Jealousy

Jealousy for me is defined as an irrational FEAR that somehow I am missing out on something or that someone is getting recognition for something that I deserve (at least in my mind). I never thought of jealousy as a FEAR, but upon introspection, I realize it really is. Although almost everyone is jealous at some time in their lives, it seems more extreme in my case. It comes in many forms and can attack when I am feeling spiritually fit, emotional, depressed, happy—in short, it sneaks up on me when I least expect it, regardless of my state of mind and can be triggered by even the most mundane comment. A perfect example happened today when the instructor in my Spinning class was extolling the virtues of a “masseur” she went to in Naples, Fla. She went on to say the it was “a whole hour” of bliss, and even though I have elected to walk away from that profession, I still found myself feeling annoyed and jealous and actually wanted to say that I was indeed a massage therapist too. Luckily reason prevailed and I reminded myself that this was my choice because I wanted to pursue my creative self that I had put on the back burner for so long. I simply did not want to continue as a therapist. But, jealousy, or the green-eyed monster as some people call it, is an emotion that is found in almost every species. A few years ago I discovered that my 18-year old parrot was extremely jealous of the new Macaw. Every time I paid attention to the new “baby”, Merlin would come running over, get on top of the cage, get in-between us, and try to engage me. I found it very funny and cute, but it is not so endearing when it involves myself because it often leads to other emotions such as depression and resentment. In searching for the roots of my jealously it is easy to find it when analyzing my childhood. I grew up in a middle class apartment complex called Stuyvesant Town on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. At that time, neighbors actually knew each other and it was a sort of a Peyton Place type of atmosphere (for those of you who remember that show), where we all knew each other’s business. Although Stuyvesant Town’s buildings spanned 14th through 20th Street, having at least 13 floors in each building, it didn’t seem like Manhattan. In fact it was quite bucolic—a little oasis surrounded by a not so savory neighborhood—with playgrounds, grass, trees, an oval, and a flagpole. By the surrounding neighborhood’s standards, we were looked upon as “rich” but looks can be deceiving. My Mom had a group of friends that lived in Stuyvesant Town—some in our building— who played Mahjong every week at each other’s apartment. I would always overhear their banter about their vacations, or their summer homes and wonder why we didn’t have that. Their family life always seemed to contain an element of happiness, which was missing in mine. Years later I realized that it is all about “perceptions”, but didn’t recognize that when I was a child. All I knew was what was in front of my eyes so I compared “my insides to their outsides”, or in this case, “my family’s insides to other family’s outsides.” Although I certainly never went hungry or without decent clothing, I was acutely aware of the difference in my family compared to the other families in my neighborhood. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment, which necessitated me sharing a bedroom with my older brother, creating more and more resentment as time went on. Our Main floor apartment overlooked a main walkway and allowed my brother and I to see the comings and goings of our neighbors. It always seemed that we got the short-end of the stick and I was filled with envy when, looking out our window, we would see my Mom’s friends loading up their car, getting ready to go on a family vacation. I remember thinking that why was it that WE (our family) weren’t able to load up OUR car and take off for a fun vacation. Well, for one, my parents didn’t drive so we had no car, but the other reason was that we struggled financially due to my Dad’s compulsive gambling. Luckily my Mom had a good job but those extras that we noticed other families indulging in were not ours to have. I believe that is where the seeds of jealousy began and to this day, I still find myself “looking over the fence at other people’s yards” and finding my situation or life wanting. As an adult, wherever I worked, the green-eyed monster plagued me. Someone got a better review, better job, better assignments, better, better, you name it—whatever it was it was better. As a massage therapist, I would constantly see other therapists getting more clients, more bookings, more money, more of whatever it was and, again I would be left wondering, “Why not me?” Whenever I think I have conquered it, it pops up again. Recently during a photo class, I found out that a few people were taking a class I didn’t even know about and that they had been to the instructor’s studio several times. Immediately, I asked, “When did you find out about that?” or “Really, when was that?” And there I was, feeling “left out” as if I was a child again—as if I was looking out the window at my friend’s family, happily laughing, loading up their car, getting ready for a fun time—one that I couldn’t partake in.

