Exceptionally Persistent

I’m a successful survivor of bureaucratic employment.  It hasn’t been easy.  There have been times when I struggled with health.  At one point, I was missing too much work.  I knew my supervisor, who I didn’t care for, was going to get on my case.  What to do?  Strike first, but respectfully.

I wrote her an email, “I wanted to tell you that I am not meeting my personal attendance expectations and missing more work than I would like.  I want to share with you what I am doing to improve my attendance.  I am working on my health with my doctor, trying a new medication, and having weekly therapy appointments.  I wanted to let you know I am aware of my need to improve in this regard.  Thank you.  Joceile”

I stole her thunder.  What was she supposed to say?  By acknowledging the issue first and telling her how I planned to address it, I used my power to address the concern.  She never said a word to me.  My method of taking responsibility and being proactive about my attendance concerns took the wind out of her sails.  Over time, I was able to improve my attendance.

I can’t tell you how many employees who know they are not performing up to expectations just wait for someone else to say something.  They sit at their desk every day hoping today is not the day their supervisor says something about their failing to perform.  Twice at work yesterday, folks came to me about trouble they were having either personally or in their performance.  One said, “I just need to take care of myself.”  

I confirmed, “Absolutely.  If you don’t, nobody else will.  You are in charge.”  If you don’t take care of yourself, who the hell is going to do it for you?  No one.  No one at all.

In another case, the employee said to me, “I got this feedback from my supervisor.”  It was negative feedback.  “I don’t know what to do.  I am so unhappy in my job.  I don’t want to stay here until I retire and die six months later.”

Well, what are YOU going to do about it?  I talked to her about meeting expectations.  I told her expectations are just feedback.  A message of what you need to do differently just like something you would tell a loved one.  “I didn’t like it when you did X.  Please do X differently in the future.”  Ask your supervisor, how am I doing?  Why just dread and wait for them to come to you?

In your relationship, ask your partner, “How do you think we are doing?”  Be prepared to answer the question when they ask you the same.  Reflection has power.  Reflection with someone you have a relationship with is power times two.

She acknowledged she could do those things her supervisor identified differently going forward.  As for her unhappiness, I added, “No one else is going to figure out your Plan B.  No one is going to fix it for you.”  Unfortunately, I have had this conversation once a year for the past five years with this employee.  Sadly, she has been waiting for an opportune time to make something different happen.  I told her, “Thinking there will be a good time to start acting on making a change is a myth.  It’s not going to happen.  If you wait for this crisis to pass, then there will be the next crisis, and the next.  There is no good time to start working on what you want.  It’s like having a bucket list for when you retire.  You may never get there.  Don’t wait.”

She felt better after our talk.  She felt hopeful for a few minutes.  I know from past experience her hopefulness will get crushed once again by daily living.  But, the task is hers.  No one can make her life better than her.  I know that having major Depression gets in the way along with various health conditions that can take it out of you.  But, mostly, it doesn’t get better without my taking action for myself.  

She asked me, “Do you feel hopeless and run down?  I know a lot of other people do.”  She was speaking of state employment.

“No, I don’t.  I’ve been working for the state for 39 years.  I discovered 37 years ago that I needed to work part time.  That has worked for me.  But, I don’t know your path.”  I also know but didn’t say that if you seek out other like minded dissatisfied coworkers you will find them.  Conversely, if I am the light in the employment party, hopeful people will gravitate to me.

There are so many gray areas in life.  But, take stock, are you doing what you need to do to make a change?

Recently, one of my very successful coworkers by most measures said, “That’s the first lie they tell us.  That you will get ahead if you just work hard.”  He’s right, of course.  It is a lie.  But, it doesn’t mean that you can’t take a cold look at your options and figure out your next step.  

He grew up in the inner city.  He figured he had two options:  the military or prison.  He chose the military and survived.  He managed to survive multiple deployments.  He’s here now as living proof of hope.

Another friend grew up poor.  She figured she had three choices:  marriage, the military, or college.  She chose college and made it work.  And, she has to keep working at her dreams every day, year after year.

I have been working with a naturopath for over a year that specializes in psychiatric homeopathy treatment.  It’s definitely made a difference in my nightmares.  But, my mobility issues wax and wane.  I keep working with him because I have faith.  Last week, he told me twice that I was a “Trooper.”  At the time, all I could think of was that I am a really just an idiot.  I just keep banging my head against walls trying to get somewhere better.

