Long Time Absent

I have been long absent from this blog. This recollection. This remorse. This repentance. This rejuvenation. Of a life.

These sentences and paragraphs hated and loved, unwanted and needed at once.

I feel an apology is in order. But to whom do I apologize? To me? To anyone who flatters me by reading or following? To the spirits that challenge me, if I am hopeful that challenges and fallow times are another step along an epiphany path?

No. I don’t think that an apology is needed; I’m wrestling with things outside my control. I am, like so many others, searching for understanding and a peace.

This post is my best effort to explain.

I have not been able to write. Like I have been in a lost jungle, under a rainforest canopy heavy with confusion. Feeling small, diminished. Without inspiration. No thoughts in a particular direction or cohesion. Just the excruciating feeling of a threatening depression.

Things have happened, are happening, that I haven’t been unable to process and I struggle. I don’t know how or where to begin. How to start. I can’t find necessary tools and my previous channels of avoiding depression have evaporated.

Recently I had a shock of uncovering of memories hidden away in a dead cavern. Incidents of parental violence from a locked box of childhood. Events that weigh me down like an anchor and scare the hell out of me.

If I have managed to cloak these memories for this long, for 4 decades, what other memories await? What will course through my vein of consciousness in the days ahead?

To put it flatly, my father was a drunk, violent man in my early years. In my later teen years, he was a dry drunk, grossly unhappy, who lashed out at easy targets. Verbal abuse, physical abuse his default reaction to his reality and, turn, mine.

A slap. A fist. A chase. Constant threats and reminders of how I failed in his eyes.

He probably projected his own inadequacies. I’d like to not care.  Except now I have to if I want to find perspective. My reality now is, though he died long ago, I still live with his haunting shadow. Damage done. Wounds that have not healed. Wounds that attack.

I very much question if I can heal. I don’t know hope.

I have been working with a professional, which helps while it feels dangerous. I am dredging deeply into these wounds. How do I close the door on unexpected pain?

I’m crying out for resolution, for solace, for a source of strength. My cries, my pleas are deafening silent. I can’t find satisfactory words to explain a parasitical, insinuating depression. I can hardly believe. At times, I feel so removed I’m looking down at myself—disembodied.

Safety in escape.

For years, I have hidden myself away. From my family, from the world, from me. This fortress I’ve constructed traps as much as it protects, leaves me lone in grey. Unable to find a way out no matter how much I crave release.

I was a kid, missing what kids are hard-wired to need from parents—unconditional love, unquestioning support, protection and encouragement parents should provide instinctively. The absolute parent-child bond that should be natural. Never nurtured. A bond severed, that can never be sewn back together.

Instead, I have hollowness. A consuming emptiness.

Underneath runs the river of living with bipolar disorder. I’m frightened this will lead to a serious, lasting downward spiral. So deep I won’t see light at the top. I won’t be able to hope that the light exists.

Is this inevitably going to lead to hospitalization? I have had my fill of hospitals. Perhaps, though, it’s the best choice. But it will mean two or three months. It will bring a false sense of security. The world is still beyond the walls and windows of the hospital. Problems still wait. It will mean juggling medications, something I want don’t again. Like the many agains in the past.

Who knows? Maybe hospitalization will become an absolute necessity. I hope, though, I can work through this with the professional help I now have. I guess I do have some slight hope. Something to try to hold on to.

What will I do now? Question, not answer. Hang on. Keep my head above water. Keep breathing. Look for little victories.

Ultimately, I have a singular goal.

Survival.

 

Peace and love, Terry

Ripped —- Apart

I have been avoiding writing this post for a while. At the same time, I watch days go by as my blog whither. I have been unable to wish or push these feelings away. They have and are wearing me down; taking away my confidence and the many positive changes I have worked so hard to forge.

I have recently stated that I want to focus on the good, on the helpful, on ways to bring transformation to people who are living with bipolar disorder. Right now, I cannot. I have already waited too long, searching, longing for a light. A way to avoid this creeping darkness.

I had no intention of writing about this but it is the only thing I can write about. So I am. I am hoping, selfishly, that this will help me get through this.

Today, I do not feel, instead I am. I am ripped—torn, shredded inside. Ripped.

About a week and a few days ago, I saw my psychologist as I do weekly. Each week I come away with something to think about and each week has felt like another building block. My ability to place context and perspective on my past has grown. I have learned how to understand my history and how to put it behind me, put it in its proper place.

