My mother’s behavior changed. She seemed like somebody else …

 

 

 

“One day, my mother changed; suddenly, she seemed like somebody else, someone that I no longer knew,” Beth said.”There were no peaceful days at home any longer and I wished for one quiet day, at least. When I was a child, my mother showed me lots of love when Dad was at home, but as soon as he went to work, her whole manner changed. She was simply not the same person. When inheard my mother’s emotionless voice, It scared me because she did things she never did before. Her face had a different expression. She sounded worried, upset and … Different. Life became harder when I had to start doing things around the house and kitchen for my mom because I  became more mom than her.”

How a lawyer uses a subpoena in court ….

Lawyers use subpoenas in court to enable them to air private records. Some solicitors have built flourishing practices by issuing subpoenas in court and psychiatrists are actually handing out confidential records to the courts amidst threats of jail.

People who are mentally challenged have been unable to prevent details of their past sexual abuse or other childhood traumas from being aired in court.

My question is ; ‘where are the solicitors hearts? Is making money – lots of it – really more important than consideration for the feelings of others? What would they say if one of their relatives were on the stand? Would they behave the same way? I wonder.

People with borderline personality disorders, thoughts of suicide, or those who have experienced sexual abuse as children have stood in court and been made to hear their private lives detailed for all to hear. Is this the way for professionals to behave? One patient was heard to say; ‘Now my anxieties are more profound than ever before. Nobody asked me to give my permission for all this to be said in court. I had no control over the situation at all.’ I wonder whether any of us would like to be in that position;

How did my uncle die, mom?

“How did my uncle die, Mom?”

Surprised at the question, her mother replied; “Your uncle was very ill.”

But, when the young child persisted saying; “Tell me about his illness,”  her mother said: “When you are older, I will tell you more about it. And she did.”

After her daughter turned 12, her mother explained that her uncle had been ill with a mental illness, which had made him desperately unhappy, and in spite of all the treatment he’d received, nobody had been able to help him. So in desperation, and after suffering for many years, he had ended his life. It happens sometimes, you know, she said, putting her arms around the child. The child listened intently to her mother then turned to her and asked; “But how did he do that, Mum? How did he know what to do? And, did it hurt?”

Imagine a mother having to go into detail about a subject like that. Well, she kept it short and simple. The child’s uncle had died before she was born, so maybe because she never knew him, it was a bit easier for her to accept.

Not a single professional mental health provider had been able to pinpoint the right age to tell a child this kind of news but that child’s mother knew that it was better to tell the child herself before someone else did so unknowingly. I think it was the right decision, don’t you?i

If Only …

 

 

 Like the fields where I chased butterflies in my childhood, the mountain my husband loved to climb as a boy, or the beach where our children paddled and fished in tide pools, our house didn’t belong to me nearly as much as I belonged to it. I worked hard in the garden even though the roots of the eucalyptus trees bordering our property drank the water greedily; much faster than I could water it – leaving little to nourish the grass and plants.

Does a house have eyes and ears? If only it could tell me more about what it had witnessed. But maybe that depends on how often I ask that question and how much I am willing to hear.

I am an early riser, so I often sat on the landing which was sufficiently large to house me and our black Belgium Shepherd, Bonnie. I remembered how we had sat together for half an hour or so some mornings, me in my pajamas, the dog warming my feet as we huddled together under a rug to ward off the morning chill. Just before we moved, when our children were grown up, I sat there once again, without my dog this time, and replayed the past in my head.

I returned to the time when my three children were getting ready for school, rushing about noisily, dressing fast, lugging their heavy schoolbags and eating breakfast on the run. The house, like my heart, was filled with thoughts of my lovely, happy family.

In the stillness on the stairs, it was as if I could hear them all over again. I remember weekends when they were singing, listening to loud music, talking and giggling. I could hear the thud of footsteps in the bedrooms above me, showers running, toilets flushing, phones ringing, doors banging, voices rising and falling like wind through the trees. I heard lots of laughter filling the rooms and overflowing into a thousand empty spaces.

This house held countless memories from other times; times of want and times of plenty, good times, bad times, happy times as well as sad times. Our house was a memory bank that my late husband and I had invested in, beginning in the days when our children were young, hoping for a good return someday when we grew older.

But, when my husband became ill, we needed to leave our house as well as its memories. After packing up, it was time to go.  I decided not to glance back at the house and to try and remember the good things only. And we drove away to the much smaller apartment we had purchased; one that I’d chosen in fifteen minutes, less time than my husband would have taken to choose tomatoes in the supermarket. The new apartment now rings with the sound of our grandchildren’s voices. If only our son, Doron were still here with us. Now it is time to make sure that all of our grandchildren know why and how he died. The older ones know, of course but, how does one tell the young ones?

SERENADE2SENIORS – Sharpening our memories

SERENADE2SENIORS

Sharpening our memories

SUDOKU

As you might know, I am a blogging grandma and like most of the other seniors around me, I tend to forget things as well as lose or mislay at least one item a day, which usually turns up in the most surprising of places. The following anonymous words that I found at the bottom of an article I’d read, got me thinking:

Forgetting where you parked your car, can happen to anyone. But, forgetting what your car looks like, may be cause for concern!

So, I started collecting tips for sharpening my memory and this is what I came up with:-

I try to recall the location of as many objects in my house as I possibly can as well as where they are located.

I endeavor to learn something new every day if possible but concentrate while doing so.

