Women in recovery are so attractive

At the Empowerment Days in Madison there were women of all types including women I had known before and liked. Here I had just had my birthday and a disastrous  short relationship. Shouldn’t it be time to think about finding someone new? Who would understand me more than another woman in the same boat as me? We were talking and learning about ourselves and the struggles we faced.

And you know what? It didn’t happen because I never wanted to go there. In that three day struggle together for recovery I never asked one of them about going out together. However one of the most difficult struggles I have witnessed is people in recovery seeking relationships.

Recovery from anything. Mental health issues, alcohol, homelessness or even generic broken-ness. Everybody is recovering from something. At Grassroots Empowerment, you have the opportunity to recover from all of them.

I actually spoke with a young woman and an older man who were problems with one another. I decided that the problem was fairly basic: they didn’t like each other.  I didn’t like him, either. Since she was just barely older  than my great nieces and my great nephew, I decided I would listen before uttering the magic words: “you people don’t like each other.” Yes, it really is okay not to like other people, even co-workers. Because we’re all very different.

I told the woman I rode to Empowerment Days with “it’s not you, its me.”  I sounded like a character on “Seinfeld.” She was a Republican from Waukesha, for crying out loud. I am a Milwaukee oddball.

I’ve seen people pursue one another while risking everything. I know because I was once one of them. Today is a new day but I still see people behaving in their old ways. Like the song said, “when will they ever learn?” Wouldn’t it be wonderful to fight for a new life beyond what we are experiencing with the same or even greater determination that we use in going after relationships?

Related articles

• Schizophrenia: A Recovery (ladyprecious.wordpress.com)
• Stronger Empowerment Day (myfoxny.com)

The last Christmas at home

Among the things I packed into my suitcase for three days in Madison was the Christmas tie. my devoted readers (yes, you two in the front) will recall the stories I wrote inspired by my nephew John and his daughter Grace. Well a lot of the tangible Christmas  gifts I received were clothes. But one in particular stood out the most: a tie.

Now, peer support specialists aren’t usually called upon at work to wear ties. On the occasions when I wear my sport coats, people almost have orgasms. I figured that if I wore a tie, I would be wiping off santorum for days. And the dry cleaning costs would soar through the roof. Even on dates Ii only wore a sport coat once this year and the Christmas tie remained safely tucked away in the closet. When I went to the 19th Street coffeehouse for New Year’s Eve, I heard a wonderful song The First Christmas Away From Home. It seemed ironic thinking about that song at 60, many years away  from my family.

My wordpress links are going wild because they finally realized they have no idea what the hell I am talking about. The blog host sent me a message “we can’t send you any more articles to link to your blog because we’re afraid, actually, pretty well convinced, that you’re full of shit but we can’t admit that we do.” So they just suggested a bunch of random pictures of blacks and whites and said “click on one, asshole.” The host is so full of itself, tonight.

But meanwhile I had the problem of what to do with the tie that I had packed especially since I have the worst trouble tying one on. I even watched a youtube video about tying a tie. I always tied a tie by using a door handle. However, if you use cheap ties made out of synthetic material, it will still look like shit. That was why I handled the Christmas tie so delicately. It was a  decent brand and it needed the proper tie and place.

That turned out to be Monday and Tuesday at Empowerment Days. The tie made the outfits, kind of like Superman and his cape. I stood at the podium looking polished and cool and thinking “this is what I used to be like” and it was grand. Just imagine what might have happened if I had not gone home. I probably would have forgotten to wear my pants.

When Will the New York City Voices Return?

Several years ago I found out about a newspaper called the New York City Voices. The publication was founded by Ken Steele who was a mental health advocate. Steele, who was by that time deceased, had lived since the ago of 14 with diagnosis of schizophrenia. He was haunted by the impact of hearing voices from which he desperately sought relief. He also believed in the power of organizing to make changes in the mental health system. His story was detailed in his autobiography The Day the Voices Stopped.

