If a Crazy Person Falls in the Woods and No-One’s Around, Do They Make A Sound?

The other day in the car with a family member, we were having a discussion about how hard it is to access adequate healthcare (specifically pain treatment) when you are mentally ill.

“Is it?” they said.

“I’ve seen it happen countless times with other people I know, and it certainly has been for me,” I said.

They looked at me with confusion. “But you’re not mentally ill?”

I was gobsmacked.

I asked them what they meant, since they knew I was being treated for bipolar, and they said, “But you’re not crazy crazy.”

It’s a weird thing that family and friends do — even if they can bring themselves to acknowledge your diagnosis, they still don’t lump you in with (what they imagine to be) the raving lunatics who get locked away in mental wards. The thing is, not everyone who is mentally ill ‘looks’ like a raving lunatic. But some do. And some people can be both of those things. The point is, you do us a disservice by trying to candy-coat our disorders.

It’s not that I want to come down too harshly on the people that support us, the mentally ill. A huge number of people in our lives (possibly the majority) will turn around and walk away because they simply can’t handle being around someone who is mentally ill. Maybe because all they see is the stereotype of the maniac. So the last thing I want to do is alienate those who can see past their own fears and are game to stick it out.

But you also don’t get a free pass for your ‘altruism.’ I mean, when it comes down to it, caring for and about your family members or best friends should just be a normal thing that you do. The fact that they suffer from mental illness is certainly a challenge, but we all come with our own bits of baggage and as long as your mentally ill friend is a putting work into the friendship too, the fact that they are mentally ill shouldn’t be something they need to constantly apologize for.

If you are going to support someone who has mental illness, you need to acknowledge all of their parts. Glossing over their illness or pretending it’s not really there isn’t helping them.

show my crazyThis whole business of playing down people’s mental or physical disabilities seems to be something that is culturally ingrained. Parents play down illness when kids complain because they think they’re just doing it for attention. Doctors play down symptoms and refuse to apply labels because they are convinced that it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy and patients will develop somatic complaints or hypochondriasis (the nocebo effect). But this can have a devastating effect on people with genuine complaints who end up feeling like no one believes them, which in turn can lead to self-harm and avoiding much-needed medical attention.

When you care about someone, avoiding using labels or acknowledging their mental illness feels like you’re being kind. Certainly the last thing you want to do is to bring it up every time they behave erratically or use it as a weapon in arguments. You can’t blame everything that someone does on their illness. So it might seem like the kind thing is to avoid the label entirely, to prove that you see the person beyond the illness.

The problem with acting like their illness doesn’t count or that they are some special case is that it a) is not recognizing the whole person, b) suggests that you think that part of them is somehow unacceptable, c) makes it extra hard for them to get help or talk to you about their illness.

In terms of c), getting help can be in big ways or little ways. It can mean that they feel safe calling you when they need help getting to the hospital, or it can just mean that they feel safe telling you that they can’t meet up today because they feel extra anxious. It is really hard maintaining friendships when you have bipolar and anxiety, for example, for the simple fact that you end up having to cancel or reschedule plans based on your mood. If you are someone I feel I can trust I would simply explain what my issues are that day and reschedule. If you are someone I don’t trust with my mental illness, I just might not make plans at all, for fear of disappointing you or having to deal with uncomfortable questions.

There is a growing trend for public acceptance of mental illness (depression specifically), with lots of public campaigns to increase ‘awareness.’ I remain slightly skeptical about such campaigns, mostly because what I see is a lot of people sharing memes and pre-scripted platitudes with very little actual one-on-one support of people in need. It seems to me that we’ve traded the public erasure of mentally ill people for public awareness and private erasure. Now when people try to speak up about their mental illness, other people pipe up with “well I have depression too, so you’re not special.” It’s great that more people are coming forward with their own struggles, but the last thing that should be allowed to happen is for it to result in a watering down of the significance of mental illness. That more people are experiencing mental disturbances should not make it less significant. It should make it even more apparent that it is an important issue.

It is crucial that we do not create a further hierarchy or caste system of mental illness (depression, anxiety and bipolar are treated in a much more favourable way than schizophrenia or Tourette’s, for example), and playing down someone’s illness as if it is not ‘one of the bad ones’ or ‘doesn’t count,’ hurts not only them, but the mentally ill community at large.

/rk

Advertisements

New Book!

