Today is November 13, 2015. I am alive and mostly well.

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My fingers have been silent for awhile. I imagine them covered in mud, unable to snap one musical note. There is no water to rinse with. There are no paper towels to dry with.

I am standing outside in a black cotton shirt and jeans, my boots lined with faux fur that peaks out the top. My boots are waterproof.

It begins to rain. I extend my fingers. They are without mud.

Not only have my fingers been silent, but I have been  quiet in my emotional life. I have not read e-mails. I have not lined up coffee and meals with friends. I have not wanted to go to meetings, but I go anyway. I’m behaving like a depressed person who still showers, eats meals, and makes it on time to work. Maybe I have simply needed to be still. Stillness grabs me in a tight embrace.

The cats have enjoyed me being home. They wrap themselves around each other on my bed, butted up against my legs. I pray not to have to go to the restroom anytime soon because I don’t want to disturb them. Yes, they have taken me hostage. They are black and cute, one chubby, one skinny. I don’t want to be a writer who is always writing about cats.

The stillness allows me to reflect on my current life. My brain has not been sick for a long time although schizophrenia is tethered softly to me. The other day, I had to Skype with a psychiatrist whom I didn’t know. The first thing I said was, “This is weird.” I asked if other people were tapping into the computer, listening to our conversation. She told me the computer was secure. I sat for ten minutes saying yes to some questions and making certain she didn’t change my medications. I have been hospital free on these meds for over seven years. I have not had to beg a psych tech on the unit for dental floss. I can retrieve dental floss from my bathroom drawer whenever I want, stretching it out to any length I want.

I wil blog more about my reflections in stillness another time. This blog has gotten long. Be well. me.

Today is October 17, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I have a friend who is suicidal. Last time I attempted suicide was in 1998. It’s been years since I’ve even thought about it. The dragon use to catch me in his flame; ten to fifteen times in my lifetime. Sometimes, I’d be so burnt, I’d have to spend days in the Intensive Care Unit.

I am bad at dying. My cats keep me loving. My friends keep me loving. My God keeps me loving. All this love distances me from the flame. When I was in his clutches, alone in his cave, no one could reach me. I want to say something to my friend, more that just “I’m hear for you,” but when you’re where she’s at you’re like a dried popsicle stick. There is nothing left to melt.

My last stay in ICU, a beautiful, tiny, East Indian doctor woke me simply to tell me I still had many things to do in my lifetime. I was 34-years-old. I blinked, then closed my eyes. I couldn’t hear her footsteps as she left the room. She was tiny in body but large in soul. I’ve never forgotten her.

I would love to say I wanted life right that minute; I didn’t. I still had months in the cave. I finally looked in the door and saw sun, saw moon, saw grass, smelled bacon, felt warmth…felt. I felt something other than despair. I wish love for my friend. I will offer her a popsicle . Grape may be the wrong flavor, but if she holds it long enough it will melt leaving her hand sticky, able to grasp something other than despair.

Today is October 4, 2015. I am alive and well.

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The light is on in the corner, blinking rhythmically. The light in front of me is steady; it keeps the blinking light from becoming irritating. I would change the bulb, but that would require a trip to the grocery store and for the moment, I am ill prepared to walk out of my house. I have yet to brush my teeth and I fear the sunshine would sting. Sunshine and I have a weird relationship. I know it is beautiful and fresh, but I don’t care for it soaking into my skin. I prefer the warmth coming from the concrete, waking my soles.

As a kid, I loved the sun. I spent a great amount of time outside and bare foot, running in the grass just for the sake of motion. I am white, but I was so tan that I looked either Hispanic or Native American, my features tentative, but with a ready smile. I climbed trees, picked their leaves creating fall as I let them slip through my fingers. I brought pans from the kitchen and made mud with water from the hose and dirt. From the mud, I shaped little mud men and women, placed them on chairs I created from grass and let them dry in the sun. Once dry, I dressed them in strips of white cotton that had been torn from an old sheet.

