Joy for Chan

I am filled with infinite JOY!!! My friend Chan is okay.  He somehow drove out to California and is in a hospital in Huntington Beach.  I am so overwhelmed with gladness.  The last 2 days have been so hard for all of us that were concerned for him.  I am just glad he is alive and ok.

Maybe he can get the kind of help he needs in this hospital.  Lord knows I've been in enough hospitals to know that there are some that give you the help you need and those that don't.  I was careful in my prayers to never say he was dead or that I was praying for his soul to find peace.  I speak of him in the present, because I never gave up hope.  

Your probably wondering why such a fuss over someone I hardly know?  I don't know Chan deeply, but what I do know is that he is a sweet guy.  And if we had lost him, it would have broken my heart.

I guess you have to be one of us to understand.  It's a mental patient thing.  We go into these hospitals and outpatient programs complete strangers, but while we are there we form bonds because we know each others secrets, our darkest memories, our wishes and hopes.  

I have praised and thanked the Lord since I found out.  The stone on my heart was rolled away.  Ain't nobody like my Jesus!!!! Hallelujah to the mountain tops!!! Our God is an AWEsome God, He reigns from Heaven above with wisdom, power and LOVE. Our God is an AWEsome God!!

I can now rest my head on my pillow tonight with no worries.  I can relax until school starts again.  I can read my book, and let my imagination run wild.  Will some other plight befall me? Probably, but will be nothing to fearing the worst about someone you love. 

I just want to love people, is that so wrong? Yes I realize that some people are going to hurt me because of their wickedness.  But The Lord says to love your enemy.  I do. Mostly, I feel sorry for them, because they do not understand the love of Jesus Christ.  What do I do if someone wants to kill me?  Well,  I will fight back.  I value my life just like anyone else, but if I am killed, I know my soul is saved and there is a place for me prepared in heaven.  

Some people do not believe in heaven, hell, God or the devil.  They ask, what if your wrong?  I just tell them that I do believe and have prepared myself for the next world.  If I am wrong, then so be it, but if I am right, what about you?  Where is your soul going?  I'd rather be on the side of truth when the Lord returns.

I do not care a sign that says, Repent the End is Near.  No, I let my faith shine forth through my actions and words.  Am I kind?  Am I grateful?  Am I charitable?  I want these things to show through me.  It is not a thing I boast about.  I can't boast, these are not things I do because I am told to do.  These are things I do because I am moved to do.  To be delivered from sin is to take on a new way of life.  The more you walk in the way of the Lord, the better you feel.  I don't know how to explain it, really, but it's like putting on new socks.  The old socks are dirty and worn, but the new socks have bounce and spring and better support.  The Lord gives me bounce, spring and support. 

I know I am never alone with Him.  I always have someone to talk to, and someone to lean on.  If you keep still, and listen to your heart, you can hear what the Lord has to say to you.  Plus, he keeps his promises.  My friend Chan is living proof that prayer works.  And that my friends is cause for JOY!!!!!

Stupid Girl

I took my final exam in computer science class today.  I got 62.9%.  I was hoping to pass.  I studied the module and did well on my chapter tests.  But this was a timed test and I don't do well on timed tests.  The test was on Access.  I failed.  So now I feel stupid.  All my life my grades have been important to me.  It was how I measured myself.  Nothing below an A was acceptable.

I was an honors student all through middle school and high school.  I got one bad grade on a paper in my high school psychology class, and my world fell apart.  I didn't know it then, but that's where the bipolar started to reveal itself.  I had to do everything perfectly or else I was a complete and utter failure.  Getting a C on a test was the same as getting a F.  I felt like I might as well not even have tried.  That attitude followed me to college.

In high school, I was in advanced classes.  I got honors all 4 years.  I was known as one of the smart kids.  When I got to college, things were different.  I wasn't so special anymore.  There were other students just as smart or smarter than I was.  I set myself up for failure.  I was determined to get an A on every exam and homework assignment. I was in a constant state of anxiety.  The first year was fine, it was just a do over of my senior year of high school. The first semester of my sophomore year was good too.  But then, I had to get a job to help pay for school.  I was missing my parents.  After that, I don't remember too much.  I remember crying a lot, and not wanting to leave my dorm.  All of my friends were white, and so was the faculty.  

The first time I lost control was in religious studies class.  I went to a catholic college.  For some reason, I started crying and I couldn't stop.  I went back to my dorm and told my classmates to tell the teachers I was sick.  I managed to pull myself together for a couple of weeks, when I was in English literature class, it all hit the fan.  I couldn't concentrate, so I wasn't paying attention.  The teacher asked me a question, and when I could answer, she looked me dead in the eye and said "You're slipping".  I burst into tears and ran from class.  I never went back to her class, and whenever I saw her on campus I turned the other way.  I ended up with an incomplete.

I was a pre-med major, and I had to take the make it or break it class of organic chemistry.  I was in over my head.  I got a D, but to move forward to med school a D in organic chem was not going to cut it.  I tried to take it in the summer at community college, but it didn't help.  I was drowning in a cesspool of depression. The weight of my failures had gotten to be too much.  I dropped out at the end of my sophomore year.  I guess now, in hindsight I could have changed majors, but I was going to be a doctor, that's all I had ever known.  

I spent the summer in my room, sleeping, reading, listening to Pat Benatar.  I felt like such a complete idiot.  My parents didn't really know what to do with me.  My mom took me to a psychiatrist, but I was misdiagnosed and the antidepressants weren't working. 

I have always regretted dropping out.  Went I went to collage in 2004 that was for an associates degree.  Again, I had to be perfect, and I was. I graduated with honors.  But I wanted a bachelors degree.  That's why I am back at school now.  

Do I still feel the need to be perfect. Yes and no.  I want to get As and graduate with honors. But If I don't I guess it will be okay.  The biggest thing will be getting the degree.  I don't know if I'll ever use it.  Not to many companies hire people over 50.  I don't know when I'll graduate.  Right now, I'm only part-time with 6 credit hours a semester.  I'm afraid to carry more than 9 for fear of a manic or depressive episode. But we'll see.  You know, I KNOW I'm not stupid.  That's just an old thinking pattern that I have to constantly fight off.  I know I've got what it takes.  It's the fear of a bipolar episode that drags me down.  I'm getting better at controlling them, but they still come. Sometimes I know if I've been triggered, sometimes I don't.  It's the ones I miss that worry me.  This illness is sneaky.  It's like walking near the railroad tracks with your headphones on; by the time you hear the train it's too late.  

Quite frankly, I'm tired of feeling stupid.  It comes with a terrible shame.  I wish there was a pill for it.  I wish there was a pill for a lot of things in my life right now.  But there isn't.  I just have to fight it off minute by minute.  I don't do day by day or even hour by hour.  I take things at the moment because that's all I can handle.  More than that and my body goes on high alert.  

So, I am not stupid.  My head knows that, can somebody find a way to tell my heart?

Peace,Love,Joy

Bev

My Friend Chan

I have a friend.  His name is Chan.  He lives in Colorado now.  He is in deep trouble.  He left a video on his Facebook page telling all of his friends goodbye.  He tried to commit suicide today.  I hope he did not succeed.  

I met him on an October day in Pennsylvania.  It was during one of my hospital stays for depression. I noticed him right away.  He has an open, warm inviting face, a shy smile.  He was 20 then, not more than a boy.  He has been battling anxiety and depression for most of his short life.  From what I understand, he did not have a good childhood.  None of us did.  