I’m pleased to announce the soft launch of my latest book, “I’Mmoral: Poems for Unrepentant Sinners and Free Thinkers.” For the time being, the eBook is available only on lulu.com, but is being rolled out for distribution through Amazon, Kobo, NOOK, and more. Once I have approved the proofs of the paperback version, I will advise where those can be purchased as well.

cropped-immoral-image.jpegSummary: What would the war cry of a mostly introverted, mentally ill, autistic, genderqueer, physically disabled, feminist, atheist, polyamorous woman sound like? A lot like this. Using a combination of essay and free-form poetry, R.K. confronts the status quo and dissects it, inspecting its parts and discarding the bad bits. In spite of tackling some obviously serious and controversial topics, such as abortion and the anti-vaccination movement, she approaches her subjects with humour and then slaughters them with equal parts derision and kindness.

Price (eBook): $2.99 / Click here to view/buy

Thanks very much for your support!

/rk

You Probably Think This Memoir’s About You

Writing memoir doesn’t come without fallout of one kind or another. I write about myself and my feelings and experiences. And I get a lot of good feedback from objective sources for doing so. People relate to it and thank me for putting into words the things they’ve held back or buried over time. Because it’s easier, sometimes, recognizing yourself in someone else’s story when giving voice to your own can be so painful and feel so risky.

Why risky? Because when you write about your life, other people are featured in the story, and our instinct is to keep private things private.

Well, let’s not be disingenuous here — for those of us among the emotionally wounded, the PTSD sufferers, the mentally ill — privacy has usually been drilled into us from a young age. It’s that stifling environment, where expressions of discord or discussions of fears or ‘working on relationships’, were either not the status quo or were entirely verboten that helped to pack up all that emotional baggage and lock it away.

IMG_0553Memoir writing is cathartic. I mean, that’s the appeal, right? That’s what drives the writer to write; to un-cork the bottle and spill out its contents, while hopefully painting them with a careful brush into something that inspires or resonates with the audience.

But it takes courage to air your dirty laundry out for the world to see. Not so much because of the fear of letting people inside, or because you open yourself up to judgement — strangers knowing your business is actually less intimidating than you might expect — but because the ghosts from your past often aren’t content to stay ghosts.

“Men’s memoirs are about answers; women’s memoirs are about questions. Most male authors want to look good in their memoirs and have a place in posterity, while most women know that posterity is what happens when you no longer care. Women want to connect with others here and now; they couldn’t care less about legacy!” — Isabel Allende

Memoir writing tends to be (for me) a lot about emotional processing. Certainly at its root, a memoir needs to contain an event or series of events, whether unique or uniquely told, but it’s the emotional connection that differentiates memoir from autobiography. Which is not to say that memoirs aren’t based in fact; but those facts are tempered by perspective. Does this make the author an unreliable narrator? Maybe. But I would argue that reliability of the facts isn’t the most important goal: honesty of intent is.

My mantras for memoir writing are as follows:

  1. Make it YOUR story.
  2. Be honest.
  3. Be fair.

That’s it. As for as making it your story, it’s crucial to remember that the other players are really there to serve a purpose: as tools to tell your story. As such, the basis for their inclusion should always be as a means to move the story forward and/or to allow the reader to learn more about you.

“I think most memoirs, though they purport to be about this particular time or this person you met, are really about the effect that person or time had on you.” — Rosemary Mahoney

That’s not to say they don’t have value as human beings! Of course they do; but we’re talking about story-writing here, and these people probably didn’t consent or want to be written about. But I believe fundamentally that as long as I stick to the rules/mantras, I have a right to re-tell my life. Because who else has a right to tell my story if not me?

Honesty is one of those things you will undoubtedly be challenged on. In disseminating life events for my readers I ultimately let them decide for themselves: When I have objective facts or markers, I say so; when I am making assumptions or interpretations, I say so; and I temper everything with reminders that my recollections are subjective at best. That’s the nature of the beast. My reality may not be the reality, but it is mine. About that there is no deception.

As for fairness, the things above are part of that, but it’s also about representing all the players in a balanced way. I try to keep #1 in mind in the retelling of every interaction. I keep it about me. And I don’t mean that in an egotistical way, but rather that the goal isn’t to tell anyone else’s truth — it’s about telling your own. And doing that fairly means a) being honest about what you know, b) being truthful about what actually happened, c) being honest about what you don’t know, d) being honest about perspective and how that influences your recollection, and e) acknowledging that the people around you are human and are going through their own shit.