The only voice that haunted me was my own, asking what had happened, what had I been thinking and where was I when I needed me the most. At the time I was rising in Vets Place Central, still reeling from the downward spiral my life had taken. So I sat down at a computer and wrote a story called The Long Walk Home, which reflected upon my fall from being an employed homeowner to volunteering with the Warmline.

At the Warmline I struggled to respond and listen to the concerns of others while I was taking aspirin to counteract symptoms of high blood pressure. I believe that people fall into crisis because they have become isolated and lack the resources to help themselves.

Thus, I had found  myself calling MacCannon Brown of Repairers of the Breach, a daytime shelter, about finding shelter for myself. I had not known about the free clinics where I could have sought assistance in obtaining medicine.I was too ashamed to call my family and ask for help so soon after they had helped me try to hold onto my house.

The one outlet that I had available to begin the work of grieving the past and seeking out the future was New York City Voices. Over a 2-3 year period I wrote stories from the veteran’s perspective. I evolved as the paper did changing editors. Last week, I was still reflecting  upon my recent success in obtaining certification as a peer specialist when I saw an article about the attempted resurrection of New York City Voices.

After being unable to find a google link to the voices website I wrote to the editor Dan Frey to ask what had happened. This week he replied that an effort was underway to restore the website. For the sake of irony, I should add that my new supervisor in my peer support position is a young woman who I met while volunteering at the Warmline.

What I have learned over the years is that no matter how bleak your situation my appear, never to panic. If we give in to the fear that stalks our nights, we will never survive to face the day. Carpe diem. That’s what Ken Steel did.

Related articles

• On the Road to Recovery, Some People Will be Left (kenyatta2009.wordpress.com)

My Mother was not The Help

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Image via Wikipedia

My mother is a small dark complexioned  woman who grew up in the Great Depression. I have always admired my mother but only in the last few years have I realized how remarkable she is and how much I love her. She was raised in a small poor town near Buffalo. She was part of a large extended family. When I visited her and my  sister for the holidays, one of the presents my sister requested was a copy of the movie The Help.

Viola Davis, who portrayed a maid in the movie was nominated for an Academy Award for her performance. She was inspired by her mother who used to be a maid and assisted in raising white children. In the “Upper South“, as we call the North, my mother was a nurse. She worked in nursing homes, a cancer treatment center and a county hospital. My mother is enjoying a well earned retirement and is part of my older sister’s support system.

She also set up several different small businesses. But my point in writing this is that my mother taught me that we were born to work and by working we could take care of ourselves and our families. I can bet you that nursing was not glamorous but my mother did it with pride. She helped her younger sister get into the field, as well. The fact is, my my mother was her family’s nurse, to her mother, her sisters and brothers and to her children. In November, she may be driving you or your family to the polls because she most definitely believed in voting.

My mother was not The Help. But something different. She inspired, cared, crafted, and saw patients recover. She has lived long enough to see her children attend college and even took some courses herself. But we may never see movies portraying the struggle of African-American nurses from the 50′s to the 90′s. Hollywood has not decided our stories are marketable. However we can relive those stories everyday as we teach our children, nephews, nieces and on down the line the importance of work.

For those whose parents were maids or other types of domestic workers, I say, hold your heads up high. We all stand upon the shoulders of those who came before us. To me, it’s no coincidence that I have always entered helping professions. I do not call myself The Help but I am a helper and it’s probably because my mother helped so many before me.

Related articles

• Viola Davis: ‘My Mother Has Yet To See’ ‘The Help’ (news.moviefone.com)
• Viola Davis: ‘The Help’ is too ‘painful’ for my mother to watch (thegrio.com)

Star Wars Fanon Wiki: Am was the official language of the inner culture of Am’sz, though they spoke Galactic Basic to outsiders. →

Testing, One, Two, Three

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Image via Wikipedia

I remember when state certification of peer specialists was originally proposed being very skeptical of the idea. Although career ladders existed in states like Arizona I was not certain how they would be implemented in Wisconsin. To complicate matters still further, there were people in Madison who were working as “outreach workers” who seemed like peer specialists. They were earning a livable wage.