However, not now.

Last week, I came home filled with anger and deeply saddened by what my psychologist and I talked about. It was the first time that I left with a roaring anger and a crevasse of sadness.

Abandonment. Inability to commit out fear of being left behind. Loss. A tangible hole in my spirit.

Why did she push so hard on an exposed nerve—raw and painful? I wonder if she purposely reopened wounds I do not want reopened. That I thought I had closed.

Despite my questioning, I will go back, foolish or dangerous or a new beginning. Somehow, I know, in some small and strong way, that she has my best interests at heart. I cannot lose this hope.

Is this part of a larger process?

Now I do not know how to feel, how to think. I know that I do not want to be in this place.

I am shaken.

Now I have many maybes.

Maybe I have resolved nothing, I am fooling myself.

Maybe I really do not know what I am doing in this life, with this life. Do I deserve this life?

Maybe I have fucked up too many things and fucked up too many lives.

Maybe I am tired of trying to wrestle myself to my feet, to shrug off these debilitating, unseen burdens that a few short weeks ago I thought I had put behind me.

Right now, I do not know why anymore. Why keep trying? It makes no sense—this morning, today, yesterday, last week.

Now I have the gnawing worry again. I am worried about drifting along—alone—not caring. Or plunging into a depression I will not be able to climb out of. Why try? What is to gain? Why should I continue when meaning eludes me?

Nothing is going to change. Nothing is going to get better.

I do not want to be part of anything or be with anyone. I do not want to be anymore.

I do not want to pretend. I do not want to live a fictional facade as I have lived behind protective, tall, thick and long-standing walls for so long.

I just do not understand. Again.

Maybe this life is non-fiction that I want to rewrite as my fiction.

I am another scar, skin translucent and thin, a pinprick from bleeding. Resources and resiliency have escaped. I have no healing balms or bandages, no sutures or medicines.

I have been reduced to nothing one more time. Again, nothing much matters.

I see the threshold. Is this the time I take the last, brave, relieving step?

Disabilities Hatred Mental Illness Guns

Hate Flyers Aimed At People with Disabilities

I could not believe this headline when I read it. My first, very fleeting, thought was this has to be a hugely disgusting joke or a horrible misprint.

It wasn’t. It was true. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.

In Portland, Oregon, a beautiful city I’ve been lucky to visit, these flyers, strident in hatred, glaring in misinformation and outrageous in lies, were and perhaps still are being distributed. I refuse to quote anything so malicious, so dangerous. I will say it’s hate propaganda that easily fits under that dark of umbrella.

Vile, deplorable and sickening.

Even as a Canadian, and particularly as a person living with a mental disability, I find this unfathomable. I can’t make any sense of it. That’s a good thing. I do not want to be able to understand a person, or persons, who clearly think that people with disabilities are less worthy, less than a citizen, are lesser people.

I wonder how Americans with disabilities feel. Under attack? Voiceless? Frightened?

I have to scream my questions. What the Hell is going on? Who honestly believes that people will lie about disabilities to receive a pittance of money and the stigma of serfdom? Who can believe that people with disabilities have a remarkable, super human ability to subvert the entire American way of life and political system?

From my vantage point, this rattles me to the core. I wonder if anyone will stand up for common sense and tell the truth. I wonder if anyone will listen.

People living with mental illness are one part of people living with disabilities. But we’re joined. It appears the group of scapegoats is being increased. Scapegoats are singled out, blamed and persecuted when other immense and grievous issues aren’t being properly addressed.

What issues do I see? In the U.S., I believe it’s accurate to conclude they are gun violence and terrible economic conditions and injustice.

Can’t do anything about these problems? Find an easily targeted, misunderstood and rather silent group and point your crooked finger. People living with disabilities and mental illness are that group being singled out. The root cause. Sadly, this attitude is a gathering storm in the U.S. The ball began rolling after the horrible elementary school killings. Now it is rolling faster and picking up more people as it barrels through mainstream media and into mainstream society.

I don’t know how entrenched these opinions are in the United States but they seem to be the ‘go to’ explanation more and more often. Now are American citizens with disabilities going to stop identifying themselves and stop reaching out for help because these inflammatory words are often translated into real violence?

