Some love for Kim (@momagosomething)

I cried in the arms of a friend once, questioning how could I go on. How could I live with pain and live in the world that was shattering around me?  Her only response was four simple words; Be gentle with yourself.

I sat there wondering how in the world that was going to fix everything. And then I realized, it can't. Things couldn't start to get better until I wasn't gentle with myself.

I know that your world, too, feels shattered and the pain you feel {physically & mentally} is beyond words and that the help you need feels so desperately far from reach.

But though it all please take the time to be gentle with yourself and know that you aren't alone. There is an incredible group of women holding you up--supporting you in every way they can.

You are doing the best you can and what you have done this far is amazing. You have so much strength and fight in you. You can do it, you can get there and you can feel better.

And that little boy... what a lucky little boy he is to have a momma like you. You set such a good example for him. He's going to always remember his mom as a fighter and that's just what you are.

So be gentle, take some moments for you, tell yourself you are loved, know that you can do this no matter how frustrating things feel and lean on those who love you.

You will make it. And if all goes to hell in a handbag, we'll get Chuck Norris to kick some Canadian medical system ass.

We love you.

Stephanie

The Sufganiot

The smell of Matzo ball soup lured me from my bedroom.  I tiptoed down the hall and sat on the stairs to get a better view of the kitchen.

The room was bursting with people, my aunt chopping apples for charoset, our traditional Passover apple and nut dish, my dad boiling eggs and my uncle was at the center of it all, a piece of bread in his mouth, attempting to ward off tears from the onions he was chopping.

On the other side of the island at the kitchen table sit my cousins who are engrossed in conversation and sipping on pre-Seder wine.

My little sister clutching her bear, stands in the center of it all looking for her place in the festivities.

“I’m hungry” she whines to no one in particular.  My dad spins around, takes a matzo out of a box and places it in front of her nose.  “Here. We’ll be done in a few hours.”

Elizabeth sticks her tongue out at him and marches into the dining room to work on the puzzle that had taken up permanent residence at our dining room table. 

I put my hand to my stomach as it starts to rumble.  Standing up suddenly, I knew what must be done.

Sneaking through the kitchen and into the dining room I sit next to my sister.  I take the puzzle piece from her hand, lean down and whisper in her ear.

Her big, hazel eyes widen as she takes in my newly devised plan.  Her head bobs in agreement as she pulls her chair out.

We layer ourselves in sweaters and a coat. Hats and mittens are applied as we step out into the crisp April air.  Navigating a bike in the slush of melting snow would be tricky, but the sinful reward at the end of the journey make it well worth it.

The bitter cold wind lashed my face as we took off out of the drive-way.  Yanking my jacket up to my nose I rode with one hand listening to the tiny tinks of the pink pieces of plastic that adorned the spokes of each wheel.

Dirt encrusted snow on the road kicked up and wet the bottom of my jeans. I didn’t care and peddled even faster.

I glanced back, almost losing my balance to make sure my sister wasn’t too far behind.  She was right behind me peddling as fast as her legs could take her.

In front of me was the hill, looming and seemingly endless.  Almost there, just over the top. Pedal. Keep Pedaling. You’re so close. My muscles burned from the strain of the climb. I repeated the internal pep talk as we approached the top. 

Grinning my toothy, 10 year old grin, I removed my feet from he pedals and plummeted over the top coasting down the other side.  The brown building slowly came into view.

We raced into the parking lot, stopping our bikes with a skid. As I pushed the kickstand down I looked up at the illuminated lettering; Kenny’s Market.

Giggling with anticipation we moved inside, our cheeks starting to thaw from the heat.

We dashed towards the back knowing exactly where our sinful treat lay.  Approaching the glass doors we slowed our pace taking in the wonder that lay in front of us.

Double glass doors with silver handles housed faded yellow rows trays stacked in rows.  There were so many choices.

I pressed my nose to the glass, weighing the options in my mind. Jelly filled or cake? Powered sugared or iced?