Chan likes to draw.  He is very talented.  I told him he should go to graphic arts school.  He just laughed it off.  He doesn't think he is worth the trouble, but he is worth it.  He has a kind, generous, loving spirit.  It has just been hurt a lot.  People with the biggest hearts are often hurt the most.  We care too much, we love too much and we are too kind.  So people take advantage.

I didn't talk much when I was in the hospital with Chan, but when I did speak, he listened.  He told me that I was a good person.  This was very hard to accept giving what I felt of myself.  But it started a spark within me.

Chan is a very handsome young man.  He reminds me of my nephew a lot. The way he walks, talks and laughs.  So, I grew to love Chan.  I think of him as the son I could never have.  I only wish he would talk more about his feelings.  I don't have his number, and he doesn't have mine.  I only know him through space and time on Facebook.

He has a room mate, whom I hope found out in time.  I want Chan to be some place safe, where he can sit and read all the messages on his wall. I want Chan to wake up tomorrow and say Fuck! Pardon the language, but I want him to get mad and fight the demons in his mind that have forced him into such a dark place.  I want him to see the sun, and know that he is part of that light.  Like it or not, we have illnesses, and our particular illness talk to us when we are alone and say bad things.  I want to teach Chan how not to believe the lies his mind tells him.  

He said in his video that he was a coward until the very end.  That is not true.  A coward does not fight like he fights.  Cowards go down and stay down, but that is not Chan.  He packed up and moved to Colorado several months ago and got a good job.  That is not a coward.  He had a girlfriend.  Cowards don't put their hearts out there.  

I want him to know that I think he is very special.  I told him, but I don't think I said it enough.  In the end, it is all up to Chan.  I hope he survives, because if he doesn't, one of the stars in my night sky will go out.  I hope this pray is not too late, but Father God, send Chan back to us.  It is not his time.  He has too much life to live yet.  Please be with him on this journey, give him the strength, the courage and the will to fight one day at a time.  I will help in any way I can.  In Jesus Holy name I pray 

Amen

Prayer Life

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen

Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed it be thy name

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth

As it is in Heaven

Give us this day our daily bread

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us

And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.  Amen

I say this every night, and then I talk to God.  I tell Him about my day, how I felt and I thank Him for everything He has done for me, is doing for me and will do for me.  It comes easy to me.  It wasn't always that way.  I used to think that God despised me, so He didn't listen to me.  I had it all wrong.  I thought He had turned his back on me, but it was me who turned my back on Him.

I have learned in the past 2 years that God has always been there, waiting for me.  He had his arms open wide for me, like a father welcoming home his children.  I am His child, made in His own image.  He did welcome me home.  When I was broken, bruised and weeping, He welcomed me. He told me not to cry anymore, that everything would be okay.  All I needed to do is trust Him.  God then held out His hand to me, and I took it.  I told Him I had nothing to give but my love.  He said that was all he ever wanted.

God's love is free.  It comes without restrictions.  We only need to live together as one people, love one another, and love Him.  That does not seem like too much to me.  Of course, if you are the type of person who spreads nothing but messages of hate and destruction, then you are on the side of the enemy.

It is easy to become saved.  All you need to do is proclaim the Jesus Christ is the son of God and is your Lord and Savior.  Then comes the hard part.  It's just like gardening.  Once the seed had been sown, it needs to be nourished, weeded, watered and tilled.  That is hard work.  Plus, once the devil sees that you have pledged your life to Christ, he works that much harder against you.  That's why it is important to pray often, read your bible, attend worship services, and repent your sins.  

Just as important, you must change your life if it puts you in the path of sin.  You may have to say goodbye to some old friends and family members who will do and say whatever they can to make you stay with them.  Men are weak hearted, so often we give into temptation.  But, you must fight this temptation with the word of the Lord.  People will soon see you are serious and will leave you alone.

Although it sometimes feels like it, we are never alone.  Jesus is always with you, fighting the fight with you, struggling with you and comforting you.  I had forgotten that, so I struggled with my bipolar by myself.  I couldn't do it.  On 3 occasions, I turned away from God and was ready to hand myself over to Satan.  Each time God woke me up, saving my life.  

I never really learned how to pray, until I just thought I would keep it simple. I will pray the Our Father, and then just talk to God.  He gave me the words to say, some of them incoherent because I was crying, but still, God knows what is in my heart always.

He can do it for everyone.  It's easy really.  Reading the bible can be a challenge.  I would recommend a new revised American bible instead of the King James, which with it's thous, thees and yea verily can be quite cumbersome.  I have a catholic study bible that has reading guides so that I can truly understand what I am reading.  It has become part of my daily routine. It really feeds my spirit. I feel lost without it.  

What is my prayer tonight?  Thanksgiving for a peaceful and productive day, no anxiety, no more pain, no more fatigue, the food I ate.  Prayers for peace in my heart and mind and around the world. prayers for my family.  A special prayer for a financial blessing, and I will ask Him to to watch over me as I sleep, granting a deep restful sleep without nightmares or anxiety.  Finally, I will ask for the energy to face tomorrow no matter what comes.  Amen

Bone Tired: Part 2

Well, I got some relief, but not from my doctor.   It was through prayer to God the Father Almighty.  Last night I prayed that he remove the pain from my bones, and the fatigue from my body.  This morning I woke up refreshed in spirit of mind and relieved in body.  Can I get an Amen?!!

I was once one of those who did not believe in the power of prayer, but I can tell you, if it were not for the prayers of a lot of people, myself included, I would not be here.  My hands still hurt, but my large bones and joints are no longer aching.  I did contact my doctor and we are halving the dose of the medication. 

Today has been a day of ups and downs. I don't really feel like myself.  I feel like I'm outside of myself watching myself going through the motions of my day. It's a very strange feeling, not one I like.  It usually means that an anxiety attack is looming, when I feel this disconnected.  But I don't feel anxious about anything.  I guess that's a trick of the disease, hits you when you're not looking. 

I haven't been able to watch TV for 3 weeks.  I watch Netflix in bed every night but I don't look at them as the same thing.  Mainly I watch Everybody Loves Raymond.  It helps clear out the days troubles.  It's harmless and doesn't contain anything nightmare worthy.  I watch it after I take my medicine.  2 or 3 episodes and I'm out for the night.  Tonight though, I am surprisingly alert. I don't know.  I have an appointment with Mary on Thursday, that will be good.  Mary is my therapist. She is totally awesome.  She really listens to me, and reads my body language quite well. 

I think I will make myself some cookies and milk.  Then I'll go to bed.  Tomorrow is a reading day.  I am currently reading The Fellowship of the Ring.  I just finished The Hobbit.  I thought it was quite good.  The movies did a good job with it.  I get all my books at the library.  The library is a fabulous place, everyone should go there.  I think I may write a book one day.  It will be based on my alter ego. Her name is Babe Hawthorne.  I'll have to tell you something about her. But not tonight.  Let's just say she is everything I am not, or does the things that I want to do but am too chickenshit to try.