I don’t have answers. All I have is a wave of apoplexy. From afar, from another country, I have outrage. I hope fiercely that the winds of this storm don’t blow across the border into Canada, maybe they already have. I want to do something, at the very least, support Americans who raise their voices.

While I have more to say about Portland, a city that doesn’t deserve this, I can’t right now. Another mass shooting occurred less than 24 hours ago. Again in the U.S. Already questions about mental illness and person responsible are being raised. In fact, they aren’t questions anymore but preconceived conclusions. Mental illness has been contorted to the perception that it’s the real problem not the messy, contentious and, to a Canadian, ridiculous issue of gun rights. I believe this will continue to be the case the next time and the next time.

I don’t want to believe but have to.

It’s time Americans, in its self-proclaimed and self-defined glory as the world leader, stop bickering among themselves but act. It’s time Americans clean up their own woeful, inglorious s issues before it starts another ‘righteous’ war far from its own borders. The world knows America’s ugly secrets. We’re watching and wondering how Americans can stand on a pedestal declaring moral righteousness.

I’ll keep following these issues however but I’d rather not.

I’d rather watch Harry Potter movies. Ultimately it would be much better for my own mental health.

Peace and love—please Terry

Who Do You Turn To?

Lean on me when you’re not strong

And I’ll be your friend, I’ll help you carry on

For it won’t be long

‘Til I’m gonna need someone to lean on

                                                                             Bill Withers

 How many times? Too many to count. Too often. Too alone. Too broken.

How many times in the past have I not reached out when I needed support? I do not count. Counting makes no sense. I would count to one. One. The one time that has lasted years. Minor breaks in the clouds of isolation came and went. Never enough light, never long enough to give me a chance to find a voice, the words or to put my head up and wonder what the Hell am I doing.

When some semblance of normalcy fell upon me, I asked is there any support out in the atmosphere. Is there any reason to break free from the stagnancy of isolation? How? Where?

Always the answer in my fogged mind was NO. A flat line, monotone, hopeless NO. A definitive NO. Exclamation point. Pointe finale.

All those years. I did not want to bother others. I did not know who I could call on. I did not know if anyone would understand what was happening or care at all.

All that wasted time.

No doubt this is not a surprising story. Nothing new. All too common.

Isolation, despairing in the loneliest place imaginable. Alive in a purgatory. Absolute blank, nothing.

It’s a painful truth for so many of us living with mental illness. It’s hard to explain when asked. Why do we isolate ourselves when it is plain that we have people, maybe one special person, in our life who are willing to compassionately help, whisper that better times are coming and, if we need, take us to seek medical assistance?

Even in the thralls of the deepest depression—so deep that our world is a small corner of the bed, covered in whatever brings the most darkness. A place we know is not healthy but cannot do anything to overcome the heaviness of terrible aloneness. Somewhere, perhaps hidden deep in our minds, we do know this.

We just cannot find the momentum to change the inertia of isolation.

Wait though. This post has a bright light. A positive ending.

Lately, I have been going to a support group for people living with mental disorders. I have thought about doing this before but always found a reason not to get in that door. Meet these people. I did not want to take the chance of breaking down in front or strangers.

Finally I went.

I found people who understand. I found empathy and openness. Even from people who were hurting as much as I was during my worst times.

I also learned that I could return this.

I have written about this before but not as concretely. I believe this message is so vital in cannot be repeated enough.

Taking a chance—me, you, all of us—reaching out to someone, to something or place, calls on our courage, perhaps our desperation.

Maybe it is about reaching a bottom so profound that we know it has to end one way or another.

I chose the way of the still beating heart. To look up rather than take the final step. I hope with all my spirit that all of us can do the same.

How much will this group and others who I am planning to rely on help? It is a question not worth posing or answering. It is not the time. Hopefully, it will never be the time.

It is time to open ourselves to the possibility of hope. People and groups are out there, offering a shoulder, a hand, an ear to help us stand strong. We can help each other to live better lives.

It is the ultimate gesture of caring.

Lean on me. I promise to be what you need and to open my heart.

It won’t be long ‘til I’ll need someone to lean on. I hope it will be my cyber friends, the support group I have found, friends and family.

I am sure this will happen if I simply gather the strength to call out. I hope I will.

I am reassured.

