Return

I thought there were angels!
Every polished tile floor, numbered,
Held more, patient there, watching
Over me, who had been far gone,
Someone, I think I knew, called me,
“Come back; there’s no time to leave,
Yet,” I was sent unwilling, not of my
Volition. Pain, it was all too much,
Nothing was left I wanted – touch.
Reality was a terror-filled dream,
Oh, so, awful – rigid deadly thing.

Waking, on pristine white sheets,
Hooked-up, white walls even in
The reflection of a light slice bounced,
Through the half-open windowed door,
Pulling loose, crumply legs – shaken,
Securing myself, balanced over feet.
Thousands, whispers, voices
In the air, surrounding everywhere,
Steps slow to the door, an angel
There waiting, noticing me, “Do you
Hear something?” Tones, soft, deep.
My eyes searching, not seeing as I turn,
This, that way, some trick, the sound,
“Yes, I hear speaking, yelling, but they
Are not here, present, anywhere.”
The angel with a half-smile, “It’s okay,
You’ve come back. You’ll be safe.
Settle, stay.” I thought, ‘Not an angel
After all, cause my life, more often,
Disaster loves than ordinary days.’

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I tried to write about waking up in the hospital after days; they say I nearly died or could have stayed comatose. Instead, I got a chorus, and I have learned to live somehow in and out of time.

Cry It Over

Forgive me the moments
When I become lost beneath
Feelings which cut all
Reasoning off, I retrieve
Myself with tears, singing, prayer,
The revelations
That cast out paranoia, fear;
I hope you avoid
All those “cracks in the fabric,”
But you know my thoughts wander;
Happiness, standing
In the storms of desperation,
But crying to sing
Praises, although the brokeness
Will never leave, disappear.
I learn, learn again,
That life is overpowering –
Sometimes hearts bleed out,
I apply pressure, bandages,
Hoping God will fill the lack;
I do not own my
Faith, Jesus is love for everyone,
But He maybe loves me so,
Stops my hand when I come undone,
It is not a pretty story, fighting crazy –
Is hard luck, but there must be
Some purpose, for here I remain.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I cannot describe for you all there is in what troubles me at times. Once in awhile I attempt to put Schizoaffective Disorder into words. I am not good at it. Recently times are very trying, though there is the mania too. Maybe it does not matter to others. I do not know. I just write what I am given when I am given to know.

As a prompt, you might create something about a challenge you face. It could be a food allergy, a learning impairment, a thing you must conquer, anything really. The thing with this is to open yourself to see the strength in your weakness, and possibly gain courage from sharing.

It seems to me, we all need to be real. If we want to come closer to peace we have to understand who we are. Weaknesses and faults are part of that, being transparent.

It Might Be Okay

It might be okay to hurt this much if there were an acceptable reason for it, like getting run over by a Peterbilt. As far as I can discern, I have not tangled with a big rig. Given the way my consciousness is working, I suppose I may have missed an encounter, but due to COVID-19 isolation, I consider that dubious.

Speaking of isolation, I generally think of myself as an expert, but it has now reached the point my tolerance is fraying. I have spent a goodly share of hours trying to ameliorate my negative feelings. Music seems to be my best weapon since a 9 mm and firing range is not in my vicinity.

You probably have your own list, so, I will leave off illustrating mine.

Oh, I turned on the TV, once I figured out which remote worked it. The first thing to splash on screen was a commercial. Then there were more. Have I told you how much I hate commercials and ads? Yeah, I use VPNs, subscriptions, and avoidance to make those nuisances remain outside my life. My son does not have all the ad-blockers I do, and he is more geek than me. I ask questions of geeks is why I have armor. My aversion is such that I had not touched the TV remote since February. They believe me at AT&T because the DirecTv portion of my bill is less than $20. We will not talk about the outrageous other portions.

The problem with this level of pain is that it works like a predator, which diminishes the possibility of sleep to nil. Sorry.

If someone came to you and told you that you could not fail, what is that thing you would immediately begin doing? Are you already doing it? Preparing to begin? If not, please consider that the item you thought of is your purpose and probable area of giftedness. You should start chasing the making of this the goal of your life yesterday. My son, Alex, and I have an expression, Prime Before, yeah, there is a comic sketch, brilliant really, but he says that is us. I agree I want to have the thing at my fingertips before I know I need it. I believe this is the motive of some of my collective behavior.

I want to be a writer, which I am, and so I write every frigging day. Feel like it or not. Inspiration, or only about the dregs at the bottom of the empty well. I write.

I am not whining to be a nuisance. Were you in my place; you would get the pain. I am doing my best to put positivity to work. I must say when all of the crap built to the point, I just wanted to knock things over and spill everything on the floor, and I figuratively grabbed myself and called out for the only backup I have. I felt a sense of accomplishment. I told Alexa to play Gotta Get A Grip by Mick Jagger. Music has long been a panacea for me. I think music, reading, and writing, along with the grace and forbearance of God, and my dear mother, who is now gone, and the son who has been an overarching blessing, are the defining reasons I struggle to remain.

I am rambling a little; I keep hoping I will find peace enough to sleep. None of you may read this, I am on the edge of giving it up despite my vow. WordPress keeps spamming me about renewing my domain. Commercials, I did say they were abhorrent to me. Yeah, they’re coming into that annoyance level where I decide to the abyss with this. I will note it before I tell WordPress goodbye.