My partner, of course, adamantly told me that I am NOT an idiot.  I knew that and thought it worthy of consideration.  So, I thought about it.  No, I’m not an idiot.  But, I decided I am persistent.  Actually, I decided I am Exceptionally Persistent.  

For those of you who watched Star Trek:  The Next Generation, the bad guys said over and over, “Persistance is futile.”  But, they were wrong.  The humans found a chink in the bad guys armor because they were persistent.  

My favorite movie of all time is the The Shawshank Redemption.  I understand about being imprisoned with an evil sadist (my childhood home) and institutionalized (the state hospital at 14).  What the movie resonates with me is hope.  I figure if I am still breathing there is hope.  I refuse to let go of hope.  Hence, being a Trooper.  But, I have to keep a cool eye on likely possibilities.  Hope has to be properly directed.

I’m not saying it’s easy.  I’m not suggesting it works out every time.  But, what are our options?  I’m not interested in just giving up.  I know it’s an option but not one I can live with.  I could have spent my life institutionalized.  But, I chose not to and was able to make it stick.  It was part luck and part determination.

I know fundamentally there are grave injustices in the world and terrible evil.  Many times people, women, children, and men, are assaulted, maimed, and killed as a result of evil.  This makes persistence feel futile.  A lot of people don’t make it and are just mowed down.

However, I feel deep inside that if I am still alive there is still a chance of escape, of healing, of joining with like minded survivors.

I told Ronnie that the Mets were losing as usual.  She said being a Met fan can feel futile.  I thought about it and responded, “The Mets are like me.  Exceptionally persistent.”  Life is not a baseball game.  But, baseball is like life.  Keep hanging in there.  Keep pitching.  Keeping swinging the bat.  You may be a Trooper or an Idiot but it is the only way to get somewhere different than where you are right now.  If you are where you want to be, enjoy it.  Revel in it, because everything is temporary.  Life is in embracing the inevitable change.  Be Exceptionally Persistent.  What other choice do you have?

L’Chaim.

Joceile

8.24.17

[Picture of me at a Mets game with my arms high and spread wide with hope for good things like a Mets win.]

IntermittentBodyCrap.com

Sometimes, when I’m having a tough time with my body, I feel really afraid.  When I have trouble walking.  When turning on a simple lamp switch hurts my fingers.  When buttoning or unbuttoning my pants takes concentration.

To be sure, I have a little pain doing these things most of the time.  But, when I’m really having a tough time walking, balancing, and my legs are hurting and tingling like there is no tomorrow, I feel afraid, sad, and disappointed.

In fact, I feel a little teary just writing these words.  Now, I know historically

I have gotten better many, many times.  But, I’m always afraid that this time it won’t be like that.  This time is the time there is a descent into a permanent hell.  This is the time I won’t get better.  I won’t be able to walk the dog again.  I won’t be able to button my shirt, turn on switches, tie my ties.  (Don’t tell anyone that they’ve been permanently tied for quite sometime now.  I just loosen them and put them over my head.)

I preach mindfulness.  In this case, the mindfulness is not entirely just what I am feeling right now.  To be productive, the mindfulness involves directing my mind to what is working right.  I am breathing in and out.  I am typing and it is not really hurting at the moment.  My toes are still wiggling, even if, it is out of pain.

When I am in a lot of pain, my counselor suggested I focus on a part of my body that is not in pain.  She first said, “Focus on the tip of your nose.”

“No, I don’t want to be thinking about the tip of my nose.”

“Okay then, focus on your hair.  Is your hair hurting?”

I tug at my hair.  “God damn, my hair doesn’t hurt!  Who knew?  My hair doesn’t hurt!”

Sometimes, this kind of thing is helpful.  It mostly just helps for a couple minutes.  But, if I can remember to go back to it from time to time, those minutes can add up.

I also remember that line in “A League of Their Own” when the baseball star says, “I’m quitting.  It’s just too hard.”  Tom Hanks replies, “It’s supposed to be hard.  If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it.”  

I have to confess that I’m not sure how that applies in my case.  I do think of it as I’m working on my own special hard and not everyone would be up for it.  I remember when I would wake up and couldn’t walk years ago.  I would have a period where I couldn’t move my legs at all.  At that time, I didn’t have a wheelchair.  We would have to go rent one.  It was $30 a month which was a lot of money.  