In the discussions about recovery in Milwaukee those of us in the field looked at our wages compared to those available in other venues and asked, where’s the beef? If our work was so valuable, why was it so dependent on grants and not a service reimbursed by insurance? Insurance payments are the road to sustainability. If social workers, psychiatrists and nurses can get paid, so should we. Moreover, in the one setting where I worked as a team member with those other professionals, the results were less than thrilling. Changes in the program made me feel like I was there to cook and do laundry, not help people recover their strengths.

Slowly things have begun changing and certification has brought higher wages, so after initially resisting the call to take the state test, I finally signed up last week. I received my email to confirm the test time and location at IndependenceFirst where I completed an internship. I secured copies of the study guide and reviewed it thoroughly, making notes along the way. Unfortunately I was unable to attend a couple of study sessions due to conflicts with my work schedule. However the process has made me more conscious of my practice.

In my mind I am already an excellent peer specialist. I have the listening, leadership and empathy I would want if I was living in supported housing. There have been more jobs opening that specify certification is required. Those jobs have gone to people who completed their training after I did mine. In retrospect, I probably should have taken the test last year. But now is my time sitting here watching the cat on the long bench directly across from my computer. The stained glass window and the iron bars build to deter thieves are behind her.

I don’t play the piano on the other side of the room where an old picture of Miles Davis rests. My next door neighbors helped me Thursday when I had returned home with groceries only to discover I had left my keys at work. They allowed me to store my food in their refrigerator while I returned to the office.

The house next to theirs is a Catholic worker hospitality house with young mothers and their children. This is a neighborhood that feels like recovery. In the few weeks I have been here I have felt I completed my testing and now I am ready for the state to publish the results. Game on.

 

That’s So Gay: Embracing Our Lesbian and Gay Brothers and Sisters

The first time I ever heard about anyone being gay or lesbian was one of my cousins, Jeffrey, who moved to Toronto in the 1960s. My younger sister Karin was closer to Jeffrey than me and must have had some sense of empathy. My immediate family, which included my other siblings and my mother, was not as understanding about gays and lesbians. Unfortunately Jeffrey was  an early victim of AIDS.

My older sister always spoke of certain entertainers like the Hines brothers as being “funny” but I didn’t know what she was talking about. Later on I learned that it meant  she thought they were gay. My mother, who I have grown to love, has always been uncomfortable discussing sexuality.

So like most red-blooded American male baby boomers I decided to explore for myself. I decided that women were often cute and interesting and good listeners. Men, including me, were not as good at listening. As it happened, I had a lesbian relative when I was growing up. I spoke with my older sister, whose ideas had evolved over the years, and found that one of my favorite female relatives was a lesbian. She had recently died, which prompted the discussion.

In my political life I was part of groups that whole-heartedly supported gay and lesbian rights. It was the most natural thing to do. Over the years life changed. I almost started a fight in the army with a guy who I saw a few years  after I got discharged and he had a pro gay rights button at the rally where I saw him. I learned about the struggles of gays and lesbians in the service. I watched movies about gays and lesbians adopting and raising children. And I have seen gays and lesbians in the media, as politicians and as fathers and mothers.

I was on twitter cheering as my old home state of New York adopted marriage equality. I teared up watching the first couples taking their vows. It has been a million miles, seemingly from the Stonewall Rebellion and the Mattachine Society. My straight marriage ended, primarily due to my own mistakes, but not due to gays and lesbians enjoying their rights. I have come to understand there is no radical gay or lesbian agenda as some bigots would have us believe, but the simple belief in equality under law. It’s in the constitution and it should be in our hearts

 

On Dr. King day, let’s strive for a world where people enjoy the freedom to love, bear and raise children, and marry without interference from bigotry. It’s the next great civil rights hurdle to overcome.

