Nan wanted to see “the real Medusa” which is on the cover of her new book. She met the artist for the first time and fell in love with the sculpture. She bought it on the spot, and it is now in Nan’s livingroom. The artist is Sarah Love, 24. The photo was taken at their meeting at McDonald’s in Nelsonville, Ohio.
HVN England Release Position Statement on DSM 5
Friday, July 5th, 2013, 5:27 pm”>July 5, 2013f=”http://www.intervoiceonline.org/national-networks/england”=”http://www.intervoiceonline.org/news” rel=”tag”>News Share your views
The Hearing Voices Network in England has issued a position statement on DSM 5 and the wide issue of psychiatric diagnoses following last week’s debate on the need for a new paradigm in mental health services, reported largely as a ‘turf war’ between psychiatry and psychology. Concerned that this debate can all too easily sound ‘academic’ and miss the voices of the very people these systems impact upon – those diagnosed with mental health problems – HVN are taking the debate back to the people.
“We believe that people with lived experience of diagnosis must be at the heart of any discussions about alternatives to the current system.”
Jacqui Dillon, Hearing Voices Network, Chair.
In their statement, the Hearing Voices Network (HVN) state that psychiatric diagnoses are both scientifically unsound and can have damaging consequences. HVN suggest that asking ‘what’s happened to you?’ is more useful than ‘what’s wrong with you?’.
Concerned that essential funds are being wasted on expensive and futile genetic research, they call for the redirection of funds to address the societal problems known to lead to mental health problems and provide the holistic support necessary for recovery.
This is part of a growing, international movement by survivors of the psychiatric system who are questioning the adequacy of a biomedical model to make sense of and respond to madness and distress.
For more information, see:
www.mindfreedom.org
http://psychdiagnosis.weebly.com
www.madinamerica.com
www.occupypsychiatry.net
www.youtube.com/openparadigmproject
HVN invites people with lived experience of diagnosis and their supporters to engage in a discussion about the issues and help plan a way forwards.
“People who use services are the true experts on how those services could be developed and delivered; they are the ones that know exactly what they need, what works well and what improvements need to be made. This is not just an academic or professional issue – it’s one that affects our lives.”
Jacqui Dillon, Hearing Voices Network, Chair
To read the position statement, see:
www.hearing-voices.org/about-us/position-statement-on-dsm-5
Bo Peep is hiding under her bed.
She thought she’d turn things on its head.
Why should she have to run after her sheep
When all they do is bleat and sleep?
If they cared about her they’d come looking
to see what strange thing was cooking.
In order to help things move along,
She quietly sang a little song.
“Hidey hidey yo ho!
Come peep to find yo Bo!”
At first the ploy didn’t work.
She just lay there, her face a smirk.
Then to the rescue came a nose,
poked under the bed where she snoze.
“I’M LOVED!”
I’m having difficulty deciding whether events are one or the other. Perhaps both? Today I experienced what I would judge to be a minor S or S. I’ll tell you about it. I was at a friend’s house last night just engaged in a kindly bit of gossiping, I guess you could call it. I was trying to remember the name of a man who had visited our poetry group once and invited us to another regular poetry reading venue in town. I told her his name would probably come to me on the way home, bu it didn’t. Although I am not a member of Phi Beta Kappa, I was reading “The American Scholar” tonight –it had been in a free bin or something–and the article on the last page brought Will Dewess’ name to mind. The article’s author was William Deresiewicz. Wait–don’t go away, there’s more. Another name I couldn’t think of was very frustrating. I could remember the book he wrote (The Birth of Consciousness in the Bi-Cameral Mind), but not his name. Again, that was during my visit last night, and tonight while reading the same issue of “The American Scholar,” I came across a discusson of his book and his name–Julian Jaynes. Now that isn’t a great example of S and S, but I’m going to start noticing them and sharing them. The journal was a real gold mine, since it also contained some interesting info for another post on the Our Shadow Selves page. (See next posting)
As I said earlier, I am NOT a member of Phi Beta Kappa, but somehow was reading a copy of their journal “The American Scholar” (Summer 2012) in bed tonight and on page 48 came across a very apropos article called Living with Voices. It’s so good I found it for you at https://theamericanscholar.org/living-with-voices/ so you can read the whole thing. You don’t have to subscribe or sign up–just click on the name of the article under Summer 2012,Living with Voices.
There’s a lot there to interest you, but what I glommed in on was how to deal with voices in your head, especially aggressive (the Shadow?) ones. And the author (T. M. Luhrmann) never used the word at all.
