Now Watch Running Dog Go

What does Running Dog with Sheba look like?  Here’s 10 glorious seconds.  This isn’t even her fastest speed.  It gives her great joy and fills my heart at the same time. We’re two lucky dogs.  (Press link below left of picture to watch.)

Sheba running safely along road bordered by woods. 

https://youtu.be/N08PeH1nCiM

For the original story, go to Running Dog and I:  https://joceile7.blogspot.com/search?q=Running+dog+and+I

Joceile
12.17.18

“Illified”or Pick Your Poison?

While occasionally struggling with illness, with not so much as a by your leave from the universe, I have been contemplating other illness management systems.  With all the new tech tools, I’d like to see a new start up create an algorithm with a survey health regimen to assist us with managing our illnesses.

We would get a random email spewed out from some computer server somewhere around the world.  Basically, a True/False questionnaire prior to our developing an illness.  It would go something like:  

“Joceile, we see you have not been ill lately.  Due to random sampling, we believe it is your turn.  Please answer the following questions so we can better determine how best to serve you:

1.  Are you ready to take on the burden of being ill?  T or F.

2.  Do you feel up to managing a long term chronic illness?  T or F

If true, answer the following.  Do your preferences lie in the following categories:

1. Life threatening?  T or F
2. Cancer or any of its derivatives?  T or F
3. Immunological illness?  T or F
4. Neurological condition causing mobility impairment?  T or F
5. Metabolic illness such as diabetes or high blood pressure?  T or F
6. Injury requiring a trip in an ambulance?  T or F 
7. Loss of limb?  T or F
8. Heart attack?  T or F 

3.  Would you prefer a brief non-serious but terribly inconvenient illness such as a cold or flu?  T or F

If true, would you prefer:

1. Cold?  T or F
2. Flu?  T or F
3. Short bout of Bronchitis?  T or F
4. Fever and chills?  T or F 
5. Sore throat with annoying cough?  T or F 
6. Upset stomach?  T or F

4.  Do your preferences go more toward sprains and strains?  T or F 

If true, would you prefer:

1. Sprained ankle?  T or F
2. Tennis elbow?  T or F
3. Slipped disk?  T or F
4. Neck pain?  T or F
5. Global or specific joint pain? T or F
6. Other?  T or F  (Please describe in comment box below.)

5.  We do have an increasing need for mental health conditions.  Would you be up for handling a mental health issue?  T or F

If true, would your preference be:

1. Significant anxiety for less than 3 months?  T or F 
2. A psychotic break requiring hospitalization?  T or F
3. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?  T or F  (Note:  This option comes complete with traumatic event.)
4. Something in a Bi-Polar range?  T or F
5. Basic Schizophrenia mostly controlled by medication?  T or F

Thank you for providing us with this information.  Once it is compiled by our highly trained autonomous assessment specialists, we will let you know what illness you will be awarded and the approximate time frame.

Please read our Terms of Service and hit Agree:  Once a final decision is made, you may not opt out of our service.  We do not have an appeal process.  We do not factor in things like health insurance, paid sick leave, or financial or housing resources.  You will be entirely at our whim.  However, you may opt out at any time prior to determination and take your chances with Nature.  Note:  If you have a specific illness you would like to explore, please email us. We read all emails.”

With this new tech product, we could smooth out medical practices, service provision, and lack of hospital beds by simply timing illnesses. 

It is worrisome, however, that at some point hackers in the guise of Predatory Capitalism would intervene by allowing people to buy non-sick credits to get out from illness obligations.  In response, the government would have to put in mandatory illness servitude and develop a regulatory agency to identify and prosecute fraud.

This new agency could then get filled with bribe taking bureaucrats many of whom will ultimately quit the agency and work as consultants for the illness avoiding rich.  It could then happen that most rich people would never get ill again creating ever more inequitable lifestyles even leading to dramatic population decline. This could negatively impact the available workforce for needed service jobs.

This concept gives me great pause.  In thinking this over deeply and having my algorithmic biological brain spin out likely outcomes, I have decided that maybe it’s just easier to be illified when it’s my turn. 

L’Chaim. 

Joceile 

12.19.18

[Picture of woman with graying hair with thermometer in mouth and Kleenex at her nose.]

Mom and the Hats

My mother has been sending me hats in the mail for a couple years now.  She sends them certified requiring my signature at exorbitant rates which likely costs more than the hat.  My mother is an exceptional second hand shopper.  Living with very little money most of her life, she had to be good at it to be stylish.  I assume she finds them at Value Village.