I make a point of trying to remember people’s names after the first introduction and avoid distractions while thinking about them.

I make an effort NOT TO MULTI-TASK which is something women do far more than men but I have to admit that here, I fail dismally as I am always in a hurry. Why? I suppose because I always plan to do so much.

I packed away my calculator and removed the calculator on my smartphone in order to use my head. I knew that I was capable of doing so but using new mod cons seemed easier.

I saw so many people doing SUDOKU but I never got very far with them. So, I chose to do CROSSWORD PUZZLES instead.

I make sure that I have sufficient sleep. For someone who is unable to do so, napping during the day might be helpful.

I eat healthy food as far as  possible but, of course I binge occasionally. On what? On white chocolate of course.

I endeavor to take a short walk at least every second day too.

Some of these points might be well-worth trying.

                                                                                                           

 

Will she still love me when she finds out?

Will I ever have a girlfriend? I am so depressed, unable to even extend the hand of friendship. The social worker tells me the benefits of socializing rather than sitting alone at home listening to music. It’s lonely, yes, but better than having to face people at work. But, maybe she’s right. When I have the guts to talk about my mental illness, will people stand by me? One of their feelings on this subject is probably fear … you know what I mean? Can a person who has not been mentally challenged really understand me – understand what I feel, what I do, how I pass the time? And, if I ever have a serious relationship with a woman, when will it be the right time to tell my her that I am not well … that sometimes I have good periods, but most of the time my meds don’t help banish the voices that clamor and vie with one another to get my attention. Will she love me when she finds out? All I want out of life is an interesting job, a woman to love, and peace of mind.

• Unfortunately, my son Doron, never lived to see that day. We found many poems and a great deal of writing in his notebook after he died. That was many years ago. I wrote an honest account of our story in my book entitled ‘David’s Story by Jill Sadowsky’ which can be found on the Amazon Kindle Store or on Smash Words.

I Opened a Book by Julia Donaldson

A417YK Open Book cut out on white background

  I woke up feeling so down, so desperate from wondering how we would ever overcome even some of the hurdles thrown at us by schizophrenia. So I went for a walk which didn’t help. I drove down to the beach and listened to the waves crashing against the rocks, but there was no solace there either. Eventually, I drove home slowly and when I arrived, picked up the book I’d wanted to read for a long time, found a quiet corner in our garden and started reading. 

This is what was written under the title on the first page:

 ‘I opened a book and in I strode. Now everyone can find me. I’ve left my chair, my house, my road, my town, and my world behind me. I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring, I’ve swallowed the magic potion. I’ve fought with a dragon, dined with a king and dived in a bottomless ocean. I opened a book and made some friends. I shared their tears and laughter. I followed their road with its bumps and bends to the happily ever after. I finished my book and out I came, the cloak can no longer hide me. My chair and my house are just the same, But, I have a book inside me.’                               

                                          By Julia Donaldson.

 

I only have a picture now …

 

 

 

 

 

D

O

R

O

N

I only.have a picture now

A frozen piece of time

To remind me how it was

When you were here and fine.

I see your smiling eyes

Each morning when I wake.

I talk to you and place a kiss

Upon your handsome face.

How much I miss your being here

I really cannot say.

The ache is deep inside my heart

And never goes away.

 

CALL A SPADE A SPADE PLEASE

 

My name is NOT Mentally ill. Some people called my son Mentally ill, Crazy or Cuckoo.  We always called him by his name, Doron.

Why can’t people call a mental illness by its name? We don’t say; ‘She has a bad case of physical illness,’ now do we? No. we might say; ‘She has a bad case of the flu,’ or, ‘she is ill with diabetes.’ How about calling a spade a spade and using the word schizophrenia, depression or bipolar illness?

STIGMA spreads fear. STIGMA spreads misinformation. STIGMA labels people and perpetuates stereotypes.

We need education instead of discrimination.  YES, psychiatric hospitals are still manifestations of discrimination. Should we get rid of them?  Should we get rid of some of them – or all of them? No. we need them but they should be hospitals like any other. We need to make STIGMA visible. Due to the digital age we live in, young people can share their personal stories on various social media very easily which can be meaningful.  I heard a person with a mental illness once say:

 ‘Make no decisions about us, without us please.’

 

 

 

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW

 

 

Somewhere Over the Rainbow was once my favorite song but, my dreams of that life are now in the past … so, instead of dreaming of a life over the rainbow, I’ve learned to enjoy the rainbows in my life. Once, while paging through a book, I came across something written by Emily Dickinson which continues to pop into my mind, so, on the spur of the moment, I decided to follow her advice. I think her meaningful words were what started me on my blogging career – blogs about people in trouble that reach many troubled souls in countries far and wide; people in REAL trouble, people whose countries might be at war and who don’t have access to mental health information who need to know that somewhere, someone cares about them sufficiently to read their heartbreaking pleas and give them the benefit of the knowledge I gained while living with my son’s paranoid schizophrenia for so many years. I make quite sure that every one of them know that I am only a mother and a grandmother – a blogging grandmother in fact, and NOT a psychiatric professional  who speaks openly about my experiences with mental illness in my own family.

‘If I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain. If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin Into his nest again, I shall not live in vain.’

by Emily Dickinson

 Click on the link below and listen to Somewhere Over the Rainbow, a lovely way to start the day.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MndLRdPsuJE