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Things I Left Behnd in 2011

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Image by The Library of Congress via Flickr

It has been 2012 for damn near an hour in the Central Time zone and I thought I should take about my new series: things I left behind. Stuff that got too heavy to carry like, guilt, grown ass lazy sons and daughters, what  I used to be and the idea that I was anything less than magnificent.  Let’s make a list so you know I’m traveling light. Put on your intergalactic walking shoes because this will be a trip.

1. Depression. It entered my life during the 1960s and continued to pester me to different degrees until fairly recently. With depression my first impulse was to remain home, whether or not I had money. And when I was out trying to enjoy life, depression sat nearby watching and waiting for me to slip up.  as Simon and Garfunkle once said, “hello, darkness, my  old friend.”
2. Mind reading. I once heard about a book “It would be so nice if you weren’t here” by an actor named Charles Grodin and for some reason the title resonated with me. At some point I decided that people didn’t want me to see me and i found ways to start disappearing. The clues that I uncovered about not being wanted were very discreet but now I realize they were all  fabricated by low self-esteem. I’m here, world, deal with me.
3. Let me tell you what I was.  Oh, yes here he comes again, one of those yesterdays. In 2012 I am responsible for being ready for what lies ahead.
4. First Christmas Away From Home. Actually, it’s #30. I left Buffalo in 1981, having grown  up in the world of church basement coffee houses and protests. One of the things I savored was  hearing those  old folk tunes. Not surprisingly I sought out the same environment here in Milwaukee. Yesterday I went back to  the 19th Street coffeehouse where I heard a friend Sandy  Weisto sing First Christmas Away From Home. It was very meaningful and touching.

Christmas with Grace

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Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

Tomorrow morning I will be on the flight back to Milwaukee via Detroit. In the afternoon I will be seeing my cat and getting a lot of stern looks from her for my absence.  I hope that by next Christmas I will be living in a better environment and be able to hire a trainer to help her open a few cans of cat food by herself when she gets hungry.

But this message is about Christmas in Buffalo, a place my friends always associate with snow and bitter cold. As I sit here typing the sky is gray, the winds are calm and there are buds on the trees. Surely, you were all dreaming of a balmy Christmas.

Some years, Christmas has meant the end of relationships and sorrow. Dinners consisted of stone soup flavored with angry silence. Other years, the holiday was filled the hope and the beginning of a new job. This time around, it was filled with grace. There was my nephew John correcting a problem on on his mother’s  computer by writing three sentences about his love for his 2 1/2 year old daughter Grace. As she saw what he had written on the computer screen, she responded “I love you too, Daddy.” This girl may go from day care to high school.

I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of John and seeing the husband and father he has become. He was born the year that I graduated from Lafayette High School and his photos are on my Facebook and other pages. I saw John and his wife Jen facing issues together, I hugged them and Grace as they left and felt so glad we were part of the same family.

I enjoyed having my sister and mother fuss over me because that’s just part of what they do. We all fretted over the trials and tribulations of my nephews, cousins and my younger sister.  My future will be filled with more stories of the other people in my life. I am looking  forward to being the proud uncle, attending graduations and other celebrations. This Christmas has already begun receding into the past.

At our Christmas dinner I declined an invitation to say grace, because I am a secular person and have been so for many years. I find grace in every day life, not by thanking all powerful beings for our lives. This is the day, this is the one, wild and precious life we are given and I take time in word and deed to rejoice and be glad in it.

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I’d Rather Write Than Have Sex

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Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

I just spent the afternoon blogging, reading about emotional intelligence and anger management  and I feel great. Among the comments I made I said that the happiest moments of my life have been when I was writing and reading. I cannot remember a time when I was unable to read. One of my life challenges has been tearing myself away from my writing to be able to communicate with a partner.