I spent many hours at the Goodwill as a kid.  I learned how to sort through clothing to find acceptable items.  My mother, a seamstress, is also very skilled at reading labels to identify fine clothes for herself.  I have never minded wearing second hand clothes as long as they are clean, undamaged, and the style I want.

She also was into antiques.  She, my brother, and I went up and down Highway 99 (before I-5) going from little antique stores, Goodwills, St. Vincent De Paul, etcetera, through the Kent Valley, Tacoma, and in and around Olympia.  We didn’t have a lot of money so she was very choosy.  Because my grandparents owned a service station, we had a lot of gas.  Hence, the driving everywhere.  

She had certain collections of pink Depression era glassware and Story Book Dolls from the 30s which were miniature porcelain dolls with a story book motif.  Although I never asked, in my imagination, she always wanted the special dolls as a child and either couldn’t have them or only had one.  I kept her collection for awhile of nearly 50 before passing it on to my niece.

I have retained the second hand skill set.  One summer not too long ago, I went on a very successful short sleeve shirt hunt several times in Goodwill.  I easily snagged some very fine Eddie Bauer shirts that I still wear.  When I pay $2.50 for a quality shirt, I can explore color styles easier.  I still end up favoring the same colors but can give the unsuccessful candidates back to Goodwill to resell again.

Back to the hats, here is the most recent I received today:

[Picture of me wearing an indescribable white on black Tyrolean hat, 2018.]

The hats are all of the same style which I discovered is called a Tyrolean hat.  They have various ugly designs.  I have no idea why she is fixated on this hat style.  I never respond to these “gifts,” because her responses are so unpredictable, and I don’t want to encourage her.  

In my younger adult years, I always had a favorite hat which mostly leaned to felt fedoras.  However, during the last ten years of baseball fandom, I have mostly worn baseball hats.

The only conclusion I can make on her hat choice is from this picture, May 1967:

[Black and white picture of me in hat with matching dark skirt and jacket, my mom with 60s big hair with sleeveless patterned summer dress, and my 6 year old brother dressed in white pants and white Buster Brown shirt.]

I had gotten the hat from the Washington State Fair in Puyallup.  It must have been from the previous fall.  I was very proud of that hat.  It had my name in script written on it.  I’m pretty sure my name was spelled wrong.

My guess is that my mother keeps buying me that hat over and over.  Since we don’t talk, she could be trying to create a link to me through the past.  I wish it was safe to reach out to her.  I send her a card and flowers for her birthday in May.  She sends me a card for my birthday in December along with the occasional unexpected hat.

Sometime in the last two decades she started signing her self as “Mother.”  I never called her mother.  I always called her “Mom” and when I was younger, “Mama.”  Out of deference to her apparent preference, I refer to her in my cards as Mother, although, I’m not sure who that really is.

I’m sitting in my recliner now wearing the latest hat, because why not?  The cat and the dog don’t mind and Ronnie is being tolerant.  I’m thinking of my mom and wondering about the hat connection.  Sending my love to you, mom, until my next card in May.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

12.15.18

What’s Going On?

I ask myself, “What is it?”  That’s always the question when I’m upset and don’t know why. “What’s going on?”

I ask the deepest part of my brain. I wait for the answer. Sometimes, I have to give that part of my brain a little confidence in my motives. “I’m listening. I’m interested. Let me know what’s going on.”

I don’t know if other people have issues like this with their brain, body, or soul. As I kid, my truth was shut down by my parents.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not true. Where did you get a crazy idea like that?”  So, I learned to doubt myself. Some of my most disturbing truths got deeply buried.  As part of my mission to be healthy, I’ve had to learn how to coax out my truth and encourage myself to care enough to want to know what’s buried. 

It hasn’t been easy. I developed complicated coping mechanisms to protect myself from uncomfortable truths. They also worked to protect the adults in my life that should have been held accountable. It’s been a long process of nurturing my inside parts. “I care. I want to know. Tell me what’s going on.”

I’ve had to demonstrate integrity with myself. I’ve had to prove to those buried parts that I will do constructive things with the information and not use it to further hurt myself. The pattern of self harm I’ve lived with was modeled by my being hurt as I kid by those in charge. “Don’t talk back to me!  Who asked you?”  This meant to me, “Don’t say things I don’t want to hear about how you feel. Your feelings don’t matter.”