Bill Withers in concert http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Wpof8s5ZTg

 

Peace and love, Terry

Perspective of Life and Disease

Perspective is a powerful force. Not many of us realize it or have stopped to think about. We toss the word around like burnt popcorn seeds. Most times it’s a mask for saying we don’t agree.
To me, perspective shapes the world we live in. It helps define who we are. It influences how we judge other people and the situations we find ourselves in.
Too often we are trapped by our perspectives and can’t see the bars and locks. They become roots. They become beliefs. Or we believe they are our beliefs.
Unfortunately, changing a belief, particularly one that we have held onto for years or more, is immensely difficult. So onerous, it’s impossible. So we believe. Or is that just an ingrained perspective?
It is possible to alter our perceptions, perspectives and beliefs. It’s not easy but possible.
If the perspective you have is that mental illness is an indefatigable, unending shadow that will always loom over and control your life, your perspective is a telescope and you’re looking in the wrong end. You should, if you can, seriously ask and consider is this reality. More importantly, is this the reality in which you want to exist.
Perspective molds our perception. All too quickly and silently, perception becomes reality. It is self-perpetuating. If this is so, we should make every effort to change all of this.
Perspective can be seen as a story, a myth. Not necessarily the truth.
If we see ourselves as people who struggle along, barely managing illness or not managing it all, this is truth. We may view ourselves through the perspective of being in control rather than being controlled.
Certainly, many people do not have the luxury of choosing between these two perspectives (or a third or fourth). They are simply overpowered by their illness. I have been in this state and it becomes hard to remember why you are breathing let alone attempt to understand how you see yourself stunts recovery. No amount of positive thinking can change this reality.
Many of us, further down a healthy path, can change our perspective. We have the ability to make this important shift.
Perspective is ultimately subjective. No one can state this or another perspective is absolute and right. But as people, if we can pull ourselves back for a moment, we can gain a more objective vision of that subjectivity.
Perspective is much more than the idea of seeing the glass half full or half empty—pessimist or optimist.
These trite clichés are a meaningless short hand to draw beliefs in the broadest strokes possible. They do not arise from deep and real self-examination; they simply fall from our lips with the gracelessness of tumbling down a flight of stairs.
Can anyone honestly be glass-half-full person all the time? Can you be a perennial optimist no matter the circumstances befall you?
Absolutely not. It’s a delusional to think so and a superficial conception of the human condition.
Perspective, viewed in the light that I am trying to shine, is much more cogent and demanding. We must be truly introspective, look not at our facades but at the structures these facades hide. It’s the foundation of our beliefs about ourselves and the world that needs to be placed in the crucible of examination.
As I mentioned, perspective is subjective. It’s a creation. It becomes intertwined with our self-esteem and worth, too often with our lack of self-esteem and worth.
The unfortunate truth is many of us living with mental illness accept the perspectives defined by outsiders, by the world with its many biases and misunderstanding.
Changing our perceptions or perspectives is about self-awareness.
Perspective is about power, a power that we can claim—the power to define yourself, the power to separate myth from reality and the power to take charge. Changing perspective, positively, will lead toward the reclaiming control. Turn away from our automatic vision of ourselves we begin to see a different, more honest view of who and what we are. Negative perspectives become positive.
Our perspectives are what we see when we think we are facing reality. It’s time for us to blink and blink away at our perspectives. Question them. It’s time we put our backs into the hard work of creating a self-perspective that is positive and encouraging.
Even if we are the only ones who recognize our changed perspective, this is no reason to stop. Altering negative perspectives to positive is selfish. It can only be accomplished alone, though psychologists and counsellors can help, and it is accomplished only for ourselves.
Perspective. Change. Ourselves. Better health. That is what matters.
And who else should we be concerned about.

peace and love, Terry

Life Without Panic

Panic. We all understand its primal quality. It must be the flight part of fight or flight. It’s the overwhelming fear that goes along with catastrophe. The loss of control in the face of huge or small danger. We all have our limits.

All of have experienced panic once or twice. One of my moments of true panic occurred in a grocery store. My child wandered away. The panic was so true and hard that I could taste it. You can imagine the panic-ridden thoughts that raced through my head. Thankfully, she was just one aisle over looking at cookies. I had already broken a cold sweat and had an anchor of fear in my heart.

I’ve been considering panic, the concept of panic, lately. I’ve been trying to understand its place in mental illness.

