than helped her, but for now, she is doing well.

At eight she can make a meal, do a full load of laundry, and go to the store for me. And yes, she cleans the bathroom to relax.

I find notebooks around the house where she has an itinerary for her day. She has scheduled playtime, showers, and snack time. What is really great, is she is keeping up on it. She is in a home where some days I am lucky if I show up to work wearing pants because my mind is pounding so hard I cannot remember my name. The breakdowns I have had where my mind has become separated from me has for a period of time stopped me from remembering the year she was born. She writes notes on the fridge for me to remind me of things.

I have to be careful with this blessing, a daughter who has the potential to take care of me instead of me taking care of her. It would be easy for me to put a huge amount of responsibility on her to ease my parental load. It would be easy for me to take her childhood away in my selfishness in not taking care of myself.

Every task I give her, I rethink, is this helping her, or helping me? Is this helping her grow into an adult, or is it helping me not be one?

I need to help her grow, but she is driven, and without me regulating what she takes on she will grow to be a unhappy adult. She has in the past taken on too much, and gone without sleeping because she was worrying too much. She was afraid she was going to miss the school bus on her first day of school, and laid awake for days, not wanting to bother me with her troubles. I finally got it out of her one night while she cried on my lap. Turns out she wasn't even going to take a bus to school, she was walking with her sister. She was worried about me more than her and I have to take that seriously. I am the adult and I am supposed to take care of her.

So at night when we all line up to take our meds, our Marilyn Munster puts on lotion. When we go to the doctor for our refills she comes up with a dire disease she may have just to be included.

She is lovely. I am blessed to have her.

Make up and Crayons

I am overcome. It is simple and it is beautiful and I cry as I watch her.

My oldest daughter is riding her bike in the court yard where we live. The bike is too small for her and her helmet is off-center, but she pedals hard through the trees.

She is at that time where she is still a child but you can see teenage-hood following close behind. Her "Cream Soda" pink BMX bike and skirt that she bought in the adult section of Old Navy contradict each other. The time where she can be wearing lip gloss and swinging on a tire swing.

She has had a hard life and has a sensitivity and kindness of a child that has experienced such a life. She has moved too many times, been to too many schools and daycare. She has been going through the beginnings of puberty for a couple of years already. She has been through marriage, divorce, and marriage. She watch her mother crumble and put herself together again. She had one of the most important people in her life die.

She is just like me. Not just in the way she looks and talks, or in the way she moves, but she has inherited my illness.

She had a hard time coming into this world. She was a month early, and had to spend some time in the hospital. She was a good baby, but her anger became apparent early. Her dad and I were fighting all the time and she saw things that a child shouldn't see. I left him suddenly one night, and took her and her sister to a friends. She was only two at the time and her life was never consistent, never solid, and all of her behavior problems I thought were related to the divorce and my inability to be a good mother.

Good Friday, two years ago, I received phone call early in the morning. Her grandfather was in an ambulance coming to the city. He had had a heart attack and wasn't expected to live. They were very close. She changed a work-aholic into a toe-nail painting gentleman. He took care of her. Her was a buffer between me and her dad. He supported us financially when we couldn't take care of ourselves. He cosigned on our mortgage so we could have a place to live.

She was distraught for weeks. Her sister also mourned, but my oldest was devastated. She fell behind in school, and never wanted to leave her room. She sat in the dark and played video games unless we made her leave. She cried a lot.

One weekend she was at her dad's about two hours away. I was asking her how she was doing and I could tell she was not well.

"I want to die mom."

Time stopped. She was only eight and after a long discussion I found out that not only did she truly want to die, but she had a plan on how to do it.

My husband, Paul, figured out what we were talking about and got dressed and had his keys in his hand even though I was still on the phone.

She wanted to die so she could go and see her grandpa. She knew that she would be leaving us but the pain here was too much for her to bear and wanted to leave this earth. After spending a long time on the phone with her I spoke to her dad. He comes from a farm background where all problems can be fixed with hard work and a band aid, but did his best to understand it. I know that even now he thinks that she can just get over it, but respects me enough believe what I tell him.