Bone Tired

I don't think this new drug I started last week is going to work out.  I am lying in a darkened room, shades closed because the light is to bright.  As I write this the bones in my hands and even my fingernails hurt.  I can't even get the toothbrush to my mouth, my joints hurt so much.  I sent an email to my doctor telling him what's going on with me.
The fatigue from this is too much to bear.  All I have the energy to do, is go to the bathroom. My joints and large bones ache as if I was moving something extremely heavy.  The major reaction to this drug is supposed to be liver related.  But all of that is fine.  I need to go find something for dinner, but my body is racked with pain.  I've been in my room all day, with Prince songs swirling in my head.  Can't believe he's gone.
My hands are really starting to hurt.....This is all for now.

When Doves Cry

Dig if you will, the picture                                                                               

Of you and I engaged in a kiss
The sweat of your body covers me                                                             
Can you my darling, can you picture this?

Dream if you can a courtyard
An ocean of violets in bloom
Animals strike curious poses
They feel the heat, the heat between me and you

How can you just leave me standing
Alone in a world that's so cold?
Maybe I'm just too demanding
Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold

Maybe you're just like my mother
She's never satisfied
Why do we scream at each other?
This is what it sounds like when the doves cry

Touch if you will, my stomach
Feel how it trembles inside
You've got the butterflies all tied up
Don't make me chase you, even doves have pride

How can you just leave me standing
Alone in a world so cold?
Maybe I'm just too demanding
Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold

Maybe you're just like my mother
She's never satisfied

Why do we scream at each other?

This is what it sounds like when doves cry

How can you just leave me standing
Alone in a world that's so cold?
Maybe I'm just too demanding
Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold

Maybe you're just like my mother
She's never satisfied
Why do we scream at each other?
This is what it sounds like when doves cry

When doves cry, when doves cry, when doves cry
Don't cry

Oh yeah all right, oh yeah oh yeah
Oh yeah oh yeah, oh yeah oh yeah
Oh yeah oh yeah, oh yeah oh yeah

When doves cry, when doves cry
When doves cry

Ah, ah, ah, ooo
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ooo
When doves cry, don't cry
Darling don't cry
Don't cry, don't cry, don't, don't cry

It's Nothing, I'm FINE

Very often when you ask someone how she is doing she'll say "fine".  It's not great, terrific, horrible or bad.  The answer is "fine".  Chances are if you really take the time to listen to my voice or look in my eyes, you'll see that I am not fine.  If anyone has been around a mentally ill person, you know we have our own language.  Fine in the lingo of our group FINE stands for Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional.  So, when a mentally ill person, says that everything if fine, dig a little deeper.

With me, I'm always fine just as anxiety is getting to the point of a panic attack.  Then, suddenly I can't breathe, am inconsolable, and incoherent.  

I am FINE when I go to sleep at 5 PM and don't eat. I am FINE when I don't shower for weeks on end or wear the same clothes all the time.  I am FINE when I lock the door to the bathroom and turn the water on full blast so you can't hear me sobbing.  I am FINE when there are blisters on my arms shaped like the small circle of a cigarette. 

Sometimes, I am more than FINE.  There are times when I am so beaten down, that I would welcome any relief, even death.  At those times, I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.  But, I do wake up, and then it's time to face another day of being FINE.

Why can't I just tell someone?  Because, most people are ignorant asses.  They say stupid things like "cheer up", "it can't be that bad" or "snap out of it".  If I could snap out of it, don't you think I would.

Do you think I choose to have this illness?  If I could choose any illness it would be one that gets some respect! The mentally ill are constantly be told that they are attention seekers, lazy, worthless, and just trying to get out of working.  That's right, I choose to live in poverty simply because I don't want to work.

The fact is, I do want to have a good job, with good benefits so I can take care of myself.  But, I can't do that if I have a panic attack at the thought of leaving the house.  The depression weighs a ton, and makes it hard to move.  All I do is sleep, but I get no rest.  What am I supposed to do if I am at work and have a hallucination or panic attack.  I might be able to keep my job, but I will be talked about, ridiculed, and discriminated against.

There is still a terrible stigma against mental illness in this country.  When I tell people I have bipolar disorder, I can see them tense up and the look of fear in their eyes.  People in America see mental illness as a psychopath killing people.  When in fact, I am more likely to hurt myself than someone else.  What about that German pilot who crashed a plane load of people into a mountain?  He was an aberration.  Most of us don't think that way.  In every case, whether it be race, religion, political affiliation, or gender, there is always someone to give the group a bad name.

One in four people are touched by mental illness. Which one are you?  Is it you? The person you're standing next to or a relative?  Everybody knows someone with a mental illness.  The question is this. Is the illness being treated?  

Getting treatment, if you can afford it is difficult.  Some doctors are booked for months in advanced.  The shortest time I've ever had to wait was six weeks.  However, you do something drastic like attempt suicide, you get in right away.  It shouldn't be that way.  How can someone look me square in the face and tell me the next available appointment is six weeks when my life is hanging on the line.  It's simply too much to bear.  Don't you know that is is usually at the end of the rope when someone finally calls to get help.  

The guilt and shame of mental illness is very hard to carry. I felt like a burden to my family, embarrassed to my friends.  I was treated with compassion at some jobs, but they never trusted me with anything major for fear it would stress me out.  That just made the anxiety and depression worse.  Top that off with the medical bills and you've got a volcano ready to erupt.  And it did erupt.  I haven't worked since 2010.  I want to but I simply can't.  I haven't got the attention span, the concentration and the organization skills to deal with working.  I can do something for two hours, tops.  I don't know about your boss, but I don't think anyone is looking for a person who needs a fifteen to twenty minute break every two hours.  

While it's true I am back in college, I am only taking two courses a semester and most of them are on line, so I can get work done at pretty much my own pace.  But you should see me writing papers and taking tests.  I am freaking out here!!  Gone are the days of large classes.  I'd rather not be in a classroom if I can help it.  At this point, I'm probably older that the professor, and the kids get on my nerves. 

Even if you can get to see a doctor, the drugs prescribed are outrageously expensive.  During one hospital stay, I was on a drug that did wonders for me.  I mean, I felt terrific.  But when I tried to fill it, I was told the co-pay was $400!!!! That was for a 30 day supply.  I simply couldn't afford it, and went back to my regular psychiatrist to see what other options I have.  Fortunately, what I am on now is not that expensive.  Usually, the newer the drug, the more it cost.  And the older the drug, the more side-effects.  One of the drugs that I am taking now has warnings all over it for liver damage.  So, I made an appointment with my family doctor to get a liver screening done, so we have a baseline.  

If I don't die from smoking, which I am still trying to quit, the drugs treating the bipolar will kill me.  The liver and kidneys can only take so much.  After all I've put mine through, plus I have type 2 diabetes, I have a feeling that something is going to shut down on me.  

So, in a nutshell if you see me, and I say I'm fine. Don't believe it. I'm FINE, not okay.  If I say I'm doing OK, then everything is going pretty well.  Pay attention to the symptoms, not the words.  Don't patronize or try and make light of the situation. And for goodness sake, don't say "snap out of it".  That's just ignorant bull shit. On that note, I'll say goodnight.  Peace. Love. Joy.

Bev

Am I High Maintenance?

I like to think that I am a simple girl, of simple means.  I don't I require too much.  The first thing I look in a person is his teeth.  It's a turn off to see someone with broken blackened teeth.  I can't imagine kissing a person like that.  I know I may be overlooking someone who has a wonderful heart, but still,  I can't be with someone who has a nasty smile.  