So, I would wake up needing one unexpectedly.  I would sit on my butt and sort of scootch backwards by using my arms to pick up my torso and move myself across the floor.  One day a friend was visiting, and I was doing this to get to somewhere in the house.  My friend said, “Wow.  I wouldn’t do that.  I would just stay in bed.”

I thought, “How in the hell would that help me?  Where would I get just staying in bed and waiting?”

During that period, I finally asked my doctor if I could just have a prescription for a wheelchair for a year so I wouldn’t have to go keep renting one.  My doctor put in an order.  I was at home when the wheelchair was delivered.  The guy showed me how to work it, and it was fitted to me.  To my absolute HORROR, he told me it was mine to keep and not a rental.  I had pondered how to decide when to get my own wheelchair.  Something I never wanted to have to decide.  Yet, someone had made the decision for me.  It was cheaper for my medical insurance to just buy one rather than rent one for a year.  Convenient but a terrible thing to have to need in my mind at the time.

I’ve had to put a lot of work into seeing the wheelchair as just a tool.  That it’s not something about ME.  It is just a tool that I need to use from time to time.  To hell with anyone who doesn’t get that.

Back to where I am today.  I try to avoid using the wheelchair whenever possible.  It’s not because it’s inconvenient which it is.  It is rather that my arms, hands, and shoulders don’t have the strength to just keep pushing unlike when I was younger.  Crap.  What an outcome.  So, I walk as much and as hard as it is.  Sitting in a wheelchair can also get damn uncomfortable which is like being trapped in the middle seat on an airplane.

Last night, I was watching a show about service dogs being matched to all kinds of people and kids with disabilities.  Suddenly, I felt as one of them.  Fortunately, I already have a fine companion dog.  But, Sheba can’t go in public with me because she gets freaked out.  She is an extremely loving, fairly well trained dog.  But, as a rescue dog, she has her own special needs.

I’m going to a Mets vs. Mariners baseball game in a couple weeks.  I will have to use the wheelchair but someone will push me.  I am terrified of needing a wheelchair and not being able to push myself.  I know what that could lead to.  Please god, could I never have to use an electric wheelchair?  I just don’t want one.

As a kid, for some reason that completely baffles me, I thought using a wheelchair would be cool.  Obviously, I never hung out without someone who actually used a wheelchair.  It would have cleared up my fantasy real fast.

There have been moments when I had to go up a hill and was alone.  I would push a few feet, take a break, and push a few feet more.  One time, a guy came up to me.  He said, “Can I give you a push?”  

These are the moments when I have to swallow my pride and be honest with myself and him.  “Yes, that would be great.  Thank you.”

He said, “I’ve watched you go up this hill before and marveled at your ability to just keep plugging away.  I thought you might like help.”

Boy, was he right.  “Thank you so much.  I appreciate it.”

Another time, I was in Seattle for work.  I parked my 1969 Mustang up a bit of a hill.  I knew going to the worksite would be easy down hill.  But, coming back, not so much.  On my way back, there was a guy sitting on a little wall.  He looked strong and homeless.  I proposed, “Hi.  Will you push me up the hill to my car for a dollar?”  He said sure and pushed me up to my car.

He pushed me up to the Mustang and said, “Is this your car,” with a little bit of awe.  I thought he was thinking folks in wheelchairs might not have cool cars.  I felt bad about it in that moment because he needed money.  

I handed over the dollar and responded, “Yeah.”  

“Cool car,” he said.  It caused me to have a new thought about street folks.  I had money and could spend it anyway I want.  I realized I had no right to tell him how to spend his money just because he didn’t have any.  I changed my belief system at that moment about homeless people’s right to spend their money how they want.  But, I’ve gotten off track here.

We remodeled our house with disability in mind.  We installed big flat light switch plates, pulls with handles, and a walk-in tub which I use daily for a hand held shower.  It was in preparation for a lifestyle that I hope will never come.  

I work at a job that is accessible.  I can also telework fairly easily and still meet my customers’ needs.  But, I want to keep walking.  I want to walk the dog.  At times like this, I see people walking and moving comfortably on the sidewalks, and I hate them.  No offense, but that line, you don’t know what you have until you loose it is so damn true.  