Light then seemed always outside of myself. I didn’t mind because I unconsciously radiated. Now, as I am fifty-two, I am glad I sense the light within, the light that holds fast to my soul allowing me to breathe in love and exhale love. Spirit is good to me. Spirit allows me to stand tall in the warmth of the world, recognizing that all is not violent outside of my body. The world is a violent place, but not always. There are always moments of bright light even in a dim hall. Eventually, I will walk out of the house today, knowing the sun won’t burn me, knowing that light is lighter than dark, but not fearing the depth that dark might play. I shine; for this I am grateful

Today is September 29. I am alive and thriving despite everything.

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I had a friend pick a Cala Lily from a stranger’s garden. The stranger, a woman with short spiky hair, opened her door as if she had been waiting for someone to do just that. She screamed at my friend; her voice bouncing off my friend’s blouse. My friend and I took off running. We didn’t stop until we got to the porch of her home. The Cala Lily remained intact. She put it into a beautiful, single flower, blue vase. I thought, bad karma. This flower is going to bring the he-be-jeebies to my friend. Her dog sniffed the air and knew this to be fact. She might burn her dinner, or worse yet, have a stinky man in plaid knock on her door begging money. If this be the case, I urged her to pay the man his asking price. This would right her karma.

I get paranoid–I’ll admit it. And filled with worries. Upon leaving the library’s parking lot, I cut off a woman who wanted to walk in from of my 4-runner. Bad karma. She knows where I park and could easily do damage to my vehicle. I imagined leaving work to find my truck’s tires slashed. Since then, I have allowed several pedestrians to walk in front of my truck, not having to break their stride in an attempt to right my karma.

True paranoia is me thinking the government has picked my ticket and are on their way to get me. They will use me rather than a rat to experiment with different kinds of shampoos and cosmetics. They will keep me in a cell, water me down when I smell, and feed me apricots. Only after watering me down, will they test deodorant on my skin. I will be released and return home after my teeth have rotted from unmarketable toothpaste.

I think the docs refer to this as delusional thinking. It doesn’t make what I think any less real. A delusion is a false belief I believe to be true to the core of my being. My medications work so well that I do have reprieves from this kind of thinking. Worry will leave me if I deep breath and allow Spirit to attach herself to God. Shadow bickers with Spirit at times, but Spirit is the stronger of the two.

Today is September 26, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I fall back on excerpts from the current book I’m writing when I can’t seem to think of anything to blog. The book is still untitled.

The trees have tipped south again. I am afraid of the foliage lying on barren ground. Water is dripping from the sky. The clouds are hidden behind a block of gray construction paper. Even the young girl know this is not right as she glues puffs of cotton to a makeshift sky. “When it rains,” she says, “you can always see clouds. That is what clouds are for. Rain,” her voice confident as a valet driver retrieving your car.

Clouds are for shade, also. I want to tell her and don’t. And what about hours spent lying on grass, watching clouds form different images. I once saw Macbeth in the sky; his hand large and telling as it appeared bloody after murdering King Duncan.

It is noon and time to meet Trish at the gym. We are training legs without the assistance of Guy; he has a client at that time. I haul my body out of the house. I don’t want to go. Working out is not at the top of my list, but cheesecake is. Every night. My belly is not going down and I insist that i’m looking pregnant (of course cheesecake has nothing to do with it). Guy says I’m making up stories. He says I am sexy. What he says does carry weight. I attempt to let go of the image I have of my body.

The leg press and squat machines are empty. We take up residence here. They are right next to each other. With the leg press, I lie on my back at a slight angle, resting against the  cushioned seat and put my legs in the air, onto the ramp. We load weights on the attached bar. And then push on the ramp. I wonder if this is what it feels like to push in pregnancy.

Trish is straight from her class, her criminology class. They are studying O.J. Simpson’s trial. It has Trish keyed up. She can’t believe how many errors the police officers made.

Today is September 14, 2015. I am alive and well.

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There was two liters of frozen beer awash in the kitchen sink. She was ready with her straw, the kind that bent at the neck. In three days, she was to celebrate 22 years of sobriety. What’s a little beer among cats. The beer was frozen with the hope that by the time it took to thaw she would come to her sobriety. She always said beer was a waste of time. It wasn’t high on alcohol points, not like 151 Bacardi Rum.

