Chasing Jesus

     I started chasing Jesus when I was about 16. I'm now 62 and am no closer to catching up with Him today than I was 46 years ago. Since most Christians don't seem to need to put this much effort into being saved, I  came to the conclusion that I'm simply not a Christian; I'm probably something else: Buddhist, perhaps, or Muslim, or maybe even Jewish. That makes me kind of sad because I really wanted to be a Christian. Let's get serious--who wouldn't want to be a Christian? The story not only has a happy ending, our enemies burn in hell forever. Sounds like a apt place for one or two of my ex-husbands.
     Back to my ongoing pursuit of Jesus. I probably hold some sort of world record for 'most baptized heathen in America.' Over the years, I have joined many, many churches (might be another world record there, too). Unfortunately, shortly after the baptismal waters dried I always seemed to lose sight of the prize.  and, once again, was in search of salvation. Until very recently, I couldn't figure out why Jesus was avoiding me. I've had a few theories over the years, the most disturbing one casting me as Satan's spawn. Not that I've ever worshiped the devil or sacrificed goats to Lucifer. It's true, I didn't go to confession when I was a Catholic, and I wasn't very good at fasting one Sunday a month when I was a Mormon. And, during my Baptist conversions (there have been 3), I did just about everything wrong: I invited a gay couple into my home to share a meal; I had sex (the heterosexual kind) outside of marriage; and I referred to our minister as a "feeble-minded dust mite," to his face. I truly regret that last sin because the minister was really a good man, and he certainly was not a dust mite.
      Today, while driving to Astoria, I listened to a Christian radio station and, before reaching my destination,
I finally figured something out: it isn't Christianity I have a problem with; it's Christians. That's not to say I think Christians are bad people. I don't. Hell, if I did I wouldn't want to play with them: I'd simply take my ball and find another playground. I think most Christians are genuinely good-hearted people. They have the right idea about Jesus but miss the boat when it comes to following His teachings. Listening to Christian radio for less than an hour made me crazy!  The woman being interviewed referred to the Mormon Church as a "cult."  She questioned whether or not Catholics were even Christians. She made a derogatory comment about "Moonies," and begged all "real Christians" to pray for their Jehovah Witness friends. I don't want to be the kind of Christian that judges people of other faiths. I want to be the kind of Christian who can appreciate the way everyone celebrates his or her belief in God, the kind of Christian who believes that, though each one of us are on a different path, our destination is the same.
      I had to turn the Christian radio station off. I found myself becoming angry, so clearly the message wasn't inspiring peaceful, loving feelings, at least not in this heathen's heart. I don't go to church anymore for the same reason; I don't leave services feeling uplifted. The majority of church doctrine I've been exposed to suggests that people of  the Muslim, Islamic, Buddhist and Jewish faiths are going to hell because they don't accept Jesus Christ as their personal savior. I not only don't believe that, I don't want to believe that. I'm wrong a lot, but if I'm wrong about this I don't belong in heaven. Jesus was about love and kindness and gentleness. He wanted us to seek to understand rather than be understood. At least that's my interpretation of His Teachings. So I guess I'm destined to remain a heathen. 
   

Casey Anthony

So, so much national outrage could be avoided in the future if we make a few changes to the way we try high profile cases. If we've learned anything from the Anthony case, it's that the jury has no business in the courtroom. Instead, each man and woman on the jury should be sequestered in his or her hotel room and not allowed out until the trial is over and it's time to deliberate. Instead of forcing these 12 carefully selected in dividuals to sit in a Court of Law listening to evidence, they should be court-ordered to remain in their hotel rooms listening to commentarties by Nancy, Joy and Drew, over and over again, each day of the trial. Clearly, doing things more traditionally doesn't work. I am convinced that if the Anthony jurrists hadn't been exposed to the evidence they would have been able to focus entirely on "tot mom's" character as described by the media. Undoubtedly, without the evidentuary distractions, the Anthony jury would have gotten it right: found her guilty of aggravated murder and agreed with the proscution that death was the only appropriate sentence. 