Today, I’m working on being nice to myself and trying not to get ahead of myself.  I just need to do the next thing.  I don’t have to figure out tomorrow or what next week will be like.  I just need to notice where I am right now and figure out the next thing.

I’m thinking about starting a website called IntermittentBodyCrap.com.  But, at least in this moment, I can truly say that my hair doesn’t hurt.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

7.15.17

Picture:  My Granny, Lucille, and I.  Circa 1992

For more stories, go to:  joceile7.blogspot.com

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How Joe Met Lucille

The love between two people lingers as long as someone remembers their love. My grandparents loved each other. They grew old together. I never heard them say a mean word to or about each other. That's not to say they never argued. I'm sure they did. They just never did it in front of others. 

The story of their meeting was passed down to me by hearing my grandpa tell it many times. My grandpa, Joe, was a bus driver during the war (WW II for youngins).  He wasn't drafted because bus drivers were needed with gas rationing and the like. He drove for Greyhound.  It had another name then.  He drove from Portland to Seattle. At the time, he lived in Olympia. 

He told me stories about driving at night during a blackout with no headlights. I hope there were stars.  He drove in pea soup fog.  He drove on snow and ice. At times, the bus lost its purchase on the road and slid down the road to a stop.  I'm glad I wasn't driving.  It would be interesting to know how many miles he drove. 

There were nights when he drove by feel and instinct rather than sight which gives me a bit of a chill. There was no I-5. He drove Highway 99.  There weren't a lot of lights.  There's a railroad bridge over the highway near Tenino. He would drive along at night keeping pace with the train. Riders could see the train line crossed the road ahead but didn't know there was a dip where the road went under the tracks. 

Riders would be looking at him, then the train, as he sped along as if to cross the tracks before the train got there.  Looking from one to another the tension on the bus increased exponentially.  My grandpa, the mad bus driver, sped up and at the last minute the bus dipped under the tracks. A huge collective sigh came from the riders. He enjoyed the sport of it. 

He drove through the Kent valley when it was all farms.  A lot of young Japanese women whose families owned farms rode the bus into downtown Seattle to work.  He said the hardest day of his life was when he was told not to let the Japanese women get on the bus.  I assume, but I don't know, that he would have lost his job had he let them on the bus.  He "had" to tell them they couldn’t get on the bus.  He liked these women.  He liked his passengers.  I often wonder what I would have done in his place.  Would he have been drafted if he lost his job?  Internment was an ugly thing our nation did.  It plagued him for years after.  I wonder what his choices really were.

Other than that piece of discrimination, he loved being a bus driver.  Finally, he got the Olympia to Seattle and back schedule.  When he got that run, the driver before him gave him specific instructions.  He said, "When you get on the bus, put your tool box on the front seat for the red head."

Grandpa asked, "Who's the red head?"

"You'll know,” was the guy’s response.  Grandpa did as he was told and watched for who this mysterious red head person might be.  Along about Des Moines, there was a stunning woman with flaming red hair that got on the bus.  There was no doubt in his mind that she was "the red head," and he moved his tool box for her.  Her name was Lucille.

She rode every day from Des Moines to Seattle and back for a job as a secretary for a small insurance company.  Over the days, weeks, and months, they talked.  Finally, he was able to take her out to dinner.  I don't know how long after that he proposed. They got married in March of 1946.  He moved from Olympia into her house in Des Moines where she had lived with a first husband.  

Her first husband, JW drank to excess and was mean to my granny.  One night while drinking and smoking he fell asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette.  Granny was in the hospital getting her appendix out.  His bed caught fire, and he died of smoke inhalation.  Granny wasn't tolerant of drinking after that.  She made Joe promise to not drink with the exception of one beer on Sunday afternoon.  He agreed.

Granny had grown up an orphan outside of San Antonio, Texas.  Her mother and father died when she was quite young.  She had a brother who we always called the Pickle Man, because he was a salesman for a pickle company.  I don't remember his name.  She had grandparents who took in her brother, because he could work on the farm.  She was relegated to a Masonic orphanage.

She learned to play several instruments.  She loved music.  She once told me she got in trouble many times for whistling in the morning.  Whistling was prohibited.  I don’t know why.  She said sometimes she couldn't go to her grandparents house to visit because of it.  At a young age, that was too unfair for me to imagine. I don’t know what she thought of it. There wasn’t more explanation. She didn't want to tell me much about the orphanage.  I know she was able to go to her grandparents farm in the summers with her brother.