As soon as she came home, we took her to our doctor. There is a huge waiting list for child psychiatrists, but we have a smart family doctor. They do not make antidepressants for children, so all they get is a lower does of adult medicines. As side effect of taking some of these medicines is suicide. One of the theories is that the child finally has enough energy to kill themselves.

She made it through. She started leaving her room and making friends. She is doing better in school. She is still sensitive and thoughtful but I think that is part of her nature. She is sad that she has lost her grandfather but she can cope with her life.

Today I watched my beautiful daughter ride her bike. She is a success story. I know that she is going to have adjustments in her meds and go through bad times, but she is living proof that there is hope for all of us.

Hope for a normal life.

Priests and Oujia boards

I was doing 100 km in a 40 zone and had both my lights and siren on. The town that I had been posted in as a peace officer less than a year before was only about 10 blocks long, but I needed to be at my destination now.

"Save him, save him, save him, save him." This was all she could say. Her husband was holding her down, and the younger children were in the playroom with their grandfather also screaming.

I reached down to take my boots off, something once I had entered Tim's room I wouldn't do again. The town doctor was already there and told me there was no reason to rush. He couldn't be saved.

I left the family downstairs and went up to Tim's room with the doctor. 16 year old Tim was laying back on his bed. The shotgun he had in his hands was upside down and his finger was still on the trigger. His eyes were open, and there was a dime size hole in his forehead.

There was a note on his ghettoblaster that said "Goodbye forever." When his mom came home and found him, the music had been blaring. It must have covered up the sound of the shot while his brothers that he was babysitting, played downstairs.

Tim had taken his grandfather's car the day before and crashed it. Tim and his grandfather were extremely close and when his grandfather had been so angry at him, it was believed that Tim in his devastation took his life.

We spends hours in his room. Tim was handled great respect. The coroner, a friend of hers, and myself cleaned his room. The funeral directors took him away. I collected evidence.

It was the evidence that I collected that led me into something greater.

During the few months before his death, Tim and his friends had begun to play with Oujia boards. They worked with Pentagrams, had seances, and they were reports of him levitating. (This one I was not sure about, but what mattered is the kids thought it was true. ) His room had pages and pages of poems and notes about the occult. Some I took with me and some I left.

The town I worked in went crazy. Everyone thought that all the kids were worshipping Satan. There were conflicts between me and the crisis counselor. (Only one counselor for all the kids.) When I went through his locker the counselor was angry that the kids needed to do it for closure. The kids didn't need to find notes about suicide and the devil.

The town was crying out for a meeting for their children but the School Board felt that it wasn't their job. The rumors were talking about Satan worshipping, and how some of the children were doomed to the devil.

I was at a loss. I wasn't sleeping, and I was crying all the time. Everything I had learned in this Catholic town was that suicide was a sin and Tim was swirling in hell. I couldn't understand how a 16 year old boy who probably didn't understand that in pulling the trigger that it would actually be forever, could suffer this fate. I was not seeking God at this time, but every ounce of me could not believe this.

I decide to call a priest that was in a nearby city. Colin specialized in the occult and his name preceded him.

He told me something that has changed my life and the way that I look at my illness. Colin said that when playing around with the occult, Tim allowed Satan into his life. Satan controlled Tim's thoughts, making him feel worthless. When Tim killed himself, it was the words of Satan speaking to him, demons whispering in his ear. Colin said that God would not judge Tim, because he was not actually himself.

With this knowledge, I have fought my disease not just as a physical battle, but also as a spiritual battle. Satan and God are battling for my mind. My mind, my body are God's and while I may come far down sometimes, I must fight my way back. I must fight with the armor of God.

Ephesians 6:10-18 (New International Version)

10Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. 11Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. 12For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. 13Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. 14Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, 15and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. 16In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. 17Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. 18And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints.

Satan hates truth. The truth that you are worthwhile, you are special, and you are loved. Whether you believe it or not, you are Loved.