That last one is pretty important. If you feel it’s necessary to represent someone else on paper in order to tell your story, you have a responsibility to treat them like a multi-faceted, fallible human being. You need to cut them some slack. Even if they hurt you or did a crummy thing, you need to avoid crucifying them. For one thing, it’s pretty doubtful that anyone is 100% evil.  Or even evil at all. I’m damaged and I’ve hurt people because of that. Ergo the people who’ve hurt me were probably hurt themselves.

If you’re going to tell about the bad things a person did to you, you have to also tell about the good things. If you don’t, you’re a shitty person; because that’s not fair. You’re also a shitty writer; because this isn’t a fairy tale where  you’re the hero and everyone else is the bad guy. Which is why, to be fair, you need to lay out your demons as well. Because what is the point of writing memoir over fiction if you’re not going to at least try to be honest?

Unfortunately, whether you’re ethical about it or not, people probably aren’t going to thank you for writing about them. So why do it? Why put yourself out there and open yourself up to criticism or recrimination from the people from your past?

For me, there are a few different motivations. Firstly I should point out that writing about my relationships was a last resort. When you try for years to mend fences (or at least try to figure out why they’re broken) and you continually run up against a brick wall, it’s not very satisfying emotionally. Those feelings need to go somewhere. I needed resolution and I wasn’t getting any. Also, it was about breaking unhealthy patterns: I grew up in a family where a) we didn’t talk about our emotions and b) because I was mentally ill, a lot of the conflict was blamed on my mental instability. Those two in combination do a number on your self-esteem.

Memoir isn’t the only writing I’ve done. I’ve written a novel and a book of poetry, and there are other books in progress. But it’s the stories of my past that keep forcing their way to the surface. I can’t move on until those are dealt with and filed away.

Which explains my need to write and to process, but why make things public?

Well… I’m a writer, not a diarist. It’s what I do and has always felt essential to my existence (emo but also true), and a crucial part of being a writer is the interaction between writer and reader. I also really truly believe that I have a responsibility to speak up and out because not everyone feels similarly able. For those who for whatever reason, be it personal or professional, can’t face the risk of exposing themselves, it’s important that there are beacons of light that shine in the darkness to let them know that they’re not alone. When you’ve suffered abuse or neglect, when you’ve suffered depression or loneliness, it helps to know that you’re not alone.

Sharing stories has long been society’s collective coping mechanism. We feel an inherent need to connect and understand. Sharing experiences helps us heal emotionally, and when we read about the experiences of others, it gives us insight into our own.

So I’ll keep writing about my life, even if it risks alienating the people from my past. Because the reality is that those people removed themselves from my life long before I started writing, and holding up the writing as the reason is dishonest and re-writing history.

Re-writing history isn’t what I intend to do. I want to write about it, attempt to understand it, and then tuck it away where it can’t hurt me anymore.

/rk

Support me on Patreon

patreonWriting this last year has been a challenge while I adjusted to new health issues. But as I come through to the other side I feel a new surge of creative energy flowing through me and I’m excited to complete all the projects that had to be put on hold while my body and mind were being insufferably annoying.

This is where I could use your help, though. I need your support! Self-publishing means I don’t get paid to write. Being disabled means I don’t get paid much of anything, period.

It’s more than financial support I’m looking for — pledging me and becoming a patron, even in a small token amount, let’s me know that I have supporters. I cannot overstate how important that is to the creative process.

If you’ll take a few minutes to go to my Patreon page, read my spiel and consider pledging, I will be the most appreciative of artists. (Click here for more info on Patreon and how it works.)

Can I write without this type of support? Probably. But I can write more (and better and more confidently) knowing I have backers and fans who want to see my efforts shared with the world.

Thank you!

/rk

Insane, Got No Brain

Insanity is inconvenient.

There is this impression which ‘normal’ people have that insanity is somehow a result of personal deficiency.  As if somehow having your shit together can prevent it from sneaking up on you.  That having money or friends or a good family will offer some sort of protective barrier.

It certainly seems that way, right?  Because the really crazy people you know are separated from family.  They’re destitute.  They’re those lunatics on the street, mumbling under their breath and yelling at no-one and everyone.

It doesn’t occur to them that many of ‘those people’ might have had all of those things.  It’s simply that insanity pushes those things away.  It pushes them away and takes you away and discards you.