My youngest daughter was born in 1971, with Down’s Syndrome and the congenital fatal heart malformaton common to Down’s children. My pediatrcian told me there was no cure for it, and over the first few years she would grow steadily weaker until she ultimately died. We were living in Atlanta, Georgia at the time and I felt the need for a small, protective living environment for myself and my total of 4 children. I had heard of Celo, a small planned Quaker community in the mountains of North Carolina, and called ahead to check out the possible availability of a rental
cabin there. There was one cabin available, and I was given the landlord’s phone number. The year was 1976.
I called and described my situation and it turns out the landlord was a physician who inquired about the
nature of my daughter’s heart defect. He told me that surgery was now available for the defect, and as it turned out she subsequently underwent and survived reparative heart surgery at Eggleston Children’s Hospital at Emory University, about three blocks from our home in Atlanta.
ha ha as they say in Blogland.
THE SNATCH
By Nan Mykel
Kidnapping me was a lark. I was so unsuspicious he could have scooped me up with a butterfly net. Never again will I be so trusting of strangers, even if they do have suede patches on the sleeves of their sweater or speak with a British accent. What could I have been thinking of? I know—the lost mother beagle whose pups were crying up a storm.
I don’t remember the details of the snatch because to tell the truth I don’t seem to remember much at all since he held a handkerchief soaked in what smelled like chloroform over my nose and well, that was it until I woke up in this basement with my hands tied behind me. Chloroform is so pukey! He must have hit me on the head, too. Though I don’t remember it, I’ve got a pretty big knot on my top.
Since I‘m short and wear glasses, I guess he figured I’d be no flight risk. If only he knew! –Wait, don’t go there. This is real and life-threatening. The knot on my top is starting to throb, and I can feel my heart bamming away. What was more troubling is that I couldn’t come up with my name or age. Strange that I could remember some of the self-defense lessons from last summer. I may be a little bitty woman but those courses weren’t for nothing, although I didn’t use my head in the current situation.
I inched over to the heating duct to see what I could hear. Definitely no crying puppies. Could I hide somewhere? Dumb thought. Maybe he was going to try and ransom me. Would that mean my parents were rich? Even if they were it didn’t mean they would be willing to pay for my return.
My thoughts turned inward. Where did that thought come from? I don’t even remember my parents and yet I just caught a negative glimpse of them, true or not. I look around, recalling how other prisoners had freed themselves by rubbing their restraints against something sharp, (although I couldn’t even remember my own name). Zilch. This was not the basement of a handyman. Fire? No thanks. My eyes were beginning to adapt to the darkened basement. There were two very small windows up near the floorboard above, and a drain in the cement, which meant I could pee. Whoop de doo!
After what seemed like ages the cellar door opened and he came down the stairs carrying a tray. I barely looked at the try and said, “Thanks, Daddy.”
He drew his head back and said, “I’m not your daddy,” as he went to hand me the tray,
apparently forgetting that my hands were tied behind my back.
“Well, who are you?”
“I’m your worst nightmare,” he snarled, whereupon I giggled. He was acting like a monster from one of the movies I couldn’t remember, either.
“But you will spoon feed me like when I was a baby won’t you, Daddy? ‘Cause I can’t hold the spoon or the tray myself.” If looks could kill I wouldn’t be around to tell you this story. He cut the rope that restrained me, and as I rubbed feeling back into my wrists, I said, “Where’s Mama?”
He looked at me suspiciously. “What’s your name, little girl?”
“I can’t remember. What’s yours?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
Oh, good. He‘s regressing. We’ll be down on the floor playing marbles soon.
“Not really. Just being polite. I really can’t remember my parents, my name, even my age.” I swung my legs against the chair as I swallowed a spoonful of canned chicken noodle soup.
“Yum! I was getting hungry.” I looked up at him and smiled. He was standing with his hands on his hips, watching me eat. My last meal? Nah, I hoped not.
“You don’t know who you are!” An incredulous, worried look crossed his face. “You could be anybody!”
“Yep.” I think I slurped a little. I was really hungry.
“How many kids get off the school bus at that stop?”
“Oh”—here I was pretending to count, because I really couldn’t remember. Would more or less be better? “Let’s see—Lavinia Rothschild rides when her driver is toting her mother around, and—aw, I can’t remember! You took my memory away from me!” I didn’t have to fake the sniffle that followed my statement, because I wasn’t having fun any more. “I wanna go home!”
“Yes, and I’d like to return you home, but I’m not sure what I’m dealing with here.”