My sister finally reached her chubby hand into the case and carefully retrieved a long john, iced with chocolate and filled with custard.  She held it up at eye level taking in every inch of its bready forbiddance. I finally settled on a jelly filled donut topped with sparkling granules of sugar. A classic.

The leavened bread dissolved in my mouth, it was the first taste of it that we’d had in almost a week.  The sweet icing woke my taste buds sending them reeling and wanting for another bite.

The treat that broke the law of the holy day settled blissfully in my stomach, which no longer rumbled from hunger.

I glanced at my sister who was licking her fingers in satisfaction and wiped the chocolate stains off her face. I moved her back towards our bikes, now cold and damp.

We sail home to the warmth of family and Passover, to this day never breathing a word of our secret rendezvous temptation.

This post is written for The Red Dress Club. The assignment was to write a piece inspired by a donut.

This piece is inspired by true events: One that I once ate a donut and two that we celebrate Passover.  In other words, it’s pretty much fiction.



What I need

a latte

a bath

                                    

                          a good book

my friends from back home

                                                      another latte

a massage {preferably from a muscular man named ricardo}

a beach vacation with fruity rum drinks and naps in the shade

cuddles from my boys

Time. Time to do all of the above

what do you need?

It's not like they're picking on a real disease

And I should not be offended because I'm not "that type" of crazy person. I mean, it's okay to make fun of lunatics in straight jackets who are locked up psychiatric wards because it's not like they are people like me, the not “as crazy”, crazy person.

I shouldn't be offended by their gyrations on the gym floor, clad in straight jackets with wild eyes and disheveled hair. Maybe I shouldn't be offended, but I am. In fact I'm twice as offended.

For the second time the public has witnessed a dance team's routine involving straight jackets and dance moves emulating stereotypical behaviors of a psychiatric ward patient. For the second time, those who advocate for mental illness should be expected to put on thicker skin and just know that they aren’t dancing about my friends and family, but just the Hollywood stereotype of a mad man. What these teams don’t realize is it’s ignorant and hurtful.

The Robert Morris University Dance Team  (pictured above) is the latest example of this ignorance. The team recently won 2nd place in their division doing a "Psych Ward" routine.

Less than 300 miles and two months ago, the cheer team of Waunakee High School donned white straight jackets with "Psych Ward" written boldly on the back and danced to songs such as "I get crazy" and "Get out of your mind" one of which even started with maniacal laughter.

These types of stereotypes sting the mental health community. Advocates who fight adversity are met with an uphill battle that is only made only worse by events such as this. It demeans the real experience of those suffering with a mental illness and does nothing to break stereotypes.

It also suggests that mental illness is not a real illness. That it does not measure up to things such as diabetes, heart disease or other long-term illnesses.  Mental illness can be a disability like cerebral palsy or Alzheimer’s, yet you would never see someone perform a cerebral palsy routine. That would be crass and the outcry would be enormous.

So why do people not see that those who take offense to routines such as these do not need to “just lighten up" (as NBC Sports' Rich Chandler stated in response to hearing about the outcry at Waunakee High)? 

Why can’t people like Rich look at a set of straight jackets and think about people who have possibly worn them and consider the fact that this illness has victims just like any other, instead of putting the blame onto those who feel offended?

 As a nation we should be aware of just how prevalent mental illness is. 1 in every 10 people will suffer from a mental illness.  And what this statistic also illustrates is that, at least one girl on each of those dance teams suffers or will suffer from a mental illness.

I'd like to believe it's mostly people's obliviousness to others' struggles that makes them inadvertently discriminatory. However, I'm more inclined to think that there is an underlying second issue; that people still have a lot of fear around mental illnesses.  They fear the unknown, fear the crazies that shown in the media as dangerous murderers and the fear that their family could be subjected to such a terrible thing too.

These beliefs will only propagate if we let dance routines like these go without notice, without a call to action, without letters to the coaches and principals. Turning a blind eye only serves as a breeding ground for hatred and misinformation.