The Lonely Blogger

I might want to share a thought or two with someone out there in Bloggerland but can't seem to figure out how to do that. I have a very private blog. Most of the time that's okay, but I wouldn't mind hearing from another blogger, preferably a mental health professional who has had his or her ass kicked by a client. It's been 12 days since the assault and I'm not quite back to my normal, happy-go-lucky self yet. What is taking so long? I want to get back to feeling like myself instead of like a victim. Crap, I'm probably going to have to go and see a therapist. I am one of those and, quite frankly, I think the therapeutic process is really over-rated.

The Terminator

Getting beat-up kept me away from the news for a little over a week. Imagine my surprise today when I learned that Arnold has been unfaithful to his wife, fathered a child with the family maid of 20 plus years, and lied to the world about all of it. Hours were devoted to the sordid mess by CNN and FOX, and in-between the hours of reporting on Arnold's story, snippets kept viewers on pins and needles waiting for the next update. What the fuck is wrong with us?

I've never been a fan of Arnold's. I've seen many of his movies and most were tolerable though I've never paid to see one in a theater. I'm not a Californian or a Republican so his political aspirations  interest me one way or the other. His private life still doesn't interest me all that much. I'm probably morally bankrupt because I'm not feeling much outrage. We knew he was a recovering womanizer before he ever got his butt elected Governor. He said "sorry." On national TV. At that point he couldn't  do much more--the affair had already happened, the kid was already born and besides, as a people Americans love to forgive movie stars and televangelists. It makes us feel Christian.

Maria is beautiful. The maid is not. Her photos, in fact, make her look rather dumpy and old. Maybe he really loved her? It's not like he's pulling a Tiger or a Jesse. The affair apparently lasted 2 decades. He provided for his son and the mother of his son for at least the last 13 years. Maria, you knew all along, didn't you? You don't look like a dummy. Arnold has been considered a "real man" since his body-building days and culturally, he was expected to do exactly what he's done. Man,we sure seem to get off on killing terrorists and castrating aging sex symbols. It's probably a good thing. If we didn't have Arnold to think about tonight, we might have time to spare a though for the 1 out of 4 American kids whop's going to bed hungry .

Our Stories: Our Histories

Have you ever watched a woman shuffling down the street, poorly groomed, ill-fitting clothing that looks dirty and seems chosen to draw attention to the layers of toneless flesh hanging from her shoulder blades to her elbows? Surely you've seen her. The one with hair the color and texture of bacon grease, wearing flip-flops that draw attention to her too long, yellowed toenails and dirty, rough, calloused feet? She usually stares at the ground as she walks, as if searching for a treasure, and would probably be missing several teeth if finding that treasure made her smile. Her appearance doesn't speak to that unique spark of humanity that defines each one of us in relationship to everyone else. I don't know what it speaks to. Her history, either recent or life-long? Both? Her spark is certainly hidden from us--the observationists. I use that word on purpose because, at least when I see this woman, I'm not objective enough to be an  "observer." The glaring tragedy in this too common scenario is that the woman has probably been disconnected to the very spark that defines her to herself as being special: as being of value and having great worth. And the fact that I can't see that she is special--that I don't even take the time to look for that woman's spark, diminishes me.

Born Without the Blogging Gene?

My kids sit down at a computer, sniff it a few times, and then they're off and running: blogging, facebooking, tweetering and twitting, myspacing--it just doesn't matter what task presents itself, their little computer genes kick in and they can do it all. I, on the othger hand, a Phi Beta Kappa who graduated Suma Cum Laude from graduate school with a 4.0 have been known to have difficulty figuring out how to turn the damn thing on. If someone asks me how much memory I have, or launches into a diuscussion about pixels or mega-bites, mini-bites or over-bites, I have perfected this disdainful look which I hope suggests that the relationahip between my computer and myself is a very personal, private affair: one I don't talk about with very many people. Actually, I don't talk about it with any people. On occasion, my dog and I will dsicuss it but only because she's perhaps the only living creature in the entire world who knows less about computers than I do. Makes me feel smart.