I believe it has more influence than I realized. Of course, this is just my opinion borne of my own experience. Your opinion could very well be different. You may feel panic is irrelevant.

Last week, I was convinced, no I knew, I was heading for a substantial manic period. And I was frightened. My head was full of noise and formula one thoughts. Despite my fear, the episode didn’t send me into the stratosphere and a few days later I found myself again.

One thing that really helped in this instance was not a boost in medication but some time sitting still in the dark. No music, no television—pure silence or at least as close as I could get. Call it meditation. Call it a mindfulness exercise.

I can’t explain why I did it. It felt right. It helped calm my mind?

After I thought about panic. Thinking back as mania began to swell, panic began to swell. Panic came with, or was caused by, the spiral of mania and the plunge of depression.

For me, I’m convinced that panic is a contributing factor to the intensity of my moods. It’s part of the vicious whirlpool that I swim so hard against when I know that something is going to spin me out of control.

How much of a role? I cannot say right now. I have only put this idea together. I haven’t had the opportunity to find out if I can reduce panic and its impact on a major mood swing. I hope that I will never have the opportunity. It’s quite likely that I will though.

Maybe panic is out of my control. It’s worth the effort to try. And try I will.
Hope and love Terry

Hope as Faith

In the last few weeks, I have felt pieces of myself fall away. Like a snake molts, sheds dead skin. Like a sculptor chisels away stone to discover the inherent art.

Is this what a rebirth is? I have no experience but it’s the only word that comes to mind. Not a rebirth in the religious sense but surely spiritual. Not a ritual baptism, something more fundamental, more personal – a renewal of hope.

Let me ask a question, rhetorical but important. What if tomorrow we all woke up with past firmly behind, with a rejuvenated optimism and a startling new hope? How would this change your life and world, the lives of your friends and family, even change the world?

That change could be fantastic and open our eyes to a realm of endless possibilities. A change that could turn us away from the hurt, despair and misunderstanding of the past.

Sure, this is a utopian vision. Perhaps it’s hubris to suggest. But why shouldn’t we believe that a better life is possible, that a better world is possible. That compassion and understanding can prevail.

As recent days have passed, I have felt a new hope sweeping through me. A hope, or dream, that I have never encountered, never known.

I hope this hope is a permanent part of my life.

Many people find this same hope by having faith in a formal religion. By believing that everything, good or bad, happens for a reason.

For me, I have not found a religion that I can fully trust. Religions, in general, have been at the centre of so much injustice, violence, intolerance and war. This is only my opinion and I certainly am not denigrating anyone’s beliefs. I respect these convictions and sometimes I wish I could have the same.

But I don’t.

However, when it comes to my life and mental illness, I have to hold onto hope. For a fulfilling life, for proper treatment, for a cure. I hope this for all of us.

I choose hope. I choose love as my doctrine.

Hope as Faith.

Moving Forward, Looking Back

Looking back on many of my posts in this blog, I was struck by a couple of things. First, many posts were fueled by anger and confusion. Second, a good number of them were decidedly negative.

Recently, I have been spending time with a psychologist. It’s been a mind opening experience. I have realized that for years and decades I have carried around so much negativity.

It’s a heavy burden, an anchor, a wretched gravity that has left me stuck or worse losing ground. I have for decades defined myself by my past which, without going into detail, is best described as dysfunctional. By defining who and what I am by past hurt and wounds I have very effectively never broken away from the past.

I have never understood, perhaps purposefully, who I could or should be today, this moment. I really have never looked to the future with hope, joy and wonder.

And this has showed in much of my writing in this blog. It has been what I was feeling. Now I’m uncomfortable with that anger, that remorse and that sense of pervading loss.

This is not the way to lead a life. In fact, it exaggerates the already strong feeling of being a victim and being helpless. This is not leading a life; it is wallowing in how the past has conquered me.

I realize that only I can break that backward definition. I still have to put the past in proper perspective and I will always carry it. That takes work and it’s not a particularly easy thing to accomplish.

But it isn’t who I am, who I want to be. I have the power to redefine myself. To resurrect myself is not an understatement.

When I first began working with the psychologist, one of the first words she offered to describe me was resilient. I would never have even thought to use this word in relation to myself. However, to come this far in my life I am resilient and I have accomplished many things. The exact problem is that I haven’t given myself any credit; I haven’t let myself be proud.