The first way I discovered I was hiding information from myself was when I felt suicidal and did not know why.  Feeling suicidal has always been a harbinger of hidden secrets for me.  It started when I was twelve.  I’ve had to learn to get to the bottom of it.  It’s pretty much a do or die situation, obviously.

One of the first memories I have of understanding this was when I was 17.  I had been extremely suicidal and had no clue why.  My best friend, Sue, did her best to support me.  At her wit’s end one night while driving me around, she said, “Jo, just tell me what’s going on.”  (All my sports buddies called me “Jo.”)

I had been struggling for weeks with rampant thoughts of suicide.  Sue said, “Just ask yourself what it is.  Notice the first thing that pops in your mind.”  I wanted to know.  I didn’t want to know.  Dare I do this?  Listen to the first thing that pops into my mind?

“Okay,” I said.  I took a deep breath.  I said to myself, “Okay, what is it?  The first thing that pops into my mind.  That’s it.”  I waited.  The sentence came to me, “I’m a lesbian.”  

I nearly choked.  “Oh, god, no,” I thought.  “Anything but that.”  In my upbringing, it was made clear to me that being gay was worse than being dead.  “No, no, no.  It can’t be.”  I kept hearing that terrible sentence repeating in my mind.  “I’m a lesbian.”  It was the worst.

Sue asked me what it was.  I didn’t know how to tell her.  I didn’t want to tell her.  I wanted so bad for it to not be true.  “Okay.  I’ll tell you.  But, you have to tell me right away if you hate me so I can jump out of the car.  Promise?  You’ll just tell me if you hate me?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.  I’m not sure.  I’m hoping it isn’t true.  It really couldn’t be, but I might be a... lesbian.”  I told her and held my breath.

Sue responded with the most perfect message in the world.  “So?”

All that churning inside of me.  All that self hatred came down to one word:  So.  “Do you hate me?”

“No.  Why would I hate you?  I’ve known you loved women.  It’s okay.  It’s not a bad thing.  It doesn’t matter to me if you are a lesbian.”  I was stunned.  I had told my best friend this secret so awful that I was willing to die rather than know, and she said, “So.”

Rebuilding a structure of trust within myself has taken the greatest amount of courage I have ever had to harness. More courage than facing the fact that I had to break up with my child’s other parent because she was untrustworthy and hurtful.  More courage than facing the death of a loved one. More courage than telling my truth to someone of great power in my professional life.  More courage than going out in public in a wheelchair and letting people see me as a chair user.

There have been other issues I’ve had to face that being suicidal brought up.  Later in my twenties, I was struggling, working with my counselor.  I was trying to get more healthy but my system was set on self destruct.  With my counselor’s support, I asked myself what it was.  What was the awful thing that I couldn’t face?  It came to me.  “My father raped me.”  The words echoed in my mind.  My uttering those words aloud gave me the feeling that the whole world

would collapse.

In that sentence, my whole family contorted into this giant collusion of keeping that secret.  When I finally told my mother, her response was, “If you tell anyone, I will tell your grandparents how crazy you are.  How you’ve manipulated your counselors to be against me.”

I was pissed and tired of being threatened.  “Mom, you just do whatever you want.  I’m just going to tell my grandparents first.  I’ll just call them now.  Tell them my father raped me and that they’ll be hearing mean things from you about it.”  I did tell my grandmother about it and what my mother said she would do.  My sweet granny never said more about it to me.  When she died, I found the vilest, cruelest, meanest letter it’s ever been my pleasure to read that my mother had sent my grandparents.  It didn’t work.  My grandparents didn’t reject me.  I moved on with the work I needed to do to recover from knowing what my mind was hiding.  My mother’s response just supported the truth of it.

By working on this internal integrity, I have gained confidence in entering into uncomfortable external dialogues as well.  It helps me tell my favorite coworker how unhappy I was when he did something that I didn’t like.  It helps me have tough conversations with the employees I support that no one else will have with them.  It helps me tell my partner that something she did hurt my feelings.  More importantly, it helps me listen to her tell me how she felt when I hurt her feelings. It helps me listen to my daughter tell me what I did that didn’t work for her when she was growing up without getting defensive. “Ya, that’s what happened. I’m really sorry I made that choice.”

We all have stuff we hide from ourselves because we think it’s not okay.  Mine is just more extreme which can make it easier to spot.