Lost and Never Found

Lost and never found so often describes the life of the chronically mentally ill. It can apply to their lives as well as to their personal belongings. One of the hallmarks of the mentally ill is that they seem to be unable to hang onto their possessions and are incapable of “thinking” in logical terms the way a “normal” person would. They are unable to think past the day, not thinking of the consequences of their actions. They drift from situation to situation, on or off their meds, sometimes homeless, sometimes working, sometimes in jail. There is no predicting what their situation will be from week to week, or day to day, and sometimes moment to moment. It is agonizing and infuriating all at once for the person who desperately loves someone in the throes of mental illness. I’m not talking about garden-variety neurosis (many of us are neurotic, in some fashion) but the gut wrenching, all consuming, disease of psychosis, such as schizophrenia, where rational thinking is impossible. It is a never-ending merry-go-round where you are always waiting to exhale; where when the phone rings, and you see the area code, you hold your breath and say a silent prayer before answering—wondering out loud, “What Now?” It is a world where no matter how many clothes or personal items you buy or send them, these meager possessions will disappear into thin air eventually. It is a world where they live in fleabag motels, and when they end up back incarcerated, they don’t think to ask anyone to store their belongings, so everything they had acquired (when you thought they were making progress) is lost, yet again. It is a world where there is no monetary limit to what is lost—be it clothes, phones, and even cars. When I remember that a diagnosis of mental illness does not define a person and that mental illnesses are brain disorders, I am more tolerant. But, often it is so hard not to be angry when your life is continually disrupted and have the anger turn to guilt at even being angry. We are all human and must give ourselves the grace to be so, which means accepting the emotions that are elicited from the constant stress of either waiting for the “other shoe to drop” or dealing with a current crisis. The definition of “insanity” is “doing the same things over and over and expecting different results.” The average person learns (eventually) that banging your head against the wall over and over will give you a concussion and maybe they should not do it anymore. But the chronically mentally ill have short-term memory and seem to be doomed to repeat the same destructive patterns over and over. It is just so frustrating to see this happening, and be powerless to change it, just waiting around for the next crisis. It is a never-ending battle that just cannot be won and it is so heart breaking because you see the train wreck coming but you can’t get out of the way.

Confidence

Confidence–how is it that some people seem to have it and some don’t? I think it comes from your upbringing and either it was instilled in you at a young age or maybe you acquire it. But, some people just have that hutzpah it takes to move forward in life, to take chances, to be brash, and to hell with the consequences. Others hesitate because they don’t want rejection or don’t have faith in themselves. I know that I have always been shy—something I hoped and thought I’d eventually grow out of when I got older. But, even though I did make friends as a child, I still lacked that confidence to initiate a conversation (and still do). I never felt that I was especially good at many things, or was particularly pretty, or talented. I know that parents play such an important role in building confidence, and ultimately the success or failure curve of their children. When you have a nurturing family, you feel invincible and are willing to take the chances that will move you beyond the mediocrity of most people. It seems that successful people—in whatever field they are in—have a parent, teacher, mentor, or someone who takes a special interest in them and gives them the ever-important confidence it takes to succeed. Yes, there are exceptions that we hear of—where someone came from a horrible environment and rose above it to become someone amazing. I can think of several celebrities who fit that description, but more commonly, that is not the case. I know that growing up I was told repeatedly that I was “stupid” each and every day, I was told that I had a “horseface”, and on and on. I think when a parent explodes or yells at you and says something hurtful once or twice, it does not have that much of an impact. But, when done over and over, throughout your childhood, it breaks you down and you begin to believe that you really are dumb and ugly and not talented. A very vivid memory I have was when I did a drawing of a princess (and I definitely have artistic talent) and I was so proud, but when I showed it to my Dad, he announced that it was “very juvenile.” I was so very hurt and crushed that I ripped the picture that I was so proud of into tiny pieces and threw it in the basket. I can still feel the sting of disappointment and rage I felt as if I was still a small child. Confidence was not something that was instilled in me as a child and I consequently grew up not being brave and not just going for it, because I always felt I was not good enough, and didn’t want to take the chance of rejection. Confident people don’t worry about rejection, because they know their value. People who lack confidence are constantly searching for others to give them value, because they don’t have it themselves. I think to this very day, I still feel I am never good enough and consequently, feel immense jealousy whenever someone branches out into success and I am left in the dust because I lacked the confidence to do what they did.