It is really hard to form connections with people when you are mentally ill.  Doing that requires opening up.  Not just opening up and revealing who you are inside (which in itself is terrifying), but opening yourself to damage from the outside.  Because other people are dangerous, even if that isn’t their intention.  When you are mentally ill, your wrongbrain tries to steer how those interactions are going to go.  It sabotages.  It distracts.  It exhausts.

~~~~~~~~~~

About a year ago I started feeling things that weren’t there.  Burning sensations.  Popping sensations.  Vibrations, numbness and even feeling moisture on my leg when I could clearly see there wasn’t anything there.

I was diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy, caused by my diabetes.  Unfortunate, but normal.  Normal to feel things that aren’t there.

~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve been having auditory hallucinations.  This isn’t new.  I’ve had them to some degree on-and-off since I was a child and it’s probably why I was originally thought to have ADD.  I could sit for hours, staring off into space.  I remember performing really well on tests (at the gifted level), but struggling to focus while I pushed the sounds and images out of my head.

Hearing sounds that aren’t there means you’re crazy.  Not normal to hear things that aren’t there.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Wshhhhh shhhhhhhh whisper shhhhh wuhhhhh shhhhh

Why? Shhhhh whisper why shhhh no no oh shhhh

Sounds filling my head in a quiet room is not quite so bad.  But it wears on me.

Stick me in a room with other people, all competing to be heard, and the sounds in my head do battle.  I can’t focus.  I can’t keep track of my spot in the conversation.  I can’t sing in the choir when there are two voices; the one that comes of my mouth and the one I hear in my ears.  It’s wrong.  All wrong.

I know that I can’t trust myself to be with people when I start to see them as antagonists.  I feel the stares.  I hear whispers and can’t tell if they are from inside my head or behind my back.  People’s looks feel aggressive.  Their words feel dismissive.  I don’t want to be around friends because I don’t want my brain to tell me lies about them.  It’s easier to hide where the voices can lie, but at least my eyes don’t confirm my suspicions.

But I can’t hide completely.  What do you do when your lover reaches to kiss your hand and the nerves endings in your skin send your brain a message of burning and your brain answers back with a mental image of melting, sloughing skin?

~~~~~~~~~~~

My body is sending my brain the wrong signals.  My brain is sending my body the wrong signals.  Those two things should be the same and reasonable.  But I don’t kid myself that they are.

On a drive to the doctor’s with my mother, we make casual conversation.  “Do you miss your car?” she says.

“Once the neuropathy and the muscle spasms got bad I didn’t feel it was safe to drive.”

“Ah.” she says. “Good point.”

“I also kept finding myself thinking about driving into oncoming traffic.  I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

She says nothing and just presses her lips tightly together and keeps driving.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Insanity says “fuck your schedule”.

Insanity says “you’ll never achieve anything”.

Insanity says “I decide”.

/rk

A Writer Writes

Except for when they don’t.

TWENTY THINGS I DID LAST MONTH INSTEAD OF WRITING

I’ve often said that even when I’m not writing things on paper or online, I’m still actively a writer because I am concocting stories in my head. It’s always been part of my process to mull things over for a while (sometimes a very long while) in the safety of my mind before I birth them fully-formed onto the page.

But in June I didn’t write. Not even in secrecy behind the shroud of my subconscious. I was a blank slate. And my feelings about this alternated between apathy and frustration. But mostly apathy, if I’m honest. I became rather resigned to it.

What I did instead:

1. I moved downtown. I made a bit of a disastrous decision to move out of town last year, for all the right reasons. It didn’t stick. Luckily it was fixable, but not without considerable upheaval for my loved ones. It helps that we moved to one of the most vibrant neighbourhoods ever.

2. I unpacked. In like, 48 hours. I really like our new place and I couldn’t wait to feel settled after feeling out-of-place for so long.

Leading up to our move, I had rapidly devolved into a useless lump who crawled into bed and refused to come out. I barely packed. I barely did anything. Some of this was due to physical pain, but I think it was mostly emotional. The stress of having to move and pack became this insurmountable challenge and each time I tried to fight inertia, I had a meltdown. If this infuriated my husband, he didn’t show it. I think he was just really, really concerned I was having (another) nervous breakdown. Or possibly was too busy packing to properly have time to deal with his own feelings of frustration. Either way, it wasn’t exactly a good time for either of us.

But then, with moving done, I unpacked everything. My stuff, everyone else’s stuff, all the stuff. And it was a relief. I still don’t feel perfectly settled, because there remains some art at our old house that needs to come over, but I feel more… me.