Now that I'm a blogger, I've decided I need to learn something about what it is I'm doing. I've got a number of tabs snickering at me at the top of this page, waiting. I don't have any Comments but what happens if I ev er do? And Settings--I'm supposed to do soemthing with that tab, aren't I. Likewsie, Design and Monetize and Stats will all undoubtedly require attention in the future. And I still haven't figured out what a Dashboard is. Guess I'll go looking for a blogger tormorrow and try to find out if this is going to be worth the effort.

Going to bed now and really hope I sleep tonight. I wonder how long it will take for me to get back to normal? Good night, all.

Annie

Another Beating

I probably don't have much to say tonight. During the ast week I've wriutten about getting beat up at work and feelings stemming from the beating. I've kept in touch with my employers, just to let them know how I'm doing. Today I received an email from our agency's CEO informing me that she's been advised not to talk to me anymore because of Workman's Comp. Truly, this feels as bad as the beating does. I thought these people cared about me. They don't.

Debbie Claire

I can't seem to stay alseep for more than 30 minutes. I wake up frightened--not terrified--but as if something isn't right and I need to do something right away. No nightmares that I can recall. I  like blogging--perhaps that's the "something" I need to do? And writing to no one in particular feels okay. It's really no different than most of the writing I've done over the years: newpapers, magazines, greeting card companies, even sociological journals. Well, maybe a little different. Those "no ones" were just 'someones' I didn't know. If a "someone" is reading thuis, perhaps a someone who stumbles across my blog by accident, stays to read a paragraph or two, then goes on his or her way to do what bloggers do when they're not blogging I really don't think you're a "no one." If you are there, HI! I hope you're having a good life. A couple days ago I said I would write about Maggie Anne. Like most schizophrenics, she doesn't go around beating up on people. I've worked with hunderds--maybe more than a 1000--over the years and only one has ever tried to hurt me.

Maggie Anne

Maggie Anne hadn’t expected the weather at the coast to be so Bipolar. Earlier that day, walking along the shore, she’d felt swaddled by the warm breeze, energized by rays of sun sneaking through the ever present cloud layer hovering over the cold, cement gray waves. Now, only hours later, the sky roared with rage, thunder and lighting exploded across the horizon.  By evening, power and phone lines slithered like snakes across roadways, snapping and sparking to the rhythm of the wind. Houses sat dark and humbled beneath straining roofs and cowering trees.

In the days following that storm, Maggie Anne had questioned her decision to move to the Washington coast. A week later, when electricity and phone service were restored, her sisters had encouraged her to move inland, closer to them and closer to her cardiologist. They’d tried to use her heart condition as a lever; she lived a hundred miles from the nearest heart speciaist. That argument hadn't worked. Neverthelkess, Maggie had considered moving back to Portland, Oregon. The storm had frightened her badly. But it wasn’t the fear that had had her considering the move, either. Maggie had lived with a bad heart for 15 years. She’d lived with fear even longer. As with many schizophrenics, there were things in her reality to be afraid of: "things" you and probably even I can't truly understand. For an unfortunate few, monsters, devils and demons do exist. But it wasn't a bad heart, or the vicious storm or terrifying hallucinations that made her think of fleeing from the coast. Instead, it was profound sadness--too much sadness for her diseased heart to cope with..

Stepping outside her cabin the day after the storm was like stepping into a different world, so drastically had the landscape been altered.  Maggie walked around her neighborhood, looking for old friends. So many had not survived. Uprooted, their once magnificent shapes were now tortured and twisted, broken by the wind. Still living, still dignified, she’d wanted to cradle them in her arms to make their deaths easier. But she was too weak, too broken herself. All she could do was go back to her cabin and cry.