 Mental health patients should not be made light of and their struggles should not be conveyed in a demeaning fashion. This disease strips a person of so much dignity as it is, that it is a disservice to them as human beings to allow for any further assaults to be aimed in their direction.

I know these dance teams did not put together their routines to create a offensive experience for the mental health community. They did so because they did not have the insight to see the insensitivity or the understanding of what it is to suffer from a mental illness. 

I am not here to assault them; I simply want to make an example of them. I want to remind people to stop and think about what their actions might mean to others before acting.

Because you never know who that 1 in 10 might be.

Waunakee High School sent an apology letter to a young blogger, Erika, who sent a very heartfelt letter to the coach about her struggles and how she felt discriminated against.  They are now working with NAMI of Wisconsin to become more educated about mental illness.

The Robert Morris University Dance Team was sent a beautiful letter by Chrisa Hickey and has not had a response to this date.

Despite multiple requests for an apology Rick Chandler has not issued any sort of response for his insensitive remarks.  I have recently contacted NBC Sports about Rick’s comments and have not heard back from them as of yet.

Room 432

A stillness filled the room as the door behind me was shut with a light click.  Standing just outside the doorway I am afraid to take a step forward, afraid to empty the contents of the paper bag into my new space. 

There was no tour of the place I will live for days to come, just a simple gesture from the staff to enter room 432.  A number forever engrained within my mind.

My eyes dart about the dim room searching for some sense of familiarity; something, anything.  Defeated, they close momentarily.  As they open, they begin to circulate the room again.

A partially open door to my right catches my attention.  I poke it quickly and it opens to expose a sink mounted to the wall. The silver faucet shines as the new light hits it, producing the only light within the room.  

Stepping in further reveals a toilet, but no shower.  Having to walk down the hall to shower was not appealing.

Retreating to my starting point, I am able to see the lay of the room.  Situated on the left was a low bed bearing much resemblance to a hospital bed but without rails and fancy buttons to call upon nurses. It had a short headboard, laminated with a faux wood finish.  Running my hands down the imposter wood grain, I wondered how many heads had rested against it; people just like me, scared, alone, with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Standing next to a laminate side table, I pull at the curtain divider watching it glide on the metal track affixed to the ceiling.  A mirror image of the other side of the room comes into full view. 

At the end of the room there is a row of vertical vinyl blinds that span the majority of the wall. After a few somber steps I find myself face to face with the beaded pulley.  Slowly, the blinds cascade back, each panel meeting it’s predecessor with a tiny click.

Light floods the room, illuminating the pearl, raised, brush stroke designs on the eggshell wallpaper.  As my eyes slowly adjust to the change in light, two brick towers come into view, the east wing and the north wing.  I recognize the view facing the back- side of the building as I saw it each day on the way to work. Cars on the freeway rush by, confirming that the world has, in fact, not stopped. 

Careening my neck to the side, I glance up to see two words written across the tallest tower; Regions Hospital, spelled out in shiny cobalt blue letters.  I yanked the blinds back forcefully.  I knew where I was; there was no need to stare at an articulation of my predicament. 

Suddenly, the bed seemed appealing.  Flinging the paper bag with my only possessions on the side table, I fell softly into bed. The mattress crinkled beneath my weight and the stiff sheets itch on my skin but it didn’t matter, I was exhausted.

For the first time since my arrival, I listened.  The madness, depression and inner-turmoil were palpable but unheard through the thick wooden door.  Only the muffled sounds of voices and the patter of feet on the linoleum floor resonated through the halls.

As I closed my eyes continuing to listen, I questioned, where was the sound of my recovery?  It certainly couldn’t be heard from room 432.

This was written for The Red Dress Club. The assignment was to write about a room you had been in; how it looked, what it smelt like and what it sounded like.  I wrote about my hospital room in the mental health unit where I was admitted for postpartum depression and psychosis in November 2009.