3. I stopped taking my bipolar meds.

MarketFoodMedley

4. I bought fresh produce. One of the best parts of living less than 10 minutes’ walk to a historic marketplace. Truly. I don’t even know whether the quality of the food is better… but the experience is lovely. I like strolling along outside in the open air and the fact that there are different choices every week. Grocery shopping usually bores me. This doesn’t.5. I thought about drinking.

6. I baked a lot of bread. I’ve owned a breadmaker for many years, but it had been stored away, unused for a long while. I dug it out and tried to get back in the groove of things, with initially disastrous results. First I used the wrong kind of yeast (which was a rookie mistake, and made me feel pretty stupid). Then I followed my old favourite recipe and the bread didn’t mix properly. Then I followed the same recipe, but added some water to the mix and mixed it by hand. That worked, but the bread was edible but not amazing and I was still frustrated at having to hand mix something that was supposed to be an automated process. I then tried adding a bit more water from the beginning and bingo! It finally worked. And was delicious.

The whole process annoyed the hell out of me, because my memories of making bread previously were that I was flawless at it, and I had very little tolerance for my newly discovered failures. It probably helped that my husband insisted that it was all delicious, and kept eating it… even the bits that I wanted to throw out.

7. I argued with people on Facebook. And Huffington Post. And the Ottawa Citizen. Less so face-to face.

8. I struggled with arthritis pain.

9. I bought a bench for the shower so a) I can sit down when I’m too weak to stand, and b) I don’t fall over and break my bones.

9. I craved tequila and Coke.

compotecollage

10. I made compote. I cannot explain the unreasonably huge feeling of accomplishment I experienced over this mundane achievement. Maybe it’s because it is the closest I have ever come to making jam on my own. Maybe it’s because I discovered a jam substitute which I can make without added sugar (something I’m supposed to care about as a diabetic, but usually fail at). Husband and child also loved it, which probably had something to do with said feeling. I mean, I would have gladly eaten it all myself, but I am a recognition junkie. Apparently.11. I started losing vision in my left eye. First I started seeing a lot of spots in both eyes. Then one night after being out with friends, I came home and suddenly found myself with a blurry splotch in my field of vision on the left side of my left eye. It would make sense, given my various immune disorders, that this was optic neuritis, or retinal detachment, or any number of things. I have since been to the ER and to an ophthalmologist, but they can’t find anything physically wrong. I have been referred for more tests.

12. I shaved my head. Not the whole thing, just the sides. Arthritis in my shoulders is making it harder to deal with styling my hair and I am rapidly getting more and more impatient with hair brushing against my face and neck. I also made the decision a while back to stop dyeing my hair and the whole process of ‘waiting’ for my grey to come in is going entirely too slowly.

13. Two weeks later, I cut most of the rest of my hair off, too.

bakingcollage14. I baked all the things.

15. I saw a bunch of plays at the Ottawa Fringe Festival. No acting for me this year, but I volunteered for a few shifts with my husband. With my physical health being so unpredictable, this was a scary commitment, but having him do it with me helped make it go fairly smoothly. I had to use my cane a lot, which always makes me feel self-conscious, but ultimately I enjoyed myself and it was good to be doing something theatre-related, (especially when my own acting future seems somewhat uncertain right now). Volunteering has its perqs (besides free theatre) and we also got free pizza from ZaZaZa and free poutine from Smoke’s Poutinerie. By the end of 10 days, I was exhausted, but well-fed.

16. I wondered if my eye problems were in my mind. The spots haven’t gone away. But they get better and worse. Maybe they’re in my imagination. Maybe they’re bipolar hallucinations. I don’t know what to do with that information.

17. I bought some brightly-coloured pillows for our black couch. I like them. They please me.

photo

18. I cooked a lot. I think I’ve always been a pretty good cook. But in the last few years my energy and ability to cook has been pretty erratic. Somehow the combination of fresh local ingredients and a gorgeous new kitchen has spurred me on to create. And perhaps create is the key word here — ever since my illness has made acting next-to-impossible (and with my ability to write on hiatus), I have really felt a rather excruciating loss of identity. Food has become my canvas. Which is great, really. I’m eating better. I’m feeding my family. I just worry that like most of my obsessions, this one will only last a few months before I completely lose interest again.