Labels

Labels; humans have a need to put these on people to categorize and make assumptions about them. I know it is so hurtful yet I have been the perpetrator as well as the recipient. It is so prevalent that most people don’t even realize that they are guilty. I think it is so very common in families, and can form your personality; often affecting the choices in your occupation, school, spouse, financial decisions, your level of happiness, and virtually every aspect of your life. We all know that family dynamics dictate that everybody in a family has a specific “role” even though it is not officially assigned. Among siblings, there is usually the “smart one” or “studious one”, the “athlete”, the “lazy one,” the “trouble maker”, the “fat one”, the “pretty one”, “the drinker”, etc. Whatever the role we play in our family, it often sticks with us, so that if as a child, we were not expected to excel in anything, whereby our sibling was the “golden child”, we often live up or down to that label. Never mind that life and people change as they grow, and the label may not fit someone anymore or the “roles” have been reversed. It is no wonder that so many people dread family gatherings because no matter how hard they have worked to shed their “role” in the family, they still feel like time has stood still and the same old childhood insecurities come to the surface. But outside of the family, the mentally ill, disabled, physically ill, older person, or anyone that is not “perfect” (young and able) has a label stamped on them too. I used to see an ad for a hospital that said something like, “We treat John like John, not “cancer.” As soon as we find out that someone is “paranoid schizophrenic”, or “borderline personality” or “autistic”, we immediately make a judgment about them; that they are violent, or out of it, or that they are not even a person anymore. I’ve heard it said that “your illness does not define you”, much like the ad I saw so many years ago. The same holds true for age as well. I know people assume you are a doddering old fool, with no goals, or dreams or anything to contribute to society once you reach a certain age. I know when I fill out forms at the doctor’s office, listing my age, the staff get a mental picture of what I will look like so when they call me they are surprised at how “young” I look. You get an invisible label stamped on you which affects how people treat you and unfortunately too often how you view yourself too. This “label” can apply to race too, thinking that all black men are violent, or all Asians are “smart” or whatever preconceived notions you may have. Labels are a way to perpetuate assumptions, which are usually just prejudices in disguise. In this celebrity worshipping society, focused on youth, perfection, wealth, beauty, and glamour, people who don’t fall into those categories get lumped together with a “label” and are deemed throwaways–less worthy and valuable in this world.

Mass Killing

Mass killing; I watched the News with horror about yet another rampage from a severely mentally ill young man. A father of one of the victims gave an emotionally charged interview and said, “When will this stop? When will we say enough is enough?” My answer to him was, “Probably never.” Welcome to the 21st Century, where mass killing has become almost commonplace; where we barely blink an eye when we hear; where once the dead are mourned, it becomes business as usual. It seems that every other week there is another mass killing. Then the News agencies have a field day, trying to come up with a motive, and rehashing it over and over. Yet, nothing changes, regarding gun laws or the available treatment for the mentally ill. I don’t know what the answer is because unless you can keep someone in a hospital for a period of time, against their will, they will not get the help they need. In this case, this 22 year old was a child of privilege, who had been receiving mental health care since age 8. But I know that unless someone is actually self-aware and admits that they are mentally ill (which most people will not) and is compliant, they will not take their meds, or even seek treatment, which is key. When someone is an adult, they are not obliged to continue their treatment and so often refuse and go off their meds. In all the recent cases of mass shootings, the news media always plays Monday morning quarterback, analyzing over and over how all the “warning signs” were missed. Then they all discuss how the mental health care system is broken, and needs to be fixed by identifying when someone is in trouble and potentially violent. But, since mental health care is a low priority in our society, violent people often fall through the cracks. The problem with the mental health care system is such that when a severely disturbed person is sent to the ER and “evaluated” by an overworked psychiatrist, the “red flags” are often missed because they are often very adept at “acting” their way out of staying. They know all the right words to say in order to appear “normal”, and voila, they are magically sent back out in the world. I know that if they don’t appear out of it, or disoriented, they will be released within an hour. It is a shame when a disturbed individual is a danger to themselves, but even worse when they are potentially violent. I know that deputies interviewed this young man and without real proper training or checking his house, deemed him not to be a threat. Yet, the fact that his parents were so alarmed to even call the police should have been reason enough to take him in. But, true to form, he put on the “act” and seemed contrite, polite, and even shy. It is a shame that family members’ hands are tied because of the HIPPA laws. Once your child is an adult, you may know for sure that he is in trouble, or even headed for a violent outburst, but you cannot do anything about it other than send the cops out, who are not trained in that capacity. I do know for sure that there is so much prejudice and misinformation out there, and maybe education is the answer. People equate violence with mental illness, when the fact remains that most mentally ill people are NOT violent and more often than not, they are the victims. The tragic fact remains that this young man, who had a powder keg working, fell through the cracks and 26 innocent lives were snuffed from this earth. However, I feel such sympathy for this young man’s parents who I know are totally devastated and probably did everything possible to help him. But, the problem is that you can only do so much for an adult child and anyone with a mentally ill loved one can relate to the anguish of his parents.