“I know the feeling. I can barely remember a bunch of big houses in the neighborhood, but not my parents. My mother could be head of the house or the maid, or the butler could be my own dad—here I shot him a dark disparaging look. I felt my face brightening as a possibility crossed my mind. “Or I could even be a poor relation.” With my last statement he turned to leave.
“Hey, aren’t you going to tie my hands back up?”
He turned and gave a little-boy smirk. “You can try and escape. Be my guest. But I rather thought you liked it here, with me as your Dad-dee.”
I called up the stairs after him. “I’ll bet you don’t even have any kids of your own!”
He called back over his shoulder, “I can think of a lot of things worse than that!”
“Yeah? Name one.”
He emitted his Prince of Darkness snarl. “Like being held prisoner underground by a childless villain.” I heard him double lock the door. Several hours later he descended and set down what he referred to as a “pot to poop in.” He stood over me, again with hands on his hips. It must have helped him think. “Nobody in the whole world has missed you yet. Is no news good news or bad news?”
The next time he brought me vittles I had a new question for him. “Do you really not know who I am?”
“No. Do you?”
“No, but I want to know what happens to me if I remember.”
“I guess we’ll have to see.”
“Well, who did you think I was? People—even childless kidnappers—don’t just run around snatching total strangers….I would think.”
He did his heh-heh-heh thing and an idea occurred to me. “Hey! Wait a minute! Is this some kind of audition? I was in that play at school last fall…and are you trying out for Hulk or something? We’d make a great team!”
He scrunched up his face at me and said, “Are you from the funny farm or something?”
“No, but you must be, a grown man with nothing better to do than pick on little kids for fun.”
My statement seemed to come closest to making him feel a little ashamed. Hey! Just maybe he was religious! Could I tweak that banjo string? “Do you know why I’m still alive?”
He seemed curious and shook his head.
“Because God watches out for me and takes care of me.” He did not reply. “And do you know why I forgot my cell phone and left it at school today?” He was silent, listening. “Because He is watching out for you, too. He knows you have a better life ahead of you than playing bad guy—or somebody else’s stooge.”
She broke into song, revealing a sweet soprano voice and as the strains of “He walks with me and He talks with me and he tells me I am his own…” he fled upstairs. She called after him, “Remember that I don’t have any memory of you or what’s happened!”
It was several minutes before she realized she had not heard the door being locked behind him. Crossing her fingers, she tiptoed up the stairs and tried the door. It was unlocked. On the kitchen table was a sheet with big black words scribbled on it: “I QUIT!”
Without a moment’s hesitation she ran out the door, turned left and ran towards home as fast as her legs could carry her.
The End
Just felt a need to share these words, feelings and thoughts with others. They really moved me. –A kindred soul (I tried to re-blog this but don’t know how so copied instead)
January 26, 2016
DEAR AGONY.
Look over there, that chirpy captivated girl/guy laughing along with her/his group of bosom buddy. Keep looking and you will find that girl/guy looking away and the smile gradually lose its brightness. That smile continues to grow dim and slowly a thin line appears. Have you questioned what runs through their mind at that time? What kind of thoughts that swims through the head? What are they thinking about? You see them quiet and still just staring into vast space with a blank face. For a minute it seems like the whole world caved in around them and they are left detached from their surroundings. The next minute they are back to reality laughing, talking to their mates.
She goes back home and locks herself in the room. Behind locked doors many things happen. She could be talking to herself telling how bad her day was, how the teacher scolded her for forgetting her assignments, or how her mum was too busy to even acknowledge her presence at home not even sparing a glance , asking how her day went. She could be on her bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about how much burden she could be to the world, thinking how better to just end it all, or just thinking maybe tomorrow wont be as bad as today was, slowly into deep slumber. She could be on her roof staring at moonlight, talking to the man on the moon, inner voicing out her sorrows and troubles upon the moon bargaining her life for the happiness of the people she love around her. Behind closed doors she could be hurting herself letting go of the pain she been holding on.
Everyone struggles through something we might not know off seeing as they look fine on the outside, but what about how they feel? Opinions that matter or thoughts that should taken a count for? Some nights you can bear the whole world on your shoulders and some nights you just couldn’t take the agony. Depression isn’t sadness. Just as cell growth is normal in a person, we call out of control cell growth an illness, we call it cancer. Depression is exactly the same. Depression is when a normal, human emotion gets out of control to the point where it is no longer normal. Depression is a mental illness that affects our way of thinking, emotions, perceptions, and behaviors in a way where we lose interest in everything we used to love once. It consumes our daily lifestyle whispering things behind our ears.