Or maybe it won’t. There is a constant stream of new and interesting ingredients flooding the market. At least until winter. Maybe then we’ll be back to tv dinners and takeout. I hope not.

19. I felt guilty for making everyone move. They’re happy to be here. They’ve said so. It’s a fantastic neighbourhood. We have had beautiful walks, eaten at great restaurants, met some lovely neighbours, watched fireworks on Canada Day (a 10 minute walk from the house!), and played games at the local board game lounge. But I still feel guilty.

20. I broke my toe. It hurt like hell. It still hurts on-and-off and is swollen and a sort of grey colour. Walking on it causes a purple bruise to spread on the underside of the toe and the top of my foot. It is remarkable how much one little toe can cause discomfort while walking. So I’ve been mostly stuck at home for the last few days. Whenever I venture out, it makes it worse. I try to sit with my feet up on the coffee table, but then it aches. I try to sit with it on the floor, but it aches.

So I gave up and crawled into bed.

And started writing.

/rk

(originally posted at http://medium.com/human-parts/a-writer-writes-except-for-when-they-dont-76a82f6c3331)

#DyingnotDying

I’m dying.  I mean, faster than some and slower than others, but it’s not going to happen in the next 10 minutes.  Probably.  But we’re all dying, aren’t we?  So how exactly, if you are occasionally prone to morbid delusion, do you reconcile that?

I’ve had a few actual brushes with death, which doesn’t help dismiss the notion.  When your body is in a real and actual degenerative state with various organs telling you to go fuck yourself, it’s hard to ignore the steady decline towards what seems like an inevitable conclusion.  And migraines — sweet Jesus — when it feels like your eyeball is going to explode out of your head it is easy to imagine that a stroke is not only possible, but imminent.

IMG_0146I’m not sure where this started.  It pre-dates my actually being sick, I think.  As a child I suffered two things:  chronic nosebleeds and headaches.  (I say headaches, because I don’t think they were migraines back then, but getting regular headaches were still a bit of an anomaly, in that other kids didn’t seem to get them except when they were sick.)  The nosebleeds were presumably benign, but blood is scary.  Even more scary was the fact that I’d often get them in my sleep, so I’d wake up to a bloody pillowcase.  If that doesn’t convince a six-year-old with an active imagination that she’s dying, I don’t know what would.

Fast forward several years and there was more blood, this time in the toilet.  Yes, gross.  Yes, embarrassing.  Yes, I didn’t tell anyone about it for years out of said embarrassing grossness and instead just waited to silently die from a bowel perforation.

Thankfully I did eventually seek treatment, but not before my fatalistic (although at this point not entirely unjustified) delusion was fully entrenched.

This is where you will tell me that imagining that I am dying is what makes me sick.

Ok.

Now I’m imagining that I am dying because I am imagining that I am dying.

So thanks for that added layer of guilt.

See, this is the problem with delusion and obsessive thoughts.  If I could stop myself from ruminating, I wouldn’t be mentally ill.  It’s not that I don’t know much of it is nonsense — or at least that it serves no purpose to obsess over my mortality other than to further harm myself.  I know that.  But the thoughts continue to niggle at my brain, and the fact that I continue to get sicker reinforces it.

The definition of hypochondria is excessive preoccupancy or worry about having a serious illness. This debilitating condition is the result of an inaccurate perception of the condition of body or mind despite the absence of an actual medical condition.”  But that’s not me, exactly.  I do have medical conditions.  Real, quantifiable, testable conditions.  

When we were kids, my brother said to me “you don’t fake being sick, you really make yourself sick.”

Did I make myself sick?  I don’t know.  Maybe?  Sometimes when I’m feeling especially self-destructive, I do blame myself for that.  The illnesses that I have genetically come from both sides of my family.  I just seem to be a repository for all of them, all at once.  I am either very unlucky, or there is something about my mental and physical makeup that has made me prone to triggering them.

Ultimately though, does it matter?  If somehow I ‘talked myself into disease’ with my negative attitude, they’re here now, and real, and have to be dealt with.

Conversely, what if I didn’t cause them?  What if my frustrating paranoia has helped me.  Most of my illnesses were detected very early (including my skin cancer), and were diagnosed after initially being dismissed by doctors because I was too young, or the wrong sex, or they had doubts.  But I wasn’t wrong.

So maybe being paranoid and overly sensitive to every change in my body has served me well.

It would be a strange sort of irony if my conviction that I am dying is inadvertently responsible for the prolongation of my life.

/rk