Acceptance

Acceptance and turning it over is never an easy thing to do, especially when it means losing “control” of a person, or situation you thought you had control over. In reality, the only thing I have control over is what I do. It is much harder to accept this when it involves a person you love dearly. But, I have to remind myself over and over that their logic and reality is not necessarily mine, and is often incomprehensible to me. I have been dealing with a situation that destroys my serenity, and no matter how much money, time and effort I pour into “fixing” this person, they never get fixed. This is beyond my control, and although I’ve said those words to myself, my heart still thinks I can solve this. If insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, than I am officially insane. Today I resolved to be strong, and not give in, no matter how intimidated, guilt ridden, sorrowful, and fearful I feel. What I will do is pray as never before and keep trying to let go and let God. I do not have control of outcomes and I cannot try to play God; all I can do is put out in the Universe, in positive ways, to please provide a light to lead this person to get the help they need.

Invisible People

Invisible people exist all over the world. My friend commented on my recent post about older women being invisible by noting this, although this is a different type of invisibility. When I was in Antigua, Guatemala, the narrow streets were lined with beggars, appearing to be either sleeping or motionless, with their bowls waiting for people to drop coins in. I even took pictures, all the while feeling guilty. Everybody would just literally walk over them. But it seemed their assigned “job” in life was “beggar”, and their job description included being as unobtrusive as possible. That is definitely not the case in Manhattan. When I worked there, I encountered the “invisible” every day, in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, the Subway, the street leading up to the bus terminal (40th and 8th). These areas have been “cleaned up” since the last time I was there, but I distinctly remember avoiding the urine soaked stench on one side of the street by moving to the other side. Before the cops cracked down on the homeless, you would be greeted each morning by society’s outcasts, hanging around right outside or even inside Port Authority, begging for money. Sometimes they would come up to you while you were on the line waiting for the bus to arrive, and we would just ignore them, pretending they were invisible. A day never passed that I was not approached in the Subway by a panhandler. Everybody on the train would virtually ignore them, staring right through them as if they were not even there. We all seemed to have an unwritten code that said, “Do not give money to the indigent”, but sometimes my heart would break for someone. I’ll never forget a dirty homeless young man who collapsed to his knees on the subway train, begging anyone to help him, while we all pretended he was not there. I don’t know how other people felt, but I SAW these “throwaway” people and always thought, “There for the grace of God go I” and knew it could happen to anyone, even me. I think the main culprit was drugs, alcohol, mental illness, or most likely, a combination. Where mental illness goes, so does addiction and alcoholism. Not all alcoholics are severely mentally ill, but the majority of homeless are mentally ill and abuse drugs or alcohol as a means of self-medication. I never would have thought that a loved one would fall victim to that exact same fate, but it happened, which shows it can affect anyone even if you feel you are immune. I hope that some of these people came back from the living dead, by getting the help they needed, but I will never know. More resources are needed for the mentally ill, but until we realize that this can and may touch your life, we will continue to see invisible people.