This is getting old, not sleeping.

Very well then, alright. God Bless You all, and many blessings sent your way.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan.

Insomnia

I do not know how others do it. Many just fall into this thing called sleep. For me, it is a challenge, a runaway I cannot catch. I want it, believe me, I dream of it, but it evades me.

I have Schizo-Affective disorder, which among other annoyances and gifts, means that losing sleep can catapult me into psychosis. Nowhere I want to travel because my symptoms are ever-present, but in psychosis, I entirely lose reality. I am compliant on medication, but for about two weeks, my brain will not turn off, and my pain recommends destruction.

Two to four hours of rest is insufficient. Insomnia is a unique brand of torture. In a pandemic, it is a thing of unusual cruelty.

Posting this may be too much information, but one day, perhaps someone will want to understand these struggles. I love having long days, but it is essential to plunge beneath the stream of Lethe for some hours.

I am uncertain what has caused this prolonged disturbance. Almost always, my meds send me into slumber, but not recently.

The battles with my hyperactive mind have increased. Not a problem yet, but let’s not ride the boat over the falls.

Anyway, that is my condition note. What quest are you all on?

As a prompt, think about something has become a sign of this pandemic in your life. Not only losing mobility in the world but an effect that you are experiencing personally. Create a work that gives this authenticity.

I will come about with a more typical post later.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Mad Advocacy

It is bad enough the subject is still taboo in our day. It is bad enough, so many people suffer in fear, afraid to be real. It is bad enough there are millions. It is so horrible people are dying.

If it were cancer, if it were cardiac, if it were anything physical, there would be a focus, discussion, compassion, a willingness to try to find better treatments, a cure.

My cousin asked a general question on Facebook, “Can a person with schizophrenia be called an individual?” Family, my own family. He knows me. I have corresponded with him. He has read my work and me, his. He came here and spent time with me in person the day of Mom’s memorial service.

Read that again, “Can a person with schizophrenia be called an individual?”

This was my reply: “Yes. Schizophrenia and Multiple Personality Disorder are different things. Do you consider me an individual? I have Schizoaffective Disorder, Schizophrenia, and the mood disorder, Bipolar combined.

Even MPD, the person, is an individual. Our illnesses do not make us any less worthy of respect and love as individuals.

I wonder where this post came from.”

Punch me in the face and lay me out cold. I could not believe I was reading this.

I should not be surprised. Society wishes to sweep us out with the nasty garbage. Do you know how long it takes to get funding to find those of us suffering new treatments? Do you realize how many people think we are all acting? Do you know how few live to age 56 because they commit suicide?

Sorry, I am angry. It is not so much about me. I know people who could function with meds. I know women who are so down on themselves, their husbands can put fists to skin. I have spoken to a father whose son and his wife were both mentally ill, and that man was in the process of adopting their little girl because neither of them could adequately care for her. He was almost 70.

I am lucky, I get my meds, and though I am sometimes suicidal, I know how to defuse myself with my creativity. Not to say, I have not come very close to success but been saved. My disease is the worst, and I am high functioning. I have an incredible doctor, I was able to get disability, Medicare, and Medicaid by 1997, but I had been living a nightmare since 1981. What I get does not pay all the bills, but I am afraid to lose the insurance by going to work, and I do not do well in public for extended periods. My home is a disaster area. Alex cleared out my Mom’s room. We took three loads in large trucks of clothes to Good Will. I could not do it. I cannot hardly manage any of the house. I have to keep my mind busy, or I destruct. I have to read, write, create, stay mentally engaged, or go to pieces.

Do you realize why so many are in a sorry state? They cannot afford a doctor, and if they could, they could not afford meds. Go price anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, go ahead. I will wait.

This is a crisis, and every day it gets worse. That is not an exaggeration. More and more people are committing suicide.

I am sorry, I try to leave this out of the conversation. I know most do not wish to hear about it. Many think we just lack will power and can pull ourselves up by the bootstraps. My older brother was like that, he looked down on me most of my life. We loved each other, but I failed to meet his expectations. My Mom talked to everybody who knew me trying to find ways to relate to me.

No one knows what having voices that you know are unreal, but you cannot dispel, that tell you that you are damned, stupid, ugly, unwanted, unloved, is like without experiencing it. Also, delusions that make it so you cannot trust anyone and always make you feel inferior, make you wish you were never born or could die right quick. It is so hard to understand, and no one should have to, we should put an end to it with committed research.

People like so many of our stars and veterans who commit suicide because of depression. Most of the people suffering are bright and had potential until the diseases took over their lives.

Maybe you know someone who struggles, perhaps you could give them a hug, tell them how much they mean to you. Offer to visit. Just treat them like they are an individual. Love them even if they are sometimes or often unlovable. If you know someone who needs treatment, maybe you could help them with the process. It is damned hard, and many require advocates.

If this offends you, I am sorry. If you think less of me, I get it. Something needs to be done to wake this country up to this crisis. People are dying, and their blood is on our hands if we do nothing, say nothing, we do not initiate change.

“Can a person with schizophrenia be called an individual?” If we dehumanize those with mental issues, are we not falling back into worst tyrannies than our nation’s and world’s past.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I usually give you pretty pictures, but I think the stark text will do this time.