I am one of those who awakens in the middle of the night thinking about something to write. We keep some kind of writing instrument available at all times. What better way to spend one’s time than learning about Dr. Albert Ellis? I studied him in school but I was frustrated by the way I learned about Dr. Ellis, Sigmund Freud, the bio-psychosocial model and almost anything else I learned about psychology. I really felt connected to certain ideas like person-centered thinking. And yet as an undergraduate I could not study these things in the depth that I desired.

That is why blogging and its connection to lifelong learning has been such a revelation. I can decide for myself what is or is not important. I can think about these ideas when I meet with peers. The words of famous or even obscure people are a click or two away. And best of all there is no cost.

I am fairly certain I will seek out a companion at some point next year, but she will have to share me with my true love, writing. Power  to the imagination!

Things My Family Taught Me

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Image via Wikipedia

I come from a beautiful and proud African-American family. My mother is the one who kept us together but for various reasons, including the economic changes in America in the 1970s and beyond we have split apart. I can remember a time of togetherness and the first Christmas in the first house my mother bought. When I recited this story about the first Christmas, I could not remember any presents she bought us that year. But the best thing was that she gave us a home.

I’ve been writing a lot about home recently these days. My family has been on my mind a lot too. The first thing was the song Grandma’s Hands. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qv5pagal-ls My Grandmother was not very wise, in fact she  was  barely educated at all. She married two different men, both of whom died before her. There was a very brief marriage to the first and the second was to a man who worked on the railroad. He was a drunkard but the fact he worked  on the railroad gave him a pension.

My Grandmother sat in church a lot and she had a lot of symptoms of mental illness- dementia, they called it. But my mother, being a nurse, wondered whether her mother was being over medicated. Once her meds were reduced, she could talk coherently and remember to go to the bathroom by herself. So the first lesson she taught me was about mental illness and medication. Not all mental illness is actually a mental illness.

The second lesson I learned from my grandmother was about seeing our elderly parents for who they are, not what we want out of them. I mentioned the railroad connection from my grandfather. Well, the railroad pension and social security made my grandmother a valuable person. And her daughters fought over who was best qualified to take care of her.

I think that after she was free of the dementia she lived a better quality of life. But the struggle with my aunt has always haunted my mother. It was one of those lessons I never wanted to learn. Imagine if my mother became incapacitated and I suddenly developed the desire to take care of her. She has retirement income. And what if I struggled with my sisters instead thinking about what would be best for our mother?

From my mother I learned many things. The value of hard work, for one thing. She worked well into her late 70s. And she never treated anyone differently based upon the color of their skin. She worked with people of any kind of skin color but she did not let patients abuse her.

My older sister taught me the value of standing up for myself. She was always there for her sons even as her body failed her as lupus set in. She and my my mother taught me to listen even when I sometimes didn’t feel I was being heard. This quality helps me in my role as a peer specialist. It’s difficult for me to put some fancy title on what I do, because a lot of the time it really is listening and giving people the space to feel that they are being heard.

After  reflecting upon the holiday that I just spent with my family I have some more thoughts and clarity  about  this subject.

1. My family did not raise me to be poor.  Nor was I in a poor household. This statement cuts a lot of different ways. we never wanted for anything.  We were never evicted or had the lights turned off. Quite the opposite, in fact. My mother took in her sister and her children after they were evicted. Our house was always warm because mom hated cold, drafty homes.

2. My family taught me to respect others’ opinions. They’re Christian, but I’m not. They have come to understand my boundaries. I was not grabbed by the scruff of the neck and taken to church.

3. We demonstrate our love by the things we do. I just told a young man (he’s 40 and I’m oh my gosh 60) at the barber shop just a few minutes ago that 75% of life is just  showing up.  And the other 25% is what we do when we’re there. We’re not highly demonstrative but I now that I am loved and how deeply I love them.

4. Family is the  beginning and the end. They are there when you emerge from the womb and their mark will be upon you as you are leaving this earth.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

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