The second thing I look at is the eyes.  Are they warm and inviting of conversation, or are they cold and distant?  I don't think it's asking too much of the person with whom I am speaking to look me in the eye. 

Other than that, I don't think I'm too hard to please.  I'm only 5'3" so it shouldn't be hard to find someone taller than me.  I would like him to be employed, hopefully with a well paying job.  If not well paying, at least have good benefits.  I know that I am on disability right now, and probably shouldn't say anything about it.  But the fact is this, I can be broke all by myself.  I don't need a lot of money, but jeepers, have something!

I would like him to be fairly good-looking.  His body does not have to be perfect, goodness knows mine is not. Nor does he have to have a head of full and luxurious hair.  I have become attracted to bald men.  He could have dreadlocks too, I like that. 

I like simple things. I prefer silver to gold, daisies to roses, and walks in the woods as opposed to expensive getaways.  I prefer to stay home and read a good book than go to the club.  I have never been comfortable in clubs.  The music was fine, but it always looked to me that people were trying to force themselves to have a good time. I like watching movies and old TV shows.  For example, I like I Love Lucy, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and the Jeffersons.  My favorite game show is Family Feud.  I think Steve Harvey is hilarious.  But I used to watch it when it first came out, when Richard Dawson was the host.  I have DVDs of Doris Day movies, a couple of Astaire, and Marilyn Monroe movies.  I also have all the episodes of the Flintstones.  I watch football, golf, and tennis.  I can't stand the squeaking in basketball, and never understood the thrill of baseball. 

I like sitting in the sand with the sun on my face.  I like walking along the rivers edge.  I love rain storms, and snow storms.  I guess I just enjoy doing things that encourage cuddling.  Other interests include a love of animals.  I know how to groom a horse and cut a dog's nails. I like to write. I have a few journals. All of them are half full, because I put it away, then forget where I put it.

I am not the woman for a man who likes stiletto heels.  I was in a car accident that broke my right leg and ankle in several places.  I have plates, pins and screws holding everything together.  Me in heels is not pretty.  I'd rather wear my sneakers with Snoopy and Woodstock on them anyway. They're way cuter than any high heel.  I wear sweaters and sweatshirts, don't show a lot of cleavage, and my hair is cut short.  I can grow it out, but who has the time for all that? 

So, to answer my own question, I am not high maintenance. I just need someone who needs me, and will make me a priority in his life after Christ.  Oh, and just to mention, I do like diamonds but I like my birthstone better, it's a peridot.  Love, Joy, Peace

Bev

Token

I have always been the token black girl in almost every situation that I encountered.  What does that mean? Basically, I've always been the only black in the room.  I was in integrated classes until high school.  In high school, I was often the only black in my class.  I was ostracized by my own race. 

I was told from early childhood that I acted and talked like a white girl.  I still to this day do not no what that means.  I guess it's because I didn't talk in the local black dialect of the blacks in my town.

I grew up in a blended neighborhood.  When I was little most of my friends were black. But then for some reason that I still do not know, they turned on me.  I was bullied to the point that they were spitting on my door. I at one point thought they were trying to kill me. This is another piece of the puzzle that contributed to my sense of guilt, shame and loneliness. 

So I went outside of my neighborhood, just a few blocks away really.  I met a couple of new girlfriends.  All were white.  I went over their houses, they never came over to mine.  But still, I didn't mind.  I just wanted someone to play with.  The black kids in my neighborhood then accused me of trying to be white.  What did that mean!?  I really don't know.  It's not like I took to wearing different clothes or fixing my hair differently.  I was just being myself.  Again, this contributed to my lack of self worth.  

I had to suffer with this inner racial segregation all through elementary school.  I wish I knew what I did or said to make the others treat me that way.  But it was what it was.  By the time I got to middle school, all my friends were white.  I hung out with them, went on sleepovers with them, and ate lunch with them.  The black kids seemed to hate me even more.  I hated them right back.  I could not help the way I talked, walked and dressed.  It was not my fault that I didn't know the current slang, or sway my hips.  I don't have much of a butt to begin with, so how was I supposed to sway.  I had good posture and got good grades.

It was in high school where I really became the token. I was the only black in ALL of my classes.  The white kids liked me a lot. A few even said that I didn't act or sound black.  That seemed to provide them with some sense of relief. You see, call me ignorant but I still have no idea of how a black person is supposed to talk or act.  If it's like the people of the inner cities, or low income people that I see on the news, then no I don't talk or act like them.  I have even developed my own dislike of black people.  I don't trust a group of young black men any more than a white woman would.  The difference is, I don't cross the street.  I walk by and smile and say hello.  I do know this much about black people, we have an unwritten code of conduct which includes acknowledgement of each other. I have never been accosted by a group of black men, they just smile back and say "how you doin'?"

My singular representation of blacks followed me to college, where I was one of two in our class.  Contrary to what other people thought, we did not become instant friends.  We did not show signs of solidarity.  She was an individual unknown to me, plus we were in different dorms. Should we have sought each other out?  In hindsight, that probably would have been a good idea.  At least then I wouldn't have to explain my hair to anyone. My room mate in college had never actually met a black person before.  We had started writing to each other before school started.  It was an effort to get to know each other better before school started.  We exchange pictures, and she was surprised to learn that I was black and proceeded to tell me why.  She lived in an Irish neighborhood in the city, and blacks simply didn't go there. 

I still represent black people everywhere today.  I am catholic. I go to a an predominately white church.  I think I've seen three other blacks there.  I just assume they are because they have brown skin, they could be Latino.  At any rate, I took a look around at mass tonight and thought, here I am again, the only black in the room.  When we get to the part in the mass where we wish each other peace, I can honestly say I was never met with hostility.  I am greeted with enthusiasm. It is the same with job interviews. I have a mini interview on the phone.  When I go to the office for the official interview, the human resource person seems so happy to see me. I have caught a couple of double takes.  I always get jobs I apply for, because I am black, a woman, and can speak well.  I fulfill two of the requirements for diversity being a black, and being a woman.  The ability to carry on an intelligent conversation is just a bonus. 

Sometimes, I get tired of being the token black.  Sometimes, I wish there were other black people that are exactly like me.  I'm sure they are out there, I just don't see them hanging around the library.  I suppose I should widen my scope.  I have two other black people in one of my classes, but they are in their early twenties.  Quite frankly, twenty year olds annoy me.  I want to find some black people my own age, who are smart, well-spoken and share similar beliefs.  I have no idea what to do.  

You'll notice that I refer to myself as black, not African-American.  I at no time in my life or for that matter any of my earlier ancestors lived on the continent of Africa.  I am an American.  I happen to be black, so if you must label me, please just say that I am black.  Thank you, I just wanted to get that off my chest. If anyone reading this can relate, please comment.  As the only black in the room, I need all the help I can get.