“Depression isn’t a choice. It never was. It’s the smile that seems too heavy for your mouth, it’s the breath that you can’t take. Depression is hearing a voice that no one else can hear. Depression is like a shadow. It’s always there, but you can’t always see it. Depression is the forest with the giant trees and the thorny bushes. You can get out of it, but slowly and not without visible wounds. Depression is a cell that constantly gets smaller and I’ve swallowed the key of the only exit. Depression is like a tight rope around your neck, and the longer you try to fight for your life, the tighter the rope gets. Depression is like standing in front of an accelerating train and not wanting to step aside, because it seems like a relief. There are times when you fall back into the hole of depression and you feel like there’s no victory, but don’t think that you can’t go on. Like ants can carry 10 to 50 times their own body weight, you can carry the cross of depression. Fight every second of the day.” -Mugilan
“I put my earphones on and play a track that suits the situation I was in as I lock myself in a dark room with only minimal amount of light as it affects me emotionally.” -Fahad
To me depression was like a ghost of someone. A stream. It feels like I’m walking upstream through a current strong enough to pull me below. There are others with me, but they are walking along the banks telling me to “just get out of the water instead of helping me up. They would continue moving along the banks, leaving me to suffocate behind. Every once and then, I would find a rock that is strong enough for me to lean on so I can rest and recover from the cuts and pain caused by the stream. But the rocks always get tired of holding me up, and when they let go, I’m left asphyxiating, thrown 50ft back again. After everything, there’s nothing more harder than trying to stand up in that current when everything’s inside you is screaming to just let yourself get drowned.
Life is not easy living with depression. With every step you take there’s always someone or something inside you that’s telling you to not take that step. There’s always something holding you back from doing the things you love, from being genuinely happy, from smiling to everyone you meet. Depression is like faceless enemy but as God said to love your enemies, we should learn to love our depression, Yes, it might have brought us to sleepless nights, tear stained pillows, cold shoulders for everyone around us, masks to cover up how we feel, hurting ourselves, hating how we look and contemplating life but look where we have come up so far because of depression. We have survived the wrath depression. We understand how is it like to live with depression and how to treat people around us because we don’t know their story.
Dear depression,Thank you for coming into my life and changing the way my perspective is. But I would like for you to leave now. Thank you for the times you made me understand someone’s feelings. Thank you for the times you made me realized how much pain can someone go through with depression. Thank you for showing me how strong I can be. Now, tonight I just want you to leave. Enough sleepless nights where i contemplate my life. Enough of staining my pillows with tears of the silent cry from the pain. Enough of the time when I lay down on the bathroom floor bawling my eyes out for the past I had.
Enough of the cuts I make to let the pain relief the pain I’m going through because of you. Enough of taking the people I love away from me. This time, I stand on my ground ready to face the road of recovery. I would not listen to your whispering’s anymore because I can make my own choice. I can learn to love again. I can be loved because I for one know there’s people out there that are capable of loving someone like me with my scars and broken heart. I know there’s people out there who cares. And I know there’s always God giving us a second chance at life to see how far we can get through you. Enough is enough. I believe we are all strong fighters that can fight through you. For once, let us do it our way without your saying.
Thank you.
To all the fighters out there, keep fighting because the road to recovery is still there and never gone.
Contact thehopeline.org if you need someone to talk to too (:
Look over there, that chirpy captivated girl/guy laughing along with her/his group of bosom buddy. Keep looking and you will find that girl/guy looking away and the smile gradually lose its brightness. That smile continues to grow dim and slowly a thin line appears. Have you questioned what runs through their mind at that time? What kind of thoughts that swims through the head? What are they thinking about? You see them quiet and still just staring into vast space with a blank face. For a minute it seems like the whole world caved in around them and they are left detached from their surroundings. The next minute they are back to reality laughing, talking to their mates.
She goes back home and locks herself in the room. Behind locked doors many things happen. She could be talking to herself telling how bad her day was, how the teacher scolded…
View original post 1,077 more words
Cookie was an inmate in the prison where I worked. He told tales that passed for truth–for the naive and uninitiated, like me. He said one day (on the outside) he’d been in an alley atop a ladder painting near the roof when his wallet fell out of his pocket. A rotten thief picked it up and ran with it before Cookie could climb down. Cookie escaped prison and after being caught said he had almost phoned me. I said of course I”d have had to turn him in. He said oh, not knowing I’d have waited a day. (100 words)
(Being a newbie, I went out to lunch just before trying to post this. Seems I missed the deadline.)
Cogito Ergo Sum
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