She was naked. Another way to buy her some time to think should she abandon the beer and go to the store for rum, she would have to dress. She imagines herself slowly pulling on jeans that were in need of a belt. She would forego the bra, putting on a loose T-shirt that hid her breasts. Shoes and socks could be done in a snap.

This all began with a dream she had while she slept. She was at a bar ordering a Long Island Ice Tea, heavy on the rum. The bar was one with many mirrors. She could just make out her reflection between the Creme de Menthe and the Bourbon. Her eyes were flat. The sparkle had left even before the drink. She felt hollow like a broken clarinet. The music on the juke box singing of dying from the drink couldn’t stop her. The Long Island Ice Tea came with a little umbrella. “Aloha,” she said as she wrapped her gloved hand around the glass.

And then she felt her cat lick her face. Not even the beer was real. It was a first dream. She shivered under the air conditioner like a cat stuck in snow. In three days, she would celebrate 22 years of sobriety. For that she would dress, wearing something that flattered her six feet and a hat. Dreams be damned. She shook them off like a dog getting rid of its pony tail.

Today is September 12, 2015. I am alive and well.

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Does our mind follow our body like a pan following heat? Or does our body follow our mind like that of a comatose individual?

As someone with schizophrenia, I have to be careful when following my mind. When psychotic, delusional, and/or paranoid, I am instructed by my mind to do bizarre things. None of these bizarre  things include killing. Unlike the media suggests, not all mentally ill people have it in them to kill and act violently.

I am a pigeon, gray wings folded against my body in anticipation of flight. I sit, spine straight, head up, eyes opened but not focused, on my bed. I send my mind to the corner lot down the street. My body does not follow.

Construction workers are building a house. I settle on the branch of an oak. I smell fresh sawdust. It is cool. One of the workers wears a red scarf. I covet the scarf, but cannot act to get it because my body is not with me.

One day, the house will hold people. The people will make memories. The boy will become a congressman, the girl, a forensic pathologist. The father is a teacher and the mother, a phlebotomist. They can afford to pay for their children’s education. They can afford to pay for fancy cereals and fresh greens. The kids dress in the latest fashion and play golf on Sundays. No one can tell me this is not so because my mind believes it. I believe it.

The wind tugs on my feathers. I enter the sky and return to my body.

My body craves movement. My body craves exercise. I drive to the gym and get on a treadmill. I read trashy magazines while my body walks. My mind is following my body. My body falls into a steady rhythm of walk. My body carries my mind gracefully; I do not trip, shoe laces tied, feet moving repetitively, one-two, one-two, up-down, up-down.

In answer to my original questions, I believe the mind and body are both powerful. I believe they are inseparable even though a torture victim leaves her body. In order to die, the mind will retune to the body. Both are locked in death. After death, well, that is a whole other thing. The soul speaks…

Today is September 4, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I am in the music section of the library putting away cds when a man in gray sweat pants, hair the color of fresh horse manure, age, twenties, approaches me. “How are you doing? Can you help me?” His speech is rapid. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I note that he has different colors socks. Pink and blue. He paces a bit.

I tag him as manic. A busy mind unleashed in the slow drawl of the library. Later, I learn that he regularly accosts one of the library assistants when she is on the first floor desk. He told her his name was Britain and that he was bi-polar. My assessment is right.

He wants to know if I know of the group “Yes.” I don’t. He becomes irate; waving his hands in the air, saying, “how can you not know them. They just filled a stadium.” He stomps his foot like a frustrated child. Then pauses, “Do you think there are mean-spirited people in the world?”

“What?” I respond, even though I heard him clearly.

“You know. Mean people. Do they exist?”

U suspect he runs across many people who are mean to him because he behaves like a wind up toy marine on overdrive. I wonder what he is like when depressed. I imagine he doesn’t bathe, eat, or leave his house–a human doll void of feelings, lost in the wave of blue bed sheets.

“You really want me to answer that?”

“Yes.”

FIrst, I yawn. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Pause. He unwaveringly stares me in the eyes. I don’t flinch “Okay. Yes, I think there are mean people in this world. But as far as mean-spirited, very few considering how many people there are. I like to think the world is filed with gentle and kind souls. I also think you attract how you behave. If you’re mean, then people are going to be mean back. Kill them with kindness, yes?”