I found Maggie Anne in her living room later that day, sitting on the floor, sobbing. I sat down next to her and waited for her to realize that I was there. I didn’t have any idea how long that would take but she was my friend so it didn’t really matter. We were both aware of the friendship that grown since our first meeting, in my office, nearly two years before. We didn’t speak of it—couldn’t acknowledge or, God forbid, celebrate it. To like a client was against the rules. I was an educated professional. Maggie Anne was a crazy person.

I’d read Maggie’s chart, and listened to other therapists and crisis workers talking about her mental health issues for a week or so before I met her. She was still in a psychiatric hospital at the time and, upon discharge, was to be assigned to me.  Her name wasn’t Maggie Anne back then, just plain old Margaret. The woman I met during our first “session” had a lot in common with the chronically mentally ill schizophrenic I was prepared to meet. Mental health charts do an excellent job of describing a condition and its history. In the months to follow, however, I learned that charts fail miserably at describing the human being afflicted with the condition. Margaret was, just as Maggie Anne is, so much more than her chart suggested. The mental illness she has struggled with since early adulthood is such a small part of the woman she has become: as descriptive of Maggie Anne as a planter’s wart would be of you or I.

Maggie said little during our first meeting. She politely explained: “I don’t do very well meeting new people so if I get up and leave don’t think you’ve done something wrong.  I don’t mean to be rude. I’ll try to stay10 minutes.” A nervous smile flickered across her face, and then she became quiet. I tried several times to engage her in conversation—get her to “open up,” so to speak. But it was soon clear that Maggie didn’t talk when she didn’t have something of substance to say. So we sat in what I would have described as "silence" at the time; that was before I learned that there's really no such thing. Five, perhaps six minutes passed—an eternity when quiet feels dead. Then she looked up at the ceiling and smiled. This time, her smile was an expression of genuine delight.

“Do you hear it?” she finally asked.

“Hear what? I don’t hear anything.” I didn’t.

“That’s too bad,” she whispered, still staring at the ceiling. She pointed to one of the florescent lights. “It’s playing music. I hear 17 different notes. My refrigerator makes 10. It’s really quite lovely in its own way. I wish you could hear it, too.”

            I concentrated on the light, listening as hard as I could. And guess what? I did hear something—not 17 different notes but soft, fuzzy, staticky noise. More annoying than melodious. Certainly not “lovely” to my ears but then I enjoy Eminem, Boy George and Wayne Newton; I’m probably not a good judge of what is and what isn’t music. Maggie stayed for 25 minutes that day, then stood up and walked out. Later, in writing the progress note describing the session for Maggie's chart, I kept dwelling on the musical florescent lights. Not a hallucination--I'd heard it, too and I don't hallucinate. Clearly, this strange woman had a much  different relationship with the world around her than I did. I didn’t know it yet, but Maggie Anne had already introduced me to Listening 101. And thus began a professional relationship that was destined to be discarded in favor of a friendship that was destined to grow.
      Mental health professionals are supposed to maintain some pretty rigid professional boundaries. That's never been my strong point, to begin with. First of all, I'm not a psychologist--not even close. I'm a sociologist. In school, I took psych 101. In 9 weeks I learned about long-dead shrinks and their obscure theories. Everythings I know about mental illness I've learned from the people I've worked with over the years. Of course, I've attended a lot of seminars and workshops, and read many books but again, if I'm honest, the hours I dedicated to expanding my education would have been better spent listening to the stories individuals have to tell, and asking questions. I consider myself nothing more than a guide. I don't have anyone's answers but maybe I can help as people in pain attempt to identify their own demons and then figure out how to live with them. Besides, I'm not really nice enough to be a therapist. I have little patience with whiners; I don't care if the whiner is a schizophrenic, manic depressive, coworkjer or next door neighbor. But what I do have is an ability to connect with people. I think it's that ability which precludes admirable professional boundaries.  