Bev

Please Like Me

I am and always have been a people pleaser.  It's what my brain has been wired to do.  I've had people who loved me, but I always wanted more.  After the betrayal of my molestation there was a great deal of shame and guilt. I thought I must have done something wrong to deserve this. I was dirty and unlovable.
Then, there was my mother's own mental illness that I thought was my fault. If only I had been prettier; if only I had long hair; if only I wasn't fat. There are too many if onlys to mention. So, I decided, or rather my way of thinking became warped to the point of believing that it was my job to make everyone happy.  I figured if everyone else felt good, I would feel good. I excelled in school, I ran for student government, was in the chorus, but it wasn't enough.  I still felt like I could do better.
I became a perfectionist.  Either it was done right, in the way I looked at it, or it was all wrong. I wanted everything to be just right. My room was always clean, and I did my best to keep up with the trends of the times. I began to think that if I looked like a great person, then everyone would like me. I started doing things for my family, like doing the dishes or my own laundry. But I did it in secret. I was mortified if anyone acknowledged my efforts.
The odor of desperation clung to me. When I went to high school, I would sit with whoever would have me.  The black kids didn't like me, because I talked like a white girl.  The smokers and stoners wouldn't have me, because I was too goody goody for them. The jocks didn't like me because I didn't play any of their sports.
Finally, I sat with the white kids that I had classes with.  They were a nice crowd. All of them smart, and never quite fitting in. They always talked on the phone and hung out together, but not me. I was hardly ever invited out. So, I stayed in my room and did my homework, or watched TV.  I read a lot. I went to the library so much that the librarian sent me a graduation card!
I didn't mind it so much, being the token black. At least I had people to eat lunch with. I think you have to try extra hard to be liked when your black. There is a sense of mistrust among different people that says blacks are not smart, they are violent and all they do is cause trouble.  I was different.  I knew how to dress, how to speak, how to gain respect and give respect. I guess tat makes me an "uncle tom".
I was never bitter tough, just lonely.  It goes on to this day. No matter how I try to engage, the more I disconnect into a dream world where everyone likes me.  This dream state can last for days.  The more I dreamt, the less lonely I was, and I had friends it that world. I was cool.
I'm still a people pleaser. I do things for other people all the time. I do not want or expect acknowledgement. I just try to be a good person. Some people take advantage of me, but most don't. They say your true friends will be there in the darkness to lead you out into the light. But I don't have too many friends like that.
All I want is 2 or 3 girlfriends that I can talk to on the phone, go to lunch, go shopping or watch movies with. It's not that hard to be my friend. You just have to know a few things about me. Like when I am shutting down, it's nothing personal, I just need to be alone for a while.
Being friends with a person who has bipolar can be difficult. All we really want is a hug and someone to tell us it's going to be okay.  The mood changes are hard to deal with and some people refuse to see your illness for what it is. Snap out of it, or don't be so sad. Stupid thing like that which don't help a person in the midst of depression. I think most people like the mania part, where we are high energy, talkative, overspend and get hyper sexual. But it all has to come crashing down at some point. Your true friends will be there to help you pick up the pieces, but those who were just along for the ride are long gone..
I still want to be liked, only it's not so overwhelming. I am finally at a place where I am at peace being alone. And that's okay. We are all okay.

Dreams

Maybe Dreams isn't a good title for this post. Maybe it should have been goals. Anyway, I think I'll leave it as it stands. It's about what I wanted to be when I was younger. I look at my high school yearbook picture, and I think "what a pretty girl, so young, so innocent, her eyes filled with hope for the future." I think of it now, and just shake my head. I wish I knew then what I know now. If I could go back in time with my 50 year old wisdom and 16 year old dreams I would. Who wouldn't? For a lot of my dreams it's too late. Remember, I didn't think I'd live past 45. But, I'm still here, and I'm still trying to figure out my life.
When I was 8 years old, I decided that I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to be an OB/GYN. I thought of nothing else but bringing babies into the world. I had declared it and it gave my parents a lot of joy. It came with the knowledge that I would be the first one on my father's side of the family to go to college. That was a lot of pressure on a young person, but I took it on myself to make it come true.
I excelled at school. All of my classes were advanced classes. All except math. I didn't care to much for math. I finally figured it out in algebra. Don't think about so hard, just plug in the formulas and let the numbers do what they may. From then on, I got straight A's. I graduated with honors, was inducted into the National Honor Society, and was recognized by the Natiional Merit Foundation as an Outstanding Negro Student. There was a press release in the paper and everything. I was on my way.
I got accepted to Wellsley, but didn't go because I didn't get enough scholarship money or student loans to cover it. It is a regret that carry to this day.
I went to Immaculata University where I was a pre-med major. I did great with all my classes the first year, but the bipolar reared it's ugly head in the middle of my sophomore year. So, came home and never went back. I stayed in the house for 6 months. That was one dream down. So, what to do?
I got a job as a bank teller, and was doing okay, until I found a better offer paying claims for an insurance company. It was fun because I got to use the medical jargon I had learned in anatomy class. I did pretty well, made a best friend, and generally liked my job. Then my parents were splitting up and I was caught in the middle, so I ran. All the way to Washington state. My sister who was married to a Navy man was station up there. I called her from work, bawling my eyes out asking her if I could come live with her, her husband and daughter. She checked it all out and told me I could come.
I packed up all my belongings in my car and made the trek from Pennsylvania to Washington. It took a week, but it was the best trip of my life. It broke my mother' heart that I left, but I had to get away.
I got a job with another insurance company, discovered Starbucks vanilla lattes. I met a couple of men who used me like toilet paper, but I moved on. Then another depression hit and and I locked my self in my tiny apartment for eight weeks. I had to go to the hospital. It didn't help, all they did was fill me up with drugs. I spent 4 years at tat job and had to take 2 leaves of absence for that job.
My sister then informed me that her husband had been transferred to Georgia. I tried to find an apartment in the city where I worked but it was a bust. Another dream down.
So I down to Georgia, for a job just across the state line in Jacksonville. I got my own place and lived there happily for 5 years. Then the bipolar kicked in with a vengeance and this time the employer wasn't so kind. After 2 cycles of mania and an explosion of depression I left that job and went back. to Pennsylvania. I met a few guys, but all they wanted was sex. So, our affairs lasted 3 months tops. My dreams of marriage ad family started to fade.
I had always picture my life ask having a nice guy and four beautiful boys. That dream is over. But I am going back to school to get my bachelor's degree. So that dream was delayed. Hopefully, more of my dreams will come true. I can only hope and pray, but that is enough for now.

Bev

Puppy Love

When I titled this blog as Puppy Love, I wasn't referring to the type of love that young people first experience. It is because I love dogs.

I love their cold noses, their barks, whines, howls and other noises they make. I love puppy breath. One of the most joyful things in life is to see a tail wagging at my approach. I don't mind if a dog jumps on me to lick my face. In fact, I greatly appreciate it. When a dog does that, not only is he glad to see me, but he has marked me as being one of the pack.

I've had 3 dogs in my adult life. I've had 2 chow chows, and 1 terrier mix. I loved them each for their different qualities, as dogs have distinct personalities as varied as humans. Each one brought a special joy to my life, and I hope that I was a good parent. I say parent, because it has been documented that dogs are the equivalent as having a 2 year old in the house. In fact, I think that if one is thinking of getting a dog, he needs to sign papers of adoption; indicating that he understands that a dog is a 10-15 year commitment. Dogs are not disposable animals. If it barks, the owner shouldn't just chain it outside for the rest of it's life. 

I have seen this too many times to count, and it saddens me a great deal. I feel if you don't want a dog in your house then don't get one. There are more dogs in the United States than in any other country in the world. We do not treat them well. Sure, we have the Humane Society and the ASPCA. But, that is not enough. We also have horrendous conditions in puppy mills and so called sanctuaries.  The sanctuaries are usually run by hoarders who just keep adopting dogs to the point where they have too many to care for. The dogs do not get proper medical care, boarding, food and attention. I've seen so many news reports and commercials on these places, I could vomit. 

