Unlisted: A Story of Schizophrenia - A film by Delaney Ruston, MD - MyDOC Productions

My gut says this is going to be great: Unlisted: A Story of Schizophrenia - A film by Delaney Ruston, MD - MyDOC Productions

I haven't been THIS excited since SITC...

though that would be the likely end of any comparison.

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D

A lesson on (un)forgiveness.

So, lets say there was a girl. She was a nice girl. Tall.
She had bushy hair and a soft voice. She wasn’t pushy, perhaps silently headstrong.
She was loyal, and considered herself righteous, whatever that means.

Said girl loves green-tea ice-cream, pays attention to poetry, loves the local news (however exciting or boring that day) and lacks an ability to forget faces, low-laying points of stories, stated facts, and nutritional information.

I guess you could call her detail oriented, but that misses the point. And she’s not about missing points.

So, this detail oriented logician had her feelings hurt. Perhaps they were hurt on a regular basis. Perhaps it wasn’t intentional, but occurred none-the-less.

It’s very factual. They were hurt.

So, she processes the hurt. Acknowledges the ebb and flow of a hurtful comment on a Monday. Starts to heal on Tuesday. Regresses (a little) on Wednesday. Calls in sick on Thursday. And so on, until the hurt has become a freckle, a slightly noticed mar of skin. A beauty mark, perhaps. A near-distant ache.

She does this for years. It’s a process she’s very aware of. Sometimes she schedules time to cry. Sometimes the tears are impromptu.

I know this girl well. She’s 30, I’m 30. We both like green-tea ice-cream. Tofu and beef fried rice. We co-reside at the edge of blemished reason and plausible absurdity. We are, by all accounts: ridiculously flawed in our logic, and not, at the same time.

So, the concreteness of it is this:

I don’t believe there is a finite reservoir of strength/resilience or whatever internal gunk that you pull from when you are hurt and need to heal. I don’t believe that all can, or should, be forgiven when you have been injured. I don’t believe that it shouldn’t happen either. I don’t believe in blanket layered statements, though sometimes, the rhetoric does soothe and calm and nourish the soul that doesn’t want true answers. I don’t believe that saying what I just said about souls and true answers is a judgment call. I believe all of our souls want to be calmed.

But I know my soul. And I can forgive what I want to forgive. And I probably could forget, if I wanted to, or was made for it: but I don’t. And personally, which is all I feel like speaking from at this point in the day: that’s ok.

I don’t blame my mom for our reality, though I wish, if I one-day get married, she could speak about times we’ve never been gifted. She can’t. We won’t. We didn’t.

I don’t carry an anger, now, for the disappointments. For the worse-than-thats. And there was worse-than-thats.

I don’t have the same openness for everyone. I don’t have a full unforgiving heart. I want to say sorry, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be true. I am a bias machine sometimes.

I don’t believe it will align me with a life of sadness. I could be wrong. I tend to be at least a quarter of the time.

It’s very human. I forgive me for that. But I needn’t forgive everybody.
True story.

Rise. Remember. Rinse. Repeat.

So, this weekend, I was able to spend time curled up on the couch with my toddler. Don’t get me wrong, she’s no baby, so I use the T word cautiously with this 19 month old. She’s starting to string words together forming short sentences (poetic ones, if I’m allowed a proud Mummi moment) that densely pack meaning and hilarity.

This particular morning, we have no where to rush off to. I’ve again lost my phone in the crevices of a crumb-catching couch. Sesame Street is our only known destination, and she’s happily (if steathily) biting on her bubble wand between semi-private conversations between herself, Ernie and Emmo-wo (i.e. Elmo).

I figure I have a moment or two to snooze and do. I wake up every few moments to find her waving to Bert’s pidgeon pet, a corn-rowed little boy on television, or one of the Elmos with the squeaky-ish voice. Goodnight for a second or two longer. Goodnight for perhaps 5 minutes...

I wake up again and the house is quiet. Zora’s not in sight and I freeze. I look to all the household places most warned in parenting magazines: the Venetian cords are wound, the outlets still covered, I hear no angry cats, and the screens are all intact. I sit up with my heart no where near my center and find my daughter nestled quietly with her Big Bird doll near my ankles. She’s become an adept couch-climber.

So I realize I have another thing in common with my mom, though, this feeling doesn’t haunt me, as I can imagine it haunted her. I share some of the same experiences: watching Sesame Street, being close to Zora. But as the days pass and parenthood becomes less an act of changing diapers, and more a mechanism for instructing and guiding life; I realize how difficult it is and can be when we’re less able, less apt to control or better yet, understand what is happening internally.