I’m pretty sure this is part of what gets in the way of many of us reconciling our internal worlds with our external ones.  It gets in the way of generations of families not holding themselves accountable for the patterns of abuse, alcohol and drug use, or other bad behavior.  It includes whole countries not listening to each other and failing to create paths for reconciliation.  It includes major corporations doing environmental damage without holding themselves accountable and fearing the accountability brought by the public. If we as humans can’t listen and hold ourselves accountable. How can our organizations from the small and intimate to the large and global do any better?

It’s a small question, full of huge impact. “What’s going on?”  If we don’t ask the question and patiently listen for the answer, we’ll never be better. 

L’Chaim. 

Joceile 

12.11.18

[Picture of woman with partially gray hair wearing white shirt with lavender tie with rimless glasses staring at something away from the camera.]

Discrimination: The Art of Listening

(This was shared in my agency today. Change is incremental.  We have to start somewhere and keep pushing...  Picture of me and one of my leaders on accidental Wear a Lavender Shirt Day.)

Recently at the employee Diversity and Inclusion Group (DIG) at my agency, we had a discussion about discrimination.  We talked about how each of us at one time or another had been discriminated against by someone, somewhere, sometime.  We included anytime one of us had been judged for what we appeared to be and not who we were.  It was voluntary.  We took turns.  We agreed it was confidential.

Most of our experiences were around race, sex, national origin, or sexual orientation.  Although, this is by no means the only reasons people are singled out.  It was clear each of us of differing backgrounds or appearances are subjected to this kind of treatment.   Primarily, it is because the nature of humans is to make immediate decisions about other people due to part of our brains assessing risk.  This is a basic instinct to determine if the approaching party is friend or foe, dolphin or saber-tooth tiger.  In addition to this instinct, our brains carry around cultural assumptions that we have been taught directly or indirectly which create instant unchecked reactions including treating someone differently based on a perception of people we fail to challenge. 

As part of the DIG exercise, we talked about how to listen to our coworkers, friends, and family members when they tell us their stories of discrimination.  The first part of the process is to ask a question.  When we see something asking, “How did it feel to you when that happened?”  Or, “What was it like when you lived in Detroit...or Mississippi...or India...?  How did you deal with the racism, sexism, or other?”

The other important piece is:  How Do I Listen Well?  Here are some tips:

• When we listen to other people’s stories, we need to just listen without judging, defending, or explaining.  
• Ask clarifying questions.  “What was that like for you?” Or “What did you do when that happened?”  Respectfully, explore your curiosity.  “I noticed you looked upset when that happened.  What was going on for you?”  
• It is our job to take the time to contemplate what we are hearing.  Is this new information?  Is this a perspective we never thought about?
• It is not the time to try to one up the person’s story.  “Well, you should hear what happened to me.”  It is the time to listen.
• If we need to make comments, we need to use “I” statements.  “I never thought of that.”  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” or even, “I hate that.”

This is how we can become aware of how our actions affect others. This is how we can use this new found knowledge of differences to make the changes we want to see in our workplaces, agency, and the world around us.  Now is the time for attending to the issues of today by simply listening.

If you have questions or comments to share on this, please write to DIG or let us know if you would like to attend a meeting to learn what we are up to.

Bonus Diversity and Inclusion Tip:  The agency recruitment team has started using the following language as an interview question when screening potential new employees.  You are encouraged to use this when you are hiring new staff.  This sends the message that diversity and inclusion is exceedingly important to our organization, and discrimination will not be tolerated.

“We have a very diverse workforce that serves our diverse customers including racial and ethnic minorities, people of various socio-economic status, women, veterans, people with disabilities, people of any age, and LGBTQ individuals.  We have zero tolerance for discrimination or disparate treatment of any kind.  You will be part of a respectful and inclusive workplace for all employees. Do you have any concerns complying with this?”

Thanks to Joceile Moore and the Diversity and Inclusion Group for this week’s tip.

[Picture of two people in ties, African American man and caucasian woman wearing lavender shirts.]

12/2018

Wrong Side of the Bridge

The last time I was in the psych hospital was 2013.  The week before, I had a near miss.  Here's how it happened:  

I had joined a writing group.  I got the clever idea of writing about my self harm experiences and razor blades.  It was dangerous for me.  I knew that...but I wanted to write about what had happened to me.