All of my dogs were indoor dogs. I put them on eating and walking schedules. I had one dog that hated thunderstorms, so I gave him an herbal supplement to calm him down and we rode out the storm together. My dogs were allowed on my bed, and on my furniture. If a person came over and didn't like, she was welcome to leave. The dog lives here, but you don't.

My first dog was a female chow chow. She was smaller than the standard, but she was beautiful. She was red in color, but she didn't have a big ruff. My brother-in-law got her from a friend of his for $50. I think she was the runt of the litter. When he and my sister bought their house, the dog got chained in the back yard. I could only take so much, so I told my sister that I was taking her home with me. I didn't get much of an argument. With 2 kids, a full-time job and a husband on 3 month deployments twice a year, she didn't have time for a dog. 

I didn't and still don't have any kids, so I figured I could use her for safety and company. Chow chows are said to be mean or vicious, but that's not true. It's all in how the dog is socialized. 

My dog and I had great fun together. Back then, I had a Nissan 240 SX convertible, so on nice days I'd put the top down and the 2 of us would go for rides.  She was buckled in, of course. The looks we got were priceless. She never barked or anything. She just sat there like a person. People would do double and triple takes once they realized there was a dog in the front seat. She died of stomach cancer. She went for years without symptoms, and then one day she just stopped eating. I took her to the veterinarian and they did exploratory surgery and found a huge tumor.  The doctor told me they could remove it, but it had started growing down into her small intestine, and her quality of life would be poor, even with treatment.  So, I put my big girl panties on and had her put down.  I still have her ashes.

My second dog was a male chow chow. He too was beautiful. He was lighter red in color with a huge ruff. I found him on Pet Finder.com. I really recommend them. They do a thorough application process, check references, and conduct a 45 minute interview. It was a long process, but I got him. His owners drove a long distance so I'd get a chance to meet him. They decided right away that I was the right owner. We stayed in touch by letter for 5 years. Then I took him in to get his teeth cleaned and they found a raised mole along his upper gum. It turned out to be melanoma. I had pet insurance, so I could afford to get him treated. He had radiation  and chemotherapy. I know to some people that may seem a ridiculous thing to do to save a dog; but he wasn't just a dog. He was my confidant, my therapist, my comforter and my best friend. You wouldn't turn your back on your best friend would you? So, I felt it was my duty to get him treated. He fought it with all his heart. Then one day the doctor showed me his chest x-ray; the cancer had spread to his lungs. So, I kept him as comfortable as long as I could, but I could tell he was getting weaker. I had decided one day that he'd had enough and I was going to put him down, but he beat me to it. One morning in September, he lay down with his head in my lap and he drifted away.  I swear, my heart broke into a million pieces. I am still grieving his loss. I am crying as I write this. I swore to myself, no more animals.

A few years later, after I bought my own house, I decided that what was needed was a dog. I adopted my terrier mix from the local SPCA. I loved him right away. I looked at him and he just sat there. I asked him if he wanted to come home with me, and he barked. So, I just knew that he was my dog. He was dirty and smelled bad. The first thing I did was got him groomed. With a bath and a haircut, he cut quite the handsome figure. He slept on a dog bed next to me. He wasn't interested in the furniture or sleeping in my bed, so I let him be. He would greet people at the door, and then go hide under the chair. 

He was so sweet, and boy did he love his tummy rubs. I had him for 2 years, then I noticed that he was having trouble catching his breath after our walks. I took him to the vet, and there it was, fluid around his heart. The doctor called in a veterinarian heart specialist; she did an echocardiogram. It seemed my baby was in the final stages of congestive heart failure. He immediately went on medication, most of which I couldn't afford because I was on disability due to having bipolar. But, the doctor gave me a discount and even had him be part of a research study on a new drug. We both struggled for 6 long months. Finally, he started having seizures, and was unable to walk across the room without collapsing. It tore my heart open again, but I had him put down. 

I have all of my dogs' ashes. I'm going to be buried with them, so I'll always have them with me. One day the three of them will find me on the other side of the rainbow bridge and it will be a joyful reunion. For now, I don't have any animals, just a stuffed lioness named Mabel. I don't know if I'll ever get another dog, even though I want one so badly. Perhaps, things will turn around this year. I will get a job, and move into my own little place and get a little dog. In the meantime, I have my memories and pictures. I will always love them, and I am sure they are all waiting for me, tails wagging. Don't worry my loves, I'll be with you soon enough. Kisses

Bev

Spectre

The clouds are moving, light to dark across the sky. It is definitely going to rain. But not water from the sky. Rain will come down with my mood. I can already feel it's fingers clutching at my soul. A deep foreboding fills my mind. What will it be this time? Will there be a million fire-like tears streaming down my face? Will I lose the ability to speak? It's coming, but can I stop it?
First of all, I am tired. Not just tired but bone tired. It is taking effort just to put on my clothes. I did manage to wash my face and brush my teeth today. I also made my bed. Not a big deal, you say? Well, for me it is a very big deal. It means I didn't give up. True, I spent most of the day on the porch smoking cigarettes, but at least I got out of my room.
Depression is a curious thing. It doesn't go away. It haunts me. I can feel it waiting for a crack in my delicate armour, waiting for the chance to pounce on me like a lion in the brush. Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye. It is all darkness, trying to swallow me whole. I am so tired of fighting it, that I just might give into it. Might, I said. Might is a powerful word. It means you have options. I could use my coping skills and kill the spectre of depression, or I could just go down into the rabbit hole like Alice and find myself in some unknown terrifying world.
I've been there many times. It is a world of endless sleep, and endless nightmares.
The Shadow People are there. I can hear them calling to me like a siren's song leads a ship adrift in the dense fog, causing it to run aground. Who are the Shadow People? Well, they are the people who live in the dark places in mind, heart and soul. They cling to corners and walls, lurk in the closet and under the bed. The Shadow People are the unseen terrors. They have rotted faces, and eyes of fire. Their hands are the gnarled, grotesque, oozing like the hands of a corpse. They are cold, ruthless and will never stop whispering lies.
They tell me all the things you hate about myself. Things that make me feel weak, unloved and abandoned. Their words are not words exactly, but mutterings of gibberish that only I can understand. Sometimes they come one at a time; sometimes they gather around me like an icy wind blowing me to and fro. The one I am most afraid of is the Dark Man. He has jagged broken teeth, blackened by too many years in the netherworld. His breath is that of the dead. He does not talk to me; he just looks at me with his fiery eyes. You see, he knows all my secrets. The darkest secrets that I dare tell to anyone. So he looks at me and smiles a knowing smile of one who knows all the deepest darkest secrets about me, but promises not to tell. He reaches out to touch me every once in a while. I pull back in revulsion. He just hisses a low evil laugh and waits, always looking at me with those eyes.
Some of my therapy helps, my medications help. But, I know they are there. They come in periods of deep depression. The kind where I cannot speak for fear of a vomiting of words that no one will understand. Then, I will surely end up in the hospital, feet shuffling, keeping time with the others in their own states on drugged up delusion.
I don't want to go to the hospital ever again. I know that it provides the structure that I lack, but I hate the whole experience. Forced roommates, cold showers, permission to brush your teeth and the dreary empty faces etched in pain.
So, I fight it. I go to bed early and wake up late. I have a therapy appointment tomorrow, so I will be able to talk about it. It's probably nothing but studying too much for school. However, I have other symptoms. Hopefully, it will just be a bad couple of days. But that is part of what bipolar does to me. It makes me examine every emotion. I wish I had  blah days, and happy days like normal people. But no, with bipolar it's all or nothing. Right at this moment it is nothing. I will take my meds and go to bed. I have studying to do tomorrow and a paper to write. I pray to God every night that He looks after me while I sleep, no nightmares and no anxiety attacks. So far He has heard my prayer. If it be His will, there will be no spectres tonight.