Gun Violence

Every time there is gun violence, and innocent people are killed, the police search for a “motive”. I always find myself yelling at the TV that there probably is no motive, at least one we can understand. If you speak to the shooter (if they are still alive) their explanation makes sense only to them. I’m not talking about a family dispute–I’m talking about random, mass killings of total strangers. In the case of the Sandy Hook shootings, I was just as horrified as the next person, and my heart ached for those beautiful children and their families, but I couldn’t help wonder what sort of grief and shame Adam Lanza’s family felt too. I do place lots of blame on his mother for making poor choices with her decision to buy him an assault weapon. When you hear that he had his windows blacked out and only communicated with Mom by email, I am sickened. I ask myself “why did she not get him help?”, and I don’t really know. Maybe she was doing the best she could, and maybe she did try over and over to get him hospitalized. That I do not know, and her decision to give her mentally disturbed son guns may have been her way to connect with him. Unfortunately that cost her her life as well as twenty-six innocent people. What I do know from my own experience is that it is amazingly difficult to get a loved one mental health care, no less hospitalized. It is a travesty that after entering a psychiatric unit, a patient is summarily dumped out in the street to fend for themselves, to wander homeless. The shrinks give them a cursory interview and if they are shrewd–like most paranoid schizophrenics are–and appear “normal”, they are released. This happens over and over. So, who’s to say that this woman did not try to get him help?

Mental Illness and Violence

It amazes me how really ignorant the average person is about mental illness. Unfortunately school shootings, mall shootings, movie theatre shootings, etc. has become the norm rather than the exception. The people who perpetrate the violence are most certainly mentally ill, but people don’t realize that the majority of mentally ill people are NOT violent. In the case of the movie theatre shooting in Aurora, Co, I knew immediately that James Holmes was most certainly suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, based on what he did and his overall dazed appearance. I am not condoning what he did, and my heart breaks for the victims, but I couldn’t help but feel sorrow for him as well–especially his parents. I can’t help but cringe when I hear the comments from bystanders that are frankly born out of shear ignorance. One woman commented that he could not have been mentally ill because of the elaborate planning that went into the ultimate shooting. They just don’t know that the hallmark of paranoid schizophrenia is the appearance of normalcy and the ability to carry out complicated plans. I know this first hand from my son. There are many different types of schizophrenia—some, where the person does appear disordered and unable to carry out basic life skills. But, paranoid schizophrenics often appear “normal” and unless you know them personally, you may miss the signs. Often their inner demons of persecution and their personal torture is well hidden, except during a psychotic break. Unfortunately, there is so much misinformation and prejudice concerning the mentally ill, that people are often characterized as “evil” when in reality they are suffering, running from non-existent enemies, fearing for their very life.

The State of Mental Health Care

When I go upstairs, and I open up the closet, I see pieces of my son’s life in his clothes, his shoes, his slippers. I venture into the small bathroom, and open the drawers, I see remnants of a dream and hope—-his shaving supplies, his toothbrush, soap. All these were left hastily when he ran from my home back in December 2011. When I go back into his room, I see pictures of happier times—-a framed picture of him with his son, Aaron, a bible. I still see snippets of a life that could have been but is now in shambles, thanks to mental illness. It is so easy to play the wishing, and “if only” game. “If only” this had happened or that had not happened, then all would be right with the world again. But, I quickly realize that I cannot turn the clock back to a particular time and preserve what sanity there was. I live in a treadmill world, where I am walking and walking, getting nowhere fast. It is a roller coaster where one minute things look promising and people are congratulating me (to which I say that I am cautiously optimistic) and next I have been catapulted back to the starting gate. It is hard to accept that this seems to be his life, and is now my life. I must separate myself from this nightmare and not think about this 24 hours a day. I read an article on line yesterday how the mental health system has improved in NJ. I beg to differ. It is a shame that a “civilized” country like the US can have such a deplorable mental health care system. Their idea of helping is to keep a patient for about a week or two, adjust their medications, and then dump (yes that is what it is) them out into the streets. They say they don’t want to release someone without a place to go but a homeless shelter does not, at least in my eyes, qualify as a suitable place. It seems that you cannot get your loved one into a group home without greasing someone’s palm. So, here I wait yet again, for some word from my son who was released (dumped) out with others two days ago. I have no idea where the hell he is. I called the two friends he has left, his father (who did hear from him, thankfully), but no contact via text or phone. I have repeatedly texted him to no avail. He has pulled this on me before and no matter how much I ask him to please not go missing on me and to please keep in touch, he still doesn’t seem to understand the torture he puts me through when he disappears. At this point, the most I can do is wait and pray and go about my business. I do believe in the power of prayers and hopefully they will pull him through. I must have a positive attitude and hope but sometimes I am hopeless. Hope is everything and when that is lost, everything is lost.