Anyway, I believed Maggie Anne about the musiccoming from the ceiling, as well as the musical refrigerator sitting in her kitchen at home, probably singing its little heart out. And over the next few months, I came to believe a lot of things I’d never given much thought to before. By the end of a year, I had started thinking of Maggie's condition as a mental difference rather than a mental illness.

            Maggie Anne is different from most of the people I know, or have ever known. A graduate of Reed College, she’s brilliant. She composes and plays classical music, has studied dance, she writes and sings and paints with such passion that experiencing  her art actually opens doors to an alternative world. But mental health professionals don’t want to walk through those doors. Instead, we medicate the hell out of schizophrenics trying to make them more like us. If I had been formally trained as a therapist, I never would have stepped foot inside a schizophrenic’s reality. Our job, as therapists, is to lure crazy people out of their worlds and back into ours; we aren’t supposed to go on field trips into uncharted and dangerous territories.                                                                                                                                         
        But once inside Maggie Anne's world I got to know a beautiful, kind and gentle soul, who loves God, cries for the less fortunate, adores animals, makes lasting friendships with trees, and can even feel the warm dignity radiating from a rock lying at her feet: a rock that others would step over without even noticing. Maggie Anne has the unique ability to absorb the beauty surrounding us all by truly engaging in the smallest nuances of the world outside ourselves. She celebrates it’s music and her soul dances to melodies most of us never hear. We should all be so crazy.

Still Struggling --I Gotta Be In There, Somewhere

More bruising is making my shoulder purple. It's almost as if some of the markings held back, perhaps to ease the psychological trauma. I'm getting so much advice from well-meaning family members, friends and coworkers. Of course my kids have forbidden me to return to community mental health. Boy have the tables turned. Both these kids--one from my womb, the other from another--were teenage monsters. Now they're loving, concerned young adults who are taking my beating far worse than I am. Ben--he's a brand new daddy and should be rejoicing in the birth of his son. Instead, he's dwelling on what could have happened to me. Chelsea, on the other hand, is in the process of cleaning out their spare bedroom. Her husband agrees with her that I should live with them. I didn't anticipate doing that for at least another 10 years. Now I just don't know. I can't seem to find me underneath the lumps and bumps and bruises. I know I'm still in here. somewhere, but I feel  . . . I don't know . . . disconnected?

I'm 62 and I look 62 and though it didn't please me when I was 52 and discovered I looked 52, over the last 10 years I've adjusted. I've even let my hair turn a natural gray, silver and hideous strawberry blond. Don't know where that comes from. Hell, I'd dye it all gray if they made gray hair dye. They don't. I'm off of some weird tangent--I'm fully aware of that. The point is, at 62 I work with some pretty scary people. And on Tuesday, for the very first time, I didn't what to do: what steps to take: what should come next. I felt old and impotent. Thank God I remembered the bionic knee. Titanium. I had a knee replacement 3 years ago and let me tell ya--they'll be able to dig me up 30 years after I'm laid to rest in the ground, remove my knee and use it on someone else. Perhaps a poor person.

The Bad Guy is still in jail but I have real concerns about how long they'll keep him. What he did to Roger, another one of our clients and myself had nothing to do with his mental illness. I don't think it had much to do with drug abuse, either. This guy is a sociopath and when they let him out he'll hurt and probably kill someone else. He liked hurting us. I saw his face when he was hitting Roger and he was smiling. The papers and the courts will blame mental illness--schizophrenia in particular. I've worked with schizophrenics my entire career and they are not the dagnerous time bombs people seem to think they are. I'm going to write about Maggie Anne tomorrow. Or maybe later on toniught if I can't sleep again. I want you to meet her. I don't even know who you are. Aren't words amazing? I've always beieved there's magic in the letters we use to describe who we are and what we're feeling. (Now that sounds like me. This is good.)