“You’re a nice lady,” he says, “but delusional. Mean people are always in our midst. Mean. Mean. Mean.” He pounds on his chest as he repeats mean. “Now will you help me find “Yes? It’s a rock band.”

I look under “y” in rock for him and come up empty handed. My hand feeling naked, vulnerable, as he drills holes in it with his eyes.

“So much for that,” and he walks away.

I’m thinking “did that just happen?” Yes. I think no further and leave it at “yes.”

Today is August 17, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I am stumped at how to proceed in the rewrite of my second book which remains untitled. When I get stumped, I walk from my study/bedroom into the kitchen to have a glass of water or make a cup of coffee. Then I pace back to my desk, sit quietly, and hope to start typing. Anything would do just to break the silence of the keyboard or the drag of my pen across lined paper. If nothing happens, I walk back to the kitchen and drink again. Thank God I no longer drink alcohol. I would get tanked and drool over the keyboard, my head eventually falling to rest, making “Q’s”across the screen.

I did my laundry today. My shirt smells like the Fabreeze that was in the detergent. Lavender. I would prefer the apple that is in the dish soap. Smell for me is odd. I mostly don’t like house smells–broccoli, beef, toilet bowl cleaner. But I do like outdoor smells. Hot Pavement. Bushes. The smell of sun like heated water. And I love the smell of gasoline; it reminds me of murder mysteries the way it smells like danger.

Annie has jumped in my lap and is licking her paws. Can you imagine licking the hair on someone’s head? I write about my cat with trepidation. Cats can become too cute. Grandmothers, too sentimental. And love, well. Truth be known I have written about all these things. Particularly love. Love connects me to life, keeps me showing up when I think I can’t anymore. When I can’t drag my body or mind forward. When I am used up. I am too thirsty. I am not a writer The magic is gone. Then I drop a “t” and add “a-s-t-e.” I am hungry again. I feed my new found passion with “rrrrr,s.”

Today is August 10, 2015. I am alive and well.

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To begin, I don’t have kids and have not often been around them. I don’t know if I’d be any better in my interactions with them then the parents I see at the library. Yesterday, a mother was screaming, yes screaming in the library, at her four-year-old son “there is no where to play right here.” The boy was spinning around and around with an empty red basket in one hand. Who was he harming? No one. He wasn’t even in the way because he spun in a tight circle, his body gaining momentum as if he could drill a hole through the floor.

There’s a pond in the library. I don’t know what else to call it other than a pond, a body of water on the first floor beneath wide cement stairs that contains no fish, just scattered change from well wishers. The toddlers are fascinated by this. I applaud the parents who let their children touch the water. The children recognize wet. Water drips from their chubby little hands.

I abhor parents that put their child on a leash. They do this buy attaching a back pack, usually in the shape of a monkey, to the child’s back. The monkey’s tail becomes a leash about five feet in length. This contains the child. Just as I think a child should be able to play anywhere that suits their imagination and doesn’t disturb the reality of others, I don’t think children need to be contained in such a way, especially if they’re in the children’s area of the library.

It is creative chaos in the children’s section. There is more than just books. There’s a puppet house with puppets, large building blocks of wood, a canoe shaped item that the kids rock in, some PVC pipe creations ready to be reconfigured, puzzles, computers, desks and chairs. Virtually, a small bit of paradise for children to explore. Let them roam, I say. Let them laugh loudly and thwart the screaming mother’s chastisement…but then remember, I am not a mother.

I regret not having children even though there are many good reasons why I didn’t. First off, I would have to come off all  my psychiatric medications. This would be traumatizing, and I suspect the trauma would have a negative effect on my fetus. Then there is the fact that I’ve never been financially stable. Nor would I want my child to inherit  schizophrenia from me. I do applaud women in my same situation for going for it despite everything. I have met some of these mothers. Their babies are loved and cared for. As adults, these same babies will probably have a great deal of compassion for the downtrodden. I understand it could go another way, but for today, I am hopeful that mothers with mental illness do well by their children. I am hopeful that mother’s without mental illness do well by their children.