Suicide's Child

There is a saying that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. That is true. The problem is temporary. But the feelings behind the problem can seem terminal. There is nothing else like mental illness. It does not just happen. It creeps up on you like a stalking predator. Other diseases are definite and acknowledged by the public. Other disease receive support and have multi-million dollar corporations behind them. But not mental illness. The research is not there, the government support is not as much as say diabetes or cancer. For those illnesses one becomes prepared for the outcome. The effects are well documented; the symptoms are more defined and treatment is well known. But not mental illness.
The mentally ill are social pariahs. They are the lost, disenfranchised people of the medical world. It is difficult to diagnose mental illness. It's symptoms vary from person to person. What's more,m a person can have two or more diagnoses at the same time. It is possible to have depression, general anxiety disorder and borderline personality disorder at the same time. Furthermore, mental illness is hard to treat. There are limited drugs to treat it. Plus finding the right one or combination of drugs is hard to find.
It's really a roll of the dice, finding the right drug combination. I am currently on seven different medications to treat my disorders. That's another thing. Mental illnesses aren't seen as diseases. They are called disorders, as if by some magic power the disease can just be dismissed as something not real. I have rapid cycling bipolar II, general anxiety, PTSD and auditory hallucinations. Sometimes, I have visual hallucinations, but that depends on what is happening in my mind. I call them the Shadow People.
I have even tried ECT or electric convulsive therapy. Also know as electro-shock therapy to the ignorant. Contrary to many movies and TV shows, ECT is a painless treatment. The patient is sedated and there is an nurse and anesthesiologist on hand to make sure everything goes according to plan. The electrodes are placed on the side and/or top of your head, and the doctor gives a shock that convulses your body, giving you a seizure. The electric shock is supposed to transmit signals to your brain, in effect "rebooting" your brain, so that the neurotransmitters proceed in normal brain waves. The worst effect I ever had was a bad headache. This stopped the hallucinations and negative thought patterns for a year. I had sixteen treatments. Some people have a series of treatments, then have maintenance treatments once a month.
Despite what people think it is not a barbaric treatment anymore that chemotherapy is. It is often considered as a last resort for those occasions when drug therapy shows no result. However, it is not a cure. I wish it was.
I have tried to kill myself 3 times. Each time in the middle of an unbelievable crushing depression. It wasn't just because I had sad thoughts. It was because I felt nothing. I was so empty, and hollow inside that I felt there was no reason to go on. I didn't love anyone, least of all myself. I felt myself a burden to my family, and a hopeless case as far as my treatment was concerned. I felt that suicide would be better for everyone. It would be better for me, because the paralyzing pain would stop, and better for the people who knew me, because they wouldn't have to worry about me anymore. People don't commit suicide because they are cowards or selfish. They commit suicide because there seems to be no end to their pain.
The pain is unending. It is mental, emotional and physical. Your body is racked with a pain so intense that it hurts to breathe. Your mind is full of the most horrible thoughts of guilt and shame, and an anxiety so intense that you can swear the people around you can feel it. Mentally, your mind is a roller coaster. One minute you can see the slightest glimmer of hope, only to fall into the black hole of memory. Suicide is often non-violent. It is not a mad man shooting up the room, but it is the calm decision of an individual who has simply had enough. The lone person inhabiting the planet.
The problem with being mentally ill, is that there are no news making marches to raise awareness. There is the month of September which is mental illness awareness month, but it is not a news worthy item. No celebrity wears the green ribbon. Mental illness is still a taboo subject. Those who are mentally ill are still subject to abuse, ridicule and discrimination. People would just like us to go away. But instead of doing that, you should open your arms and give someone with a mental illness a hug. Even though we may shy away from you, all we really want is some kind of human contact.
Right now of this moment, I am stable. But it is a struggle to carry-on with the daily activities of life. Getting out of bed is a struggle. Remembering to bathe is often met with resentment. Sometimes, when I am manic, I forget to eat. It is really a never ending choice to remain alive.
Suicide is no longer an option for me. I can only hope that the drug combinations remain as they are, somewhat affordable, and working. I have lifelines now. Support people that I know I can rely on when the bad times come; and they will come. But, I am better equipped to handle them now through therapy. I know how to recognize my symptoms, and what my triggers are. Sometimes I can beat them back, sometimes I can't. But I won't let the plunge me into the cold abyss of depression or the confusion and terrifying mania. I am a suicide survivor, and I have chosen to live.