I haven’t allowed myself to be happy and hopeful.

All this is a revelation, it’s an epiphany. I’m trying to cut those cords, allow myself to be who I want to be and what I want to achieve.

My goal is to recognize my strengths, my talents and that I can contribute to the world rather than a burden. I can’t promise that I will never get angry or lash out at an unfair past.

I can promise, though, I will do my utmost to look at myself positively, with hope and with a quiet pride.

 

 

Peace and love Terry

 

Marijuana and Mental Health

In America and Canada, de-criminalising or legalizing marijuana has become a heated debate. Before I address my primary concern of medical marijuana, some basic facts are pertinent.

Societies in which marijuana is criminalized pay a steep price. Prisons, police resources, court time and legal fees are enormous. In 2002, the Canadian Senate estimated the annual cost of enforcing cannabis laws was between $300 million and $500 million. Undoubtedly, that cost has risen in the last decade.

In the same study the Senate stated “We are able to categorically state that, used in moderation, cannabis in itself poses very little danger to users and to society as a whole, but specific types of use represent risks to users…Generally the greater harm was not in cannabis use but in the after-effects of the criminal penalties.”

Additionally, in my opinion, it is ludicrous and hypocritical to criminalize marijuana while nicotine and liquor are legal. As well, high-powered and often addictive prescription drugs are doled out like candy.

Those of us with a mental illness are well aware of the use or overuse of medication. For me, this has been shooting in the dark. At one point I was taking eight different drugs, counting thyroid medication.

Now studies are showing that the use of marijuana to treat bipolar disorder 1, which I have, is effective not only in treating symptoms but increasing mental health.

The Atlantic Monthly reported in August, 2012, that “for people suffering from bipolar disorder, relief from the condition might be as simple as smoking a little marijuana. New research reveals that cannabis use among patients with bipolar 1 disorder showed an improvement in their cognitive functioning…and areas such as processing speed, attention and working memory.”

In Canada, research into the benefits of marijuana continues. Currently, the Centre for Applied Research in Mental Health and Addiction is undertaking a project that examines on cannabis. It focuses on public health interventions for cannabis use as well as “the development and evaluation of evidence-based policy options and frameworks for public health oriented regulation and control.”

Other Canadian mental health organizations are also taking a hard look at the medical evidence. The voice for allowing medicinal marijuana is becoming louder.

One concern often mentioned is addiction. As far as I am aware, a person is far less likely to form an addiction to marijuana, either physically or psychologically, than to other drugs such as alcohol, cocaine or heroin. I would particularly add nicotine to that list.

People with mental illness are already at risk of developing an addiction. So many of us abuse drugs, legal or otherwise, to help control our disease.

Many of us self-medicate. In my own case, I drank and washed away the symptoms of bipolar disorder for more than a decade. I know others who have taken the same path.

Additionally, medical marijuana seems to effectively treat many other serious and debilitating diseases.

I don’t have all the answers about the medicinal use of marijuana. Regrettably, the medical benefits have become embroiled in a much larger and tangled debate.

I do know that when I next see my doctor, using marijuana will be a serious conversation.

Ain’t No Business

Yeah, there ain’t no business like the business I got. A business I want no part of.  A business I was thrust into.

What business? The pharmaceutical business. The profit driven, multi-billion dollar industry that churns out new miracle drugs that turn out to be no miracle. That sometime turn out to be a minor alteration, useless or harmful.

Listen to American advertisement for new anti-depressant medication. The list of potential side effects are rapidly rambled through in the last 5 seconds. The side effects seem endless and contradictory, such as may cause drowsiness or insomnia. What the hell is that? The entire thrust of these ads is to prompt patients or, I presume, people who have diagnosed themselves to demand these drugs from their doctors.

In Canada, advertising medication is illegal but I am Canadian and as you can see I know as much about advertising of medication from U.S. television and print. The difference I can’t go to my doctor and prescribe these drugs for myself.

Most other countries also prohibit for a couple of sound reasons. Medicines are different from consumer products because of the harm they can cause if they are used when they are not needed or not used the right way. As well, a seriously ill person has much more to lose from an advertiser’s false promises than someone buying a new car or other product.

Still, I found myself in the middle of the pharmaceutical industry. At the beginning of this year I looked in my medicine cabinet, counted the amount of drugs I was taking and did some research into them.

The