Ways to Die and the American National Safety Council

Think about all the commercials you have watched in the last week. Several a day are "public education" announcements for the flavour of the week. They are announcements for our protection, teaching us how to protect ourselves from certain death. I have seen West Nile, boating, drunk driving, HIV/Aids, carbon monoxide, fires, and hot weather. After the earthquakes overseas I was taught how to hide in my home. After the tsunamis I was shown how to hang on to the top of my car with my seatbelt wrapped around my arms to keep me safe during a sudden flood. I know how to hide in a ditch during a tornado and I know how to keep my car warm if I am caught in blizzard.

I recently received my copy of National Geographic and in it was an article showing a graph from the American National Safety Council on your likelihood of dying a certain way.

What do you think your top five ways of dying are? What do you think is most likely to kill you?

Cancer? Number 2. You have a 1 in 7 chance of dying of cancer.

Car accident? Number 4. 1 in 84.

Flood? Nope 1 in 144,156.

What about suicide? Where does that stand?

Heart disease 1 in 5.

Cancer 1 in 7.

Stroke 1 in 24.

Car Accident 1 in 84.

Suicide 1 in 119.

It is the fifth likely way to die.

How many public announcements have you seen for suicide lately.? I have seen a lot of fluffy commercials for the drugs that can help you, but those are paid for by the drug companies that want you to by their drugs. How many commercials paid for by with public funds have you seen?

According to these statistics you could run around all day with your tin foil hat and a golf club during a thunderstorm, survive, and then come and swallow a bunch of pills.

Its not the terrorists that are going to get you. Its you that is going to get you.

So what do you think the problem is?

Is their some conspiracy against us, keeping the crazies in the closet? (Well, some of us may truly think that, but that is just our sickness talking.)

Truly, it is our fault. It is our shame and our embarrassment that is keeping others from knowing how to see the signs and protecting themselves. Public money will only go to what is determined as important to the public.

We need to stop being embarrassed by our feelings. The only thing we need to be embarrassed by is our refusal to treat ourselves. The only shame we should have is in not talking about it.

When I first really became diagnosed, I was very open with who I was and where I had been. People were shocked. Some distanced themselves from me and whispered "crazy" behind my back. Even today, Brooke Shields admission of post partum depressions is mind blowing to some. If we stood up, in just our normal day, we would have less Andrea Yates with us.

It is okay to mentally ill. We do not have a choice in being it, so why be shameful? What is not okay is living with it untreated, wallowing in it, savoring the drama of it.

We need to stand up for who we are. Soon you may see me on a commercial.

"Hello, my name is Tiffany, and I am crazy. You may have seen me in other public announcements like 'Your prozac and you' and 'No, your VCR is not recording your thoughts'."

Stand up, get help, and help others. Its our blessing.

NSC Ways to Die

Crazy in Love

I one hundred percent believe in the presence of demons in our lives. I know this because I have seen them. This conversation that I am having tends to frighten people. It gives people who feel normal the ability to draw the line in the sand and divide the sane from the insane.

But just like God, not believing in demons, does not stop them from existing.

A few days into my sleepover Stephen came up to me.

"She's back."

"Who's back?"

"She is."

He nodded towards the observation room that I had just been moved from. I know realized that it was to make room for the woman now occupying the room.

For the next few days she tore up our lives. Any peace that had been found was now ripped apart.

All the male nurses we had were called in on overtime and kept with her. All day and night there was horrific screaming and cursing coming from her room. I peeked in her room at the high of one of the episodes and saw four of the male nurses trying to hold her down while another nurse administered some medication.

Stephen knew of her because they crossed paths every so often. She was also schizophrenic and occasionally came in to level her meds. She lived on a farm. His details were usually sporadic and vague.

So, for a few days we listened to her scream, heard the nurses snap at each other as they struggled with her, heard the smashing coming from the room. We lived without our favorite nurses as they pinned her down.

And everyday, we watched him.

Her husband came with her everytime. He sat with her everyday, all day. He was calm during the episodes, and walked outside of her room when she slept. He brushed her hair, and fed her. She was everything that the word crazy enveloped and he loved her with everything that he had.