I wasn’t, even though it was momentary, and I couldn’t breathe. How many moments did my mother, when I was a mirror image of my own daughter 28 years ago, how many moments left my mother breathless?

How many still do.

Having a child is tough, being a parent ain’t easy. Loving, at least, is a natural current and I’m so blessed to have these moments to process both, each, inchly.

Autonomy as a Teachable Moment.

I’m trying to remember what year it was when Hammer pants and those wide ribboned steel toe patent leather shoes were in style? Perhaps Google will know.

Right now, I’m just remembering the styles I needed to have to survive.

Being broke was an assault on the reality, so I easily and aptly forgot it every time Mummi and I walked downtown Boston past Baker’s shoe store. I needed, and that’s all I knew.

This was also in the height of Mummi’s illness. Reality seemed to have us both beat, though mine was elective and my mother’s not so much. She ignored my requests when she could, other times, well, were other times.

She did do something I didn’t expect, perhaps a month or two into my biweekly requests. She offered me an allowance.

I leapt at the offer.

At home, I’d do what chores could fit into our studio apartment. I cleaned with the materials we had, and became an expert at fixing all the broken things we seemed to accumulate over the years. I prided myself at getting to a job before a job even existed. I conspired on what I would buy with my cash.

I worried in the back of my mind that Mummi wouldn’t be able to keep to her word. I knew better than to ask her, than to remind her. I just waited until our biweekly shopping day.

When the day came, it started out as usual. A long walk downtown (Mummi had a fear of underground trains that lasted for a few years), so we walked nearly everywhere. A stop at Faneuil Hall to purchase fresh fruit and veggies for the week.

Finally, laden with cabbage and strawberries, hot and tired from walking under the sun, we walked past the shoe store. I’m gulping now thinking about it.

Mummi gave no indication that we were going to go in, or continue walking past. I simply followed her, and was happy to walk inside when the door opened and a gust of air from the AC burst out.

We got the best MC-Hammer look-alike shoes there. Perhaps they weren’t, but they were. And it’s funny, those things looked ridiculous, but for a week, perhaps two, I was stylish from the ankle down.

So, when Mummi and I (on some levels) switched places, I’ve honored her need for pocket money. After all, we all need (or I think at the very least) benefit, from making our own decisions, and the instant gratification of the give-get that money can bring.

So, she saved the funds. I wondered what she was saving for. Out loud, and on numerous occasions, but, still, autonomy as my mom’s interpreted it, was keeping her own damn business, her own damn business. She knows what she’s doing, she’s told me.

Who am I to question that?

A few days ago, I called. Mummi was happy to the point where I was getting concerned. Was this pre-episodic? Was she OK?

Double yes. She’d simply purchased herself a sewing machine. Carried it home on public transportation (yes, I’m imagining it) and was happily making who-knows-what gorgeousness on her new Brother™.

Perhaps she’ll make me some pants for my Hammer shoes.

Go, Mummi. Go.

More show. Less say.

Oh yes, the day was gorgeous, the crowd was large. The feeling was great. It was. Zora and I have a story to tell, but wanted to share this slideshow first.

Que cute, eh?

May is Mental Health Month

Just in case you needed an ever-green opportunity to celebrate, learn about, or look into bringing Mental Health and Wellness into the forefront, it's been gorgeously captivated by May.

Click here to learn more: May is Mental Health Month

More soon,

D

Humbled, and gearing up.

So it's days before the walk-a-thon, and while 3 miles isn't a long walk (per'se), it is one of the first times I will have done so with such a purpose. I'm really looking forward to walking it with my daughter.

As for the amount raised I tried to move with a time-specified logic. 30 days, 300 dollars, 30 people. If each person had donated approximately ten bucks, we'd be there.

As for the outcome: we raised 15% more. Yep, more.

It's hard raising money, it's equally difficult to ask. The economy, though improving, isn't one where we are yet wasting, spending on silly things (like my boaboa tea fetish of years past), but people are, on average paring down. Trying to save. Working with less.

But that we were able to raise more, speaks to a lot of things, namely the desire by so many people in my circle to talk about things, particularly mental illness, without the restraint and sting of stigma... is such a powerful and gorgeous, and awe-inspiring thing.

So again, to folks reading this who contributed (and if you are reading this, then you ARE contributing) thank you.

NOW, lets see if baby-big-girl-walking-partner will aquiese to riding in the stroller and not in my arms.

Not for the whole walk, anyway.

It's showtime!