Joe and Lucille were a fetching couple.  He with curly, wiry hair that stood up at an angle because it was so coarse.  He said his hair was so stiff that the wind hurt his head.  She with the beautiful wavy red hair.  They often visited a couple who had a little boy.  When he saw granny and grandpa driving up to their house, he yelled, "Joceile's coming!  Joceile's coming!” rather than Joe and Lucille.

Granny was unable to conceive and longed to have a child.  This is where I came in.  My mother was my grandpa's daughter by his first marriage.  She came to live with them when she was eleven as her mother couldn't care for her.  When my mother got pregnant, my granny told my dad, "LeRoy, if you let the first one be a girl and name her Joceile, I'll let the next one be a boy and you can name him whatever you want."

Thus, I was born and named Joceile.  Nearly, three years later, my brother, Zachary, was born.  My granny doted on me which I happily accepted.  My grandparents bought a beach house on Vashon Island the year before I was born.  My granny took me to the beach house the first time for a weekend when I was three months old.  It was the beginning of one of the best things about my childhood--going to the beach with my grandparents.

When I was fourteen and very troubled, my grandparents took me in.  They saved my life.  When my brother was 16 and I had left home, they took him in too.  As an orphan, my granny would never turn a kid in need away.

Lucille was a member of Eastern Star of the Masonic Lodge.  Joe became a Mason because of her.  They had 48 years together.  

My grandpa was a Depression era child.  He could fix or build almost anything.  Unfortunately, his method of fixing involved using recycled parts over and over.  If something needed spark plugs, why buy new?  He had some small gizmo that cleaned the plugs.

At Vashon, he fixed things just enough to keep them going but not enough to keep from having to fiddle with them.  He had rescued an electric lawn mower older than god.  I assume it was from the thirties.  It was about twelve inches wide with a small blade held on by a nut.  He would mow the small yard at the beach house.  But, at least once, the little blade would spin out into the grass because the nut came off.  He would patiently bend down and retrieve the nut, put the blade on, tighten it, and resume mowing.

It never occurred to him to come up with a different set up.  I now know a variety of methods to secure a nut.  Apparently, he just liked being able to fix it over and over again.  The rest of us not so much.  Fortunately, the blade spun at such a slow rate that it wasn't actually dangerous.  He would not put us in danger.  He would just inconvenience the hell out of us.

Grandpa died a few days after his 80th birthday in 1994.  He was in the basement at the Masonic Lodge pouring a concrete floor by himself.  He had a massive heart attack, collapsed, and literally died with a shovel in his hand.

My granny lived for another four years.  I lived in Olympia.  I visited her every week, took her grocery shopping, and either took her to dinner or brought dinner to her.  It was a special time for me to have her to myself.  It probably wasn't that great for her.  I called her every day just after five when the long distance rates went down.  She always answered the phone, “Hi, Love.”  She was a woman of few words.  My goal was to try to keep her talking on the phone as long as possible.  I rarely got her to stay on the phone for more than five minutes.

In 1998, my granny was in the hospital newly diagnosed with lung cancer.  It was beyond treatment.  She was to go to hospice the next day but really didn't want to go there.  At two in the morning, she wasn't sleeping.  The nurse said, "You really need your sleep for your big move tomorrow."

My granny replied, "Oh honey, I'm not going anywhere."  Ten minutes later, she passed away.  I got the call that I knew was coming for years but dreaded.

My grandparents showed me love in many ways.  I think their love for each other and for me will live on as long as I remember and feel it in my heart.  Hopefully, the love they gave me will pass on to those I love.  Love doesn’t have an expiration date like people do.  Remember, save a seat for the red head.

Joceile

6.17.17

Picture from left:  Lucille & Homer (my godparents), Joe, Joceile (12), Zachary (9), Lucille at Vashon Island beach house in 1970

Father's Day

And what of Father's Day?  Of that, I have no memory. But, my father would have opted to be left alone unbothered by those that loved him. That would give him pleasure.  For him to be a father was a burden or conversely it was to be a king that ordered his subjects to do his bidding no matter how distasteful. That was my father.  I don't celebrate Father's Day. 

