Busy, Busy

I live in my head more often than not, but over the last two days, I have also spent time in the real world. Albeit, my real world, I did extensive work inside the house yesterday and outside it today.

My encounters with bugs, snakes, snails, reminded me why I prefer interiors. Guess I should expect the critters living in the woods, but they are creepy.

I brought in the towels used to sop up excess water when the Explorer leaks. As I got in the mud room a little green lizard, an anole, went flying across the room. It promptly hid out. I said some prayers hoping I could return it to the wild, because it would die in here.

I fixed Pepperjack Cheese Waffle Fries and ate them. When I went back to the door awhile later I saw my visitor. I tried to catch it, but on the third try I prayed again, and somehow I caught the little cutie. I held its tail while it sat on my bicep and took it out to the porch.

I am glad to say the release was successful. I am quite sore, and my computers still won’t go on the internet, so I am brief.

I hope you have an excellent rest of the week. Everybody’s Working For The Weekend by Loverboy. Stay safe and remember love is what the whole world needs.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

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.

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.

 

Poem: Hunted/Hunter

Well, here now, bet you did not expect me back. I took a nap. It is the best way to reset my destructive urges when I am being pursued by suicidal thoughts. Trust me, depression is no ally. However, in my crenelated state, mania also sets about to usher me away, over-taking walls that can never fence me in. Always a battle, forever a war, victory nevermore. Anyway…

Hunted/Hunter

There is a dichotomy
Built into our lives,
A perceived separation
More akin to a lie.
We are every one
A hunted, running
For survival and to
Be claimed a trophy
To ornament some
People’s idea of who
We should become.
Also, each a hunter,
Aching for forever love
Chasing illusions, dreams,
Whatever seems a goal,
Thinking accomplishment,
Wealth, reputation, will
Finally, make us whole.
Reality is our hearts
Are vessels circulating love,
What we wish to attain
Lies within us to share,
Give away, making love
All of the world
And throughout
Every moment of history.
The hunted/hunter is
A celebration of creation
Begun with a word,
To continue for eternity
The Beloved we serve,
The Beloved we are.

Yeah, that just came like a hurricane out of nowhere, the only thing I had was the words, Hunted/Hunter. Oh, dears, that is the first draft. I usually only write first drafts of poems. 

As a prompt: Create something about a dichotomy you feel presents itself in life.

I am safe, by the way. I just get agitated. The damnable disease is a horrible thing, but it has its gifts too. I am not sure I would be so wildly creative did I not face the struggle.

DSC02867

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Social, I Suppose

Decision Point

You like lemon drops
I prefer spicy red hots,
Can we still be friends?
Can our yellows, reds, mingle?
Do sour and hot speak, emote?
Would we need to shove
Our preferences, tastes, down
One another’s throat?
I think given space and time
We can share our love as friends.

Erotica Avec Moi

I want to lay you
Down on freshly laundered pure
White sheets, soft as mink,
Becoming entangled like
Stars in cosmic clouds gleaming
With passion’s light dew,
Sweet escaping sighs released
As we learn precious
Togetherness can delight
Lips and tongues discovered new.

Monday, November 4, 2019

Willful
Abuse
Radicalized

Every person is
Some parent’s treasured baby
Whose birth was an Event;
If blood is spilled, at what cost?
Tears drowning, an ocean flow.

Someone different despised
Loaded missiles in idle conversation
Tearing a visage apart,
No safety on which to depend;
Maybe driven reckless to an end.

Corporate priorities
Accelerating profit margins;
Hours near unending or brief, plenty of pain disregarded,
Limiting accommodations, promotion recommendations,
Eliminating benefits, cutting back, workers fail.

Pointless politicians
Preying on public insecurities
Inciting mobs, another election
A million to furnish the mansion,
People’s needs less meaningful than drapes.

A bevy of youngsters, college denied,
By fiscal lack or instability
Sent, the guns and bullets,
To lands that savor patriot blood
Above that of many others.

Pretty flags draped, we weep,
Coffins we must somehow bear
Some parent’s treasured baby,
Now gone forever, death’s deep sleep,
Departing others, the cycle repeat.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
Tuesday, November 5, 2019