UPSIDE DOWN AND INSIDE OUT

I got beaten up on Tuesday. It happens. I'm in my bed right now and can't think of anything to do but write. Unfortnuately, that's a lot more difficult than it's been in the past. My right hand's pretty damn sore. Swollen. Colorful. Nothing's broken and since I'm left-handed . . . it could be worse. I suspect I'm done working with crazy people. The fact is, I could have been killed. It's remarkable, all the thngs that went through my head as the bad guy was hitting and kicking me. I remember thinking that if he thought I was unconscious or even dead, he might stop. I had a pet posseum once--seemed to work for him. And the bad guy stopped the attack once I stopped screaming and trying to get away from him. At least, he stopped attacking me. But then I heard the screaming coming from the main room and there was nothing I could do to help anyone.

Thisw is not a linear tale. In the beginning, there were 2 of us in a small office with the bad guy. I was sitting at the desk--Roger's desk--and hew was standing between where I was sitting and our filing cabinets. We had just had a goal planning session with the bad guy (BG) and his mother. Mom left. BG stood up and approached Roger, then started punching him in the head. He couldn't get away--there was no place to run. I was sitting, knowing that we're not supposed to fight beck. DIFFUSE! DIFFUSE! DIFFUSE! He just wouldn't stop hitting him. I had to do something. There wasn't enough room for me to stand up so I rolled as close as I could get and started kicking the BG--aiming for his "junk" as that part of the male anatomy is commonly referred to these days. That allowed Roger time to crawl out. His head was a mess and I'm surprised that he could navigate to the door.

Now it's me and the BG. Then, as I mentioned above, I played possum and he went on to beat up someone who was more fun. I wasn't hurting at all--God's gift to the brutalized is adrenaline. I got to the office door and shut it. Heavy door--solid lock. Got to the phone to call 911--phone didn't work. I actually had the presence of mind to unplug the damn thing and reprogram it.Lucifer's gift to the brutalizers is new telephone technology. I finally got 911--she was wonderful. Cops and the fire department and an ambulance ride to the hospital. I didn't even know where I was sore until the next day. Everybody at work feels sad and sorry for us. We might even feel sorry for ourselves. What happened did something to me that can't be quantified and described like the concussion and bruises and sprangs. I'm still working through that part. It'll be a few days. The really is something wrong with my arm and I'm going to have to have it checked out. At the time sources of pain seemed quite inconsequential. The  BG, we later found out, had been seeking a gun for the last 2 weeks. All of our clients were afraid of him so no one told us.

My son is absolutely beside himself. He says that the BG stole something from me that I can never get back. He's not exactly sure what it is but he alludes to "safety," and "security," stuff like that. He's wrong. Something was stolen from me, and I will never get it back. The BG robbed me of an illusion. While I was watching a man I've come to admire and respect and care about as a human being rather than a as coworker, being beaten--terrified he was going to be injured severely or even killed--and there was nothing I could do because I'm not 42 anymore. There was a time I could have diffused the situation because I had the power if not the strength, to take charge of the situation. The BG robbed me of the illusion that I have that kind of power, that kind of strength. So what do I do now? Yep, this is gonna take a few days to sort out.

What's a Dashboard?

Well, seems I've figured out what a 'blog' is even if I don't know blog-speak yet. What's a Dashboard? Anybody? Do I need to know what it is before I blog. And what the hell does blog mean? Is it an acronym? Is it true that I can write anything I want here and no one, ever, can connect it to me? Sort of like a confessional sans priest? Does God blog? I'm sure that only the Baptists know the answer to that. Baptists seem know the answer to damn near everything. They know I'm going to hell because I don't hate, or even disapprove of gay people. The gay thing was really just the straw. I had a hard time buying that Buddhists and Muslims or even the Jehovah Witnesses were doomed. So now not only a recoverying alcoholic, I'm a recovering Republican and Baptist as well. I'm also almost unemployed which is probaly why I'm blogging. Is blogging a word? I'm going to go cry for a while now, while trying to figure out how I'm going to break it to my 2 dogs that we'll probably be living in my car in  about 4 months. Maybe I'll blog some more tomorrow. Those of you who are growing old and facing unemployment will understand. Those of you who aren't probably won't.

Annie