I found myself at work, marginally safe from self harm.  I called my therapist and left a message.  I called my case manager and left a message.  Then, I got really unsafe and wanted to go buy razor blades.  But, I knew it would really piss Ronnie off.

My anxiety rose by the minute.  I called my doctor's office and tried to talk to her nurse.  I ended up with the consulting nurse.  She wanted someone to drive me to Urgent Care.  I said, "So, I should go to Urgent Care?"

"I don't want you to drive.  Is there someone who can drive you?”

I said, "Beth."

"Your friend?"

"Yes."

"I want to talk to her."

"Okay, but I should go to Urgent Care?"

"Please put Beth on the phone."

I went to get Beth.  Unfortunately, I hadn't told her anything about what was going on.  I just handed her my cell phone and threw her in the deep end.  I watched her say yes, okay, no, yes.  I watched her eyebrows go up and down.  I shook my head no about her driving me.  Then, they hung up.

"She wants me to drive you, and she'll call me back in an hour."

"Thanks, but I don't want you to drive me."

"Then, you have to call me when you get there, because she's gonna call me back.  I can't lie to her again.  I already lied once."  Beth complained.

"Okay, I'll call you in half an hour."

Beth responded, "Okay, but you have to call me, because she's gonna call me back in an hour."

"Don't worry, I'll call."

I left work for Urgent Care or parts unknown.  I drove fast.  I didn't want to stop at any grocery stores, and I had to pass two on the way to Urgent Care.

Upon my arrival, Urgent Care called me in right away.  "Joceile?"

"Yes."

"I'm Dr. Mack.  You are feeling suicidal?"  Dr. Mack was shortish with black glasses and black hair.  Her clothes looked oversized.

"Yes."  I said.

"We're really not able to help you here."

"What do you mean?"  Alarm went through me as I noticed that I could not stand still or quit hitting my fists on each other.

"We really need you to go to St. Peters."  St. Peter Hospital was the local hospital with an emergency room and psych unit.

I had visions of walking out and down the street to St. Peters.  "Nobody can help me here?"

"We're not set up to take care of psych patients."

"Well, upstairs is behavioral health.  Somebody upstairs can help me."  I was not yelling but felt like it.

Dr. Mack said, "I can call and see if someone can come down."  She left to make the call, and the nurse sat quietly in front of the computer.  I bounced against the wall while I waited.

The nurse said, "I like your tie."  I was wearing a bright, pink shiny tie.

"Thank you."  Always be polite.  You never know when you may need a friend.

I kept banging my back against the wall, pushing off, and banging back.

Eventually, Dr. Mack came back with a sight for sore eyes.  Holly, my group therapist, was with her.  She said, "Hi, Joceile," and offered to take me upstairs to talk.  What a relief!  Someone who knew me and cared about me.

"Follow me.  We can go the back way which is kind of exciting."  I didn't feel that excited about it, but I was relieved to get help.  "I have a few minutes that I can spend with you."

I knew she was busy.  Everyone is busy.  "Thank you, Holly."

I entered her office and began pacing back and forth.  Holly sat down, "tell me what's going on."

Telling was harder than pacing.  I could barely meet her eyes.  "I crossed the bridge," I said and gestured at a make believe bridge with my hands.  "I was on this side, and I crossed, and now I'm on this side."  I moved my hands from left to right.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not safe.  I'm not safe.  I don't know what to do."

"Can you take some deep breaths?"  I inhaled, "Now let it out."

I let a shaky breath out.  "Again."  This wasn't easy.  

Three more breaths in and out while still pacing.  At that point, I thought Holly got that I was beyond just deep breathing.

"So, what do you need?"

"I need help being safe."

"You may need to go to the hospital if you can't be safe."

"I hate going to the hospital."  I hung by my hands on the coat rack attached to the wall.

"I know but that may be what you need."  I kept pacing despite the fact that Holly’s office was quite small for pacing.  I leaned into the wall. 

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to push the wall."

"What would work for you?"

I sighed, "A magic wand; a powerful potion; a big shot of something."

"Would you like Dr. McNabb to come in and prescribe you something?"

I kept pacing, "That would be good."

"Are you safe here while I see if Dr. McNabb is available?"

"Yes."

Holly came back with Dr. McNabb.  "Have a seat," Dr. McNabb gestured to a chair.

"I can't."  I kept pacing.

"What can I get for you?"

"Five Ativans."

"That's too much." McNabb responded.  "How about two?"

"Okay, but it won't be enough."