Bev

‘STILL I RISE’ BY MAYA ANGELOU

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Nana and PopPop

My Nana, what can I say about her? She was an extraordinary woman. She was born on September 19, 1911 in Georgia. She was one of 9 children. Her family was a farming family, growing cotton in the Georgia clay. She only had a 3rd grade education, but she was a smart cookie.
Growing up she had no dolls to play with; only the rag dolls she fashioned out of sticks, rags and corn-silk for hair. She had to leave school in order to help on the farm. She helped her mother with the cooking, the cleaning and the washing.
Nana only had one pair of shoes, and those were for church. The rest of the time, the children went barefoot.
When she was 17, she packed all her belongings into a cardboard suitcase and came to Philadelphia. Her older sister was already there, and she helped her get a job as a maid. She was a live in maid for a white family. She did all the cooking, cleaning and watched the family's children. She made $5 a week. Nana did this for a couple of years and saved up some her money. The rest, she sent back home to Georgia.
One day as she was waiting for a trolley, a man came up next to her to see if she wanted a ride. Although, he looked like a nice man, the seat in his car was worn down to the springs. But she accepted the ride anyway. She didn't know his name or where he lived. But then she started seeing him around the neighborhood with 2 little girls following close behind. When she inquired about the man, the neighbor said they called him "Cuckoo."
Whenever he walked by her house, if she was sitting on the porch, he would tip his hat and say hello.
He was always cleanly dressed, and wore a shirt and tie on Sundays. The rest of the week he wore his work clothes, for he was a custodian at the local hospital. Gradually, she got to know him. He was a widower, 15 years her elder. She was 19. When he asked her for her hand she said yes. At first, they moved in with his sister and her husband. So, it was six of them in a tiny 3 bedroom house. Nana cooked and clean and took care of the finances, and did the shopping for the household. Back in those days, milk was delivered, there was a bread man, a vegetable and fruit stand and a local butcher. Everything you needed it one local neighborhood.
Eventually, they had two sons. One of which was my father. As he grew he called her Mother and his father. Daddy. They had saved up enough money to by a small house not far from her sister's house.
Although, they were poor, my Nana kept the house and the children clean and well-fed. My PopPop, as I called him was always working and so kept food on the table, even during the Depression. He had started his own business as a handy-man, and he always had enough business.
The neighborhood they lived in was integrated, so my uncle and father grew up with the Irish, Jews, Negroes, Italians, and all different kind of ethnic backgrounds. There was no fighting, because the all had one thing in common; they were poor. So they played together, went to the local elementary school together. and worked together gathering newspapers, bottles, rags and whatever else they could find to sell for candy money.
My Nana and PopPop were a loving couple. You could rarely find one without the other close by. Nana was afraid to drive, so she never learned. She either took the bus, or PopPop drove her there.
He would go shopping with here for gifts for the grandchildren, or to the market. My PopPop was a quiet man. He didn't say much, but when he did say something, you had better listen.
As I got older, I adored my PopPop, I always used to climb in the chair with him and rub his head. He had fringes of hair on the sides. I would grease his hair up with Dixie Peach pomade and come his hair down until it stuck to his head. My parents would tell me to stop, but he said "Leave Babygirl alone."
That's what he called me , Babygirl. It fit, because I am the youngest of his 4 grandchildren. I have to admit they spoiled me. I remember playing in the basement. Playing with Nana's jewelry was especially thrilling because it was so sparkly. I was so young, I thought they were real diamonds and pearls and precious gems. I asked her one day if I could have them when she died, and she told me of course I could. She even wrote it down in her book.
Before he got married, PopPop was a porter on the B & O railroad. He loved trains, and got to travel a lot. He was born on April 15, 1896 or 1898. The records were hard to verify because the courthouse in Culpepper, Virginia burned down. Plus, his father was a slave on a plantation so a lot of the records were lost.
One day, I'm going to look them up if I can and figure out who I am. I loved my grandparents with there southern ways and southern manners. The respected people, and got respect in return. There was no " Sho' nuff" or "Yass suh" with them they were dignified people. Sometimes when my moods got out of hand, I would got to their house and just relax. They let me take naps on the couch, or just watch TV. They didn't understand my illness, hell, neither did I then. My Nana called the spells, and she would just hold my hand and tell me not to worry. Trouble doesn't last always. And my favorite saying " If the Lord can feed the tiny birds in the sky, then He can make a way for you."
I'm pretty sure it's from a hymn, but I don't remember which one.
My PopPop died in the fall of 1991, he was 96. My Nana followed him at the age of 95 in 2008. I miss them terribly still. I miss our talks, our hugs, sitting on the front porch eating Breyer's ice cream; vanilla bean.
I wish they had visiting hours in Heaven, I'd visit all the time.

The Yellow Nightgown

There once was a little girl. She was golden brown in color with black hair that she wore in 2 pigtails.She had a clear complexion, a heart-shaped face, and two little lips the color of dark rose-petals.
She had a nightgown. It was her favorite. It had long sleeves with lace ruffles on the cuffs and at the neck. It had ruffled lace on the hem too. The yoke of the bodice had white satin ribbon sewn on, and there was a white ribbon that tied in a bow at the neck. She loved this nightgown because it was soft, pretty, and the color of buttercups.

She wore it so much that the color had started to fade.
Then one day the nightgown was not her favorite anymore. It had become dirty, spoiled in the night with her shame. That's when it started, the shame that would leave her paralyzed throughout most of her life.
It was nighttime, and HE came in, waking her out of a deep sleep. "We're going to play a game," he said. 
"What game?" she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
He said "Um, we're going to play football!"
She didn't know what football was, but she knew what a ball was, so she decided it sounded like fun.
"What do I have to do?", she asked.
He told her to lay down on the floor. She did as she was told, because he was older and she was always told to listen to people older than she was. 
She didn't know what was happening, because he had laid down  on top of her. She could feel his hands fumbling with her white panties until they were down around her ankles. Then he put something between her legs. All the while she said nothing. What was there to say? They were, after all just playing a game.
He started jumping on her, like the dog did to that pillow he had found on the floor. She remembered, because her grandfather said, "He has to get fixed."
She didn't know what "fixed" meant, but the dog stopped jumping on the pillows.
Suddenly, he froze on top of her; he had stopped jumping and she felt something wet and sticky on her thighs. He told her the game was finished. So, she got up pulled up her panties and got back into bed. He told her it was a secret game, just between them, and she was to tell nobody. What was there to tell? Who was there to tell? She wished that she could take another bath to was the sticky stuff off. But it was too late at night. Everyone else in the house was asleep. 
The next morning when she woke up her legs hurt, and her private parts hurt too. She knew she must have done something to herself in the night, but she could think of nothing. Then she remembered the game she had played. She got a sinking feeling in her tummy. Something bad had happened, but she didn't know what. But, she figured that whatever had happened it was her fault. 
She didn't tell her mom that her privates hurt. Mommy had that look on her face as she drank her coffee. The look that said "I don't feel good." So, she couldn't tell mommy, and daddy was already at work. She told no one, and no one asked her about it. So she found her favorite dolls and spent the rest of that rainy morning in the closet. She could play there for hours and not be disturbed. 
The rest of the day, after it had stopped raining, she went outside to make mud cakes and pies. She put them in the shiny pans her mommy had given her, and set them out in the sun to bake. Then she pretended that her dolls were caught in a landslide and G.I. Joe had to rescue them. After that it was time for dinner. Daddy gave her a hug when he came home. She adored her daddy. He had a mustache that tickled her face. After dinner, it was time to watch a little TV, and then for a bath. She was especially dirty from playing in the mud all afternoon. After her bath, she put on fresh panties and put on her favorite nightgown. 
It was dark and chilly that night, so she cocooned herself in her covers. But then, in the middle of the night, HE came again. So, they played the game again, and this time she knew it was bad. She just instinctively knew. While he was on top of her she looked up at the ceiling, and then through the ceiling, to look at the stars. It was then that she learned how to disappear. Her mind taking her to the babbling creek in the backyard; a place where she just knew there were fairies, sprites, and talking birds. She stayed there until he finished with her, then she came back to the room. She pulled up her panties again and slid back under her covers.
This went on for 2 years. But she told no one. She couldn't find the words to explain it if she wanted to. She figured that she was just a bad, dirty girl that was so unlovable, that she deserved it, whatever it was. You see, she didn't know what sex was, nobody had ever explained it to her. It was something that just wasn't discussed at least not in front of the children. That was adult conversation, and children weren't permitted to hear adult conversation. So it went on, wordlessly, without emotion; she had learned how to turn them off too. She just laid there and drifted away, going to places she had seen in magazines. 
The little girl in this story is me. I was 7 years old. I tell you this not to make you feel sorry for me, but to make you aware. Children don't always have the words to say what's on their minds. You have to look for signs. If, for example, your normally chatty 5 year old suddenly gets quiet, chances are there is a secret in there somewhere. It is your job as a parent to get it out in the open. Don't be shocked or disgusted in front of your child when you hear it. She/he feels bad enough already. But do be loving and kind.
What happened to HIM. nothing, I never told, so nothing happened. I didn't tell my parents until I was 30. By then the shame and guilt had spread through me like a deadly virus, poisoning everything I touched. It wasn't until a few years ago until I finally stopped feeling so dirty. I guess that's maybe why I never had a boyfriend. I was so terrified of being found out that I never really got close to anyone. I did get a deep heart felt apology from him, and I forgave him. To not forgive is a sin against God. It also freed me from a life of shame. The burden has been lifted. 
I no longer wear yellow, though. It brings the memories to the forefront, when I would rather leave them in the past and look forward to my future. 

Bev