After about four days, she came from her room. Our monster was a beautiful dark haired woman. She was about 30, and about 150 pounds. She was lovely even in the hospital robe. She walked slowly due to all the drugs, but smiled and said hello to all of us. And just behind her was her husband. He was also smiling, but not at us. At her.

She asked if anyone could french braid and I told her I could. She sat in front of me and I did my best, but I mostly watched him. He watched her and obviously loved her with every part of him.

She left before all of us, into the care of her husband. I am sure she had episodes again, as have we all. I know she was taken care of.

She is one of the reasons why I believe in demons. We see them. They whisper to us, and taunt us. They figure out what hurts us and pick on it. But with the belief in demons must come the belief of the opposite. Love. I wanted to be loved like that. I sought it like a drug. I wanted a man to love me so much that he would see me battle the demons and sit and brush my hair.

I have since remarried, and found a man that will help me fight my battles. He will see my darkness, and still love me just like her husband did. He was a gift to me from the most holy of Love. God has shown me the demons so I can fully realize His greatness and His kindness. My trips through the darkness show me the evil so I can go and tell the world of the Love.

I have someone that will brush my hair while I scream, and I thank God everyday for him.

Camo Jesus

I really had no idea of the extent that people will go to hurt themselves. The disgust and hate for themselves combined with creativity becomes a breeding ground for self-destruction.

I met a young man who shot himself in the stomach because he knew it would hurt more. He wanted to feel the hurt because it related directly to how he felt inside. He went behind his barn with a shotgun and pulled the trigger. He wasn't prepared for someone to find him.

I met burners, cutters, hair-pullers, starvers, shooters, and jumpers. We could pick each other out. A cutter can see another cutter, and starvers could give tips to each other on how to keep on starving.

I didn't realize that you could swallow a knife to end your life. Another thing I didn't realize was that the nurses and doctors at the ward would give up on you and send you out in the world if you didn't try. The girl swallowed the knife one too many times and I watched as she was wheeled out for her last surgery there, and then out to the world.

After watching her go, I went into the dining room. We were lucky to have a kitchen with a toaster and fruit, some tea and coffee, and small things like that. I really was terrified. There was a lot of screaming going on. A guy was in hospital gear and hollering for his clothes back. He looked rough, missing some teeth, some sores. It turned out he was a heroin addict and had come to clean up.

I was making some toast and was carefully keeping my eye on the door. I watch as this fairly good looking guy came in. He was dressed entirely in black. Black combat boots, pants, shirt, and coat. On the back of his coat he had drawn red eyes. They were all over, and were only on the back of the coat.

He sat at my table and looked at me.

"My name is Stephen."

I told him my name.

"You look scared."

I told him I was.

"You don't need to be. This is my 17th trip here, and it is a good place to be. Most people are all right, and no one will hurt you here. The first time I came I thought I was Jesus. Now I am not that bad. I realize now that I am not Jesus."

He told me that he was schizophrenic and had to come in every so often to get sorted out. He told me that he wore clothes that matched the time and weather of the day. At night he wore all black, and during the day all green or white if it snowed. This allowed him to hide.

I asked him what the eyes were for.

"So no one can sneak up on me."

He told me that he was eventually he was going to get an eye tattooed on the back of his head.

During the time there I became pretty good friends with Stephen. As good of friends a manic-depressive and a schizophrenic can be I guess. I was one of the few allowed in his room and share his things. I could tell the days he didn't want to be seen. He walked with his arms tense and big around him. He looked ahead and wouldn't speak. He protected me from what he thought were aggressive patients. He told me of the house he was going to build with false walls. He wanted to be able to hide his wife and children inside if trouble came. (When he first told me I thought he meant he was going to kill his family and put them in the walls, but some careful questioning helped with that.)

I hope he is okay. Whenever I feel bad about being bipolar, I am always grateful for not being schizophrenic. One thing I do envy is his certainty. I wish I could put some eyes on my clothes that could ward off the evil. Maybe being Jesus for a few days would would enlighten me.

I am glad to have met him.