"I can order you two.  Do you want pills or a shot?"

"I don't care."

"You really don't care."

"No...a shot is quicker."

McNabb went away to do something about a prescription.

"Shall I call to see if I can find you a bed?"  Holly asked.

"Yes, but I hate going to the hospital."

"I know."  Holly made a phone call which consisted of yes, no, yes, yes.  "I've known her for three years."  More yeses.

I continued to pace.  I pretended to hit the wall.  I stabbed the furniture with an imaginary knife.  Time marched slowly.  Holly left to do something.  A man came and asked me if I wanted water.

Holly came back and asked if the phone had rung.  It had.  "Damn," she said.  "They are never that quick."

It turned out that St. Peter had no bed.  So, they would look in Tacoma.

I kept pacing, pounding my fists together one on top of the other.

The phone rang.  Tacoma was full.  Next stop, Overlake in Seattle.  "I don't want to go to Overlake."

"We may not have another option," Holly responded, "you may need to be hospitalized."

I shuddered and kept pacing  A man with a pill and water came in.  I took the two milligram pill with water and began watching the clock, pacing.

"Okay, there is a bed in Overlake."

"That is so far from home." I said still pacing, nearly punching the wall wishing for a better solution.  "I like my life. I don't want to go to the hospital. It's not like there's a 24 hour turnaround."

"No, it usually takes a few days.  Can you feel the medication?"  Holly asked.

"Not yet."  More pacing.  "I'd much rather be you in this scene than me."

Holly laughed. "I don't blame you. I'd rather be me too."

More pacing.  Holly asked, “Can I call Ronnie to see if she can take you to the hospital?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to go.”

Holly got Ronnie on the phone.  They talked.  Then, Holly handed the phone to me.  “How you doing, sweetheart?”

“I’m not safe.  I may have to go to the hospital.  Will you take me?”

“I can do that.”

“I might not have to go if you can stay with me and help me stay safe.”

“I’m not sure that’s good for us as a couple,” Ronnie said.  “If you can’t stay safe, you’ll need to go to the hospital.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said.  “I know you’re right.”  A pause, “can you pick me up at 5?”

“I’ll be there as close to 5 as I can.”

“Thanks.  Holly needs to leave at 5.”  I hung up and kept pacing in Holly’s office.  

A new woman showed up. Holly said, "I need to see a patient for a few minutes.  Can you stay with Laura for a few minutes?"

"Yes," I followed Holly to Laura's office.  More time, more pacing.  

McNabb came in.  "How are you doing?  Would you like two more pills?"

"Yes," I said and didn't point out that four pills was not that far from the five I had originally asked for.

Then, Holly came back.  "You want to come back to my office?"

"Yes."

Back in Holly's office, "I'm beginning to feel it...to slow down."

The man came back with another two milligram pill and water.  In a few minutes, things began to really slow down, but I kept pacing.

"I feel better.  Maybe I won't have to go to the hospital."

"You have to be safe, and I have to believe you."  Holly responded.

I kept pacing, but I noticed it was slower.  

"We need to decide soon, because I need to fax the papers in."

"I know."  I kept pacing. It was nearing five o'clock.  "I think I am getting better."

"You don't have to decide yet," Holly commented.  I kept pacing but slower.

"I think I can go home."

"We'll wait for Ronnie."

A few more minutes and Ronnie came in.  I said, "We don't have to go to Overlake."

"Overlake?" She said, "I didn't know we were going to Overlake."

"Well, we're not.  I can go home."

"I thought I was just bringing you to St. Peter.  Not Overlake."

"It changed, but now I can go home."

"You feel safe?"  Holly asked.

"Yes."

"If something happens tonight, go to St. Peter's ER," Holly said.  "And, I want someone to see you here tomorrow.  I would see you, but I'm off tomorrow."

It had been three hours. "Okay," I said.  "I'll be here."  And I was.  And I am.  And I'm safe now.

* * * * * * *

I saw Holly the next week and thanked her for hanging with me.  She said, “I’m happy to do it if it helps you get through safely and keeps you out of the hospital.”

I was grateful.  I doubted such an opportunity would arise again.  Unfortunately, the state of my being unsafe happened again the next week.  This time, I went to Fairfax Psychiatric Hospital in Kirkland.  It was different experience with another story.  It will come later.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

2/1/13 and 12/1/18

[Picture of raised draw bridge over Cuyahoga River, Cleveland.]