I admire those men who bring their best selves to being a father.  I know of them and respect them.  My father was not one of them.  I don't miss someone who had no capacity for real love who figured so prominently in my troubles.  He's no longer on this earth.  The earth is better for this. 

If you are a father, please take to heart that your actions and your words matter. They have long lasting affects. Don't take this power for granted.  You have been given a great gift in your children.  Don't waste it.  Don't abuse it.  For it is difficult to make things right once you have made them so wrong. 

L'Chaim. 

Joceile 

6.13.17

My Old Friend, Sasifraz

Today is May 19th. It marks 45 years since an incredibly thin 14 year old girl was taken to Child Study and Treatment Center which is a part of Western State Hospital by her junior high school counselor. I was 5'10" tall and weighed 112 pounds. To say I was disturbed would be an understatement but the amazing transformation I have undertaken in those 45 years is nothing short of astonishing. 

I was extremely at risk, suicidal with a penchant for razor blades. I also had a man in my head, Sasifraz, who was instructing me on the art of self harm. No one knew specifically about Sasifraz. But, I imagine my mental health providers suspected. 

At 12, Sasifraz had started off as a buddy. Someone to talk to me when I felt so terribly alone. The first time he spoke to me was when I bemoaned to myself that I had no friends. Sasifraz answered me with, "I'm your friend."

My response was, "Who the hell are you?"

He said, "Your friend."

"No friend talks to me in my head."  I stated flatly. 

He said, "I do," and so started our many decade relationship. 

Initially, Sasifraz was kind to me. I longed for someone who knew my secrets. Someone I could confide in. He went with me everywhere. I walked to and from school talking to Sasifraz. He was with me in classes. He was with me in the evenings and in the dead of night.  I thought he was my friend. I thought he was knowledgeable and wise. I thought he was an adult, and I confided everything to him. Being in my head, it's not like I could keep anything from him.  I relied on him. 

I also had external relationships in my mom, brother, and my grandparents. I had my junior high counselor, Mrs. Keenan. I hung out with favorite teachers and the school librarian. I saw my psychologist, Dr. Audrey Williams, at the local community mental health clinic. But, omnipresent was Sasifraz. I spoke of him to no one.  We had an invisible partnership. 

At 13, I began talking to Sasifraz about wanting to kill myself. Ever helpful, Sasifraz discussed the options with me. I didn't have access to drugs, guns, or high bridges.  Resources wise, we settled on razor blades and cutting my wrists. I had access to razor blades. Then, we had to discuss timing. 

Sasifraz was a practical fellow. Since we didn't know if I had the capacity to cut my wrists, he suggested I do a practice run. God bless him. 

In those days, my mom and I shaved our legs using a double edged razor. I spirited a blade away, and Sasifraz and I waited for an opportunity.  One evening my mom was out. Sasifraz said, "Tonight's the night."  At around nine in the evening, he and I got the razor blade to make a trial cut. We decided it would be best to cut on the inside of my left elbow so I could hide the cut.  I held the blade pressed against my skin waiting. Sasifraz yelled, "Now!"  

The blade pressed and drew along my skin as if out of my control. Suddenly, there was a white gap in my skin. Then, blood rushed to fill the open space. I was surprised at the seriousness of the cut.  I thought, "Oh god, I've gone too far."  It was about an inch long and a quarter inch wide at the widest place. I had to make a mad dash for a lot of toilet paper to handle the blood.  After the bleeding stopped, I was able to go to bed before my mom came home.

I went to school the next day and pondered telling Ms. Keenan about the cut.  Sasifraz wasn't giving me an opinion, and it didn't work out to tell her that day.  I had worn a long sleeve shirt so no one knew.  However, I got scared about it healing on the following day, and I told Mrs. Keenan.  She took me to the clinic and had the nurse look at it.  Mrs. Keenan said it would have needed stitches had she seen it the day before.  But, it looked like it was healing okay, and the nurse didn't recommend stitches at this point.  I was off the hook this time.  I breathed a sign of relief.

The amazing thing I discovered though was that I felt better.  Cutting myself seemed to make me feel lighter and not so depressed.  Things were looking up for a whole week before the Depression settled back in, and Sasifraz took a different tone with me.

"You're going to have to do it again."

"Why?"  I asked.

"It's the only way to make things better."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes.  You're going to have to do it again."

In two weeks, we had a repeat performance.  Sasifraz kept telling me I had to do it.  I felt worse and worse.  We picked a night when my mother was gone again.  I held the blade at the inside of my elbow pressing down.  Sasifraz yelled, "Now!"  The blade moved seemingly on its own.  There was a separation of white and then the cut filled with blood.  This time I was prepared with toilet paper.  It was the same dimensions.  

I went to school, and this time I told Mrs. Keenan on the first day.  She said it needed stitches and had to call my mom.  My mom came and got me, took me to my pediatrician, and he stitched up my arm.  No real plan was made to deal with me.  My mother thought I had low blood sugar.  My doctor ordered and I took a six hour test for low blood sugar which was how it was done back then.  My blood sugar was fine.  My mother was disappointed and didn't believe I didn't have low blood sugar.  I knew it was because she didn't want to think about what was really going on with me.

Sasifraz and I went back to business as usual except every two weeks I cut myself.  I just didn't cut it bad enough to need stitches and wore long sleeve shirts.  No one knew except for a friend who noticed in gym class.  She asked me about it, but I didn't know what to say.

Gradually, inexorably, I spun downward which was how I found myself at Western State Hospital.  Mrs. Keenan drove me there some 20 miles.  I don't think either of my parents wanted to take me.  It was a long ride.  I really didn't know what to expect.  I only knew I could no longer live with either of my parents.  However, I was expecting a couple days stay in a regular hospital.  I'm not sure how I missed exactly where we were going.  For a long time, I felt tricked.  But, I trusted Mrs. Keenan.

When we arrived, we went to the administration building.  Mrs. Keenan was interviewed.  While I waited in the lobby, a girl came in quite excited because she was being discharged.  With a deep foreboding, I asked her how long she had been there.  "Nine months," she said.  A chill ran down my back.  Nine months was forever.

Then I got called into the meeting with Mrs. Keenan, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and a mental health counselor.  It was the do or die moment in my mind.  I asked Sasifraz what to say.  He said, "I think you should tell them the truth."  I didn't know if that was the right thing or not.  But, I followed his advise and explained that I couldn't keep from cutting myself.

The psychiatrist said, "I think we need to keep you here."  

I felt frozen.  Did this mean I was crazy?  Could I really be crazy?  In a very tight voice I said, "For how long?"

She gave me the answer that was positively annoying.  It would not be the last time I heard this answer.  "That depends on you."

It was late on a Friday.  A counselor named Claudette took me to the girls' wing of Child Study and Treatment Center.  They hadn't had time to prepare a room.  I was put in a room with a bed and chain link fencing over the window.  I made the bed with Claudette.  I was tense and didn't have anything to say.  She left me there alone.  I looked out the window down towards the road where hours before Mrs. Keenan had driven me in.

I thought, "If Mrs. Keenan brought me here.  Then, this is where I'll stay.  I have nowhere else to go."

I was there for five months.  I never really told anyone about Sasifraz.  One time, I told a story that Sasifraz had told me.  I tried to tell a counselor that a man in my head had told me the story.  Her response was, "If it's in your head, it's just you."  Well, I suppose that was true, but it didn't help.

That was 45 years ago.  Sasifraz has been gone for 14 years or more now.  I'll be 60 at the end of this year.  Although it's been a long time since I cut myself and even longer since I heard Sasifraz's voice, I know I must always guard myself against the hazards of severe Depression.

I don't care if people know my story now.  My arm is scarred.  I make no effort to hide it.  I am not ashamed of my scars.  They are merely a record of what I've been through.  I understand the mechanism of arm cutting now and why it brought relief.  Cutting releases adrenaline and other chemicals in the brain which creates a type of anesthesia.  Recently, I talked with my psychiatrist about this.  He said, "That's the trouble with cutting.  It works."

It's been a long time since Western State Hospital.  Every May 19th, I ponder where I have been and where I'm at.  A lot of people have helped me along my path both because of and despite my history.  Sasifraz is gone.  I don't miss him.  I have a good life.  I work daily to keep it so.  I've been on the receiving end of many good things.  Let the magic of life continue.  I'm not alone.

L'Chaim. 

Joceile 

5.19.17

[Pictured above:  Jeri, a staff volunteer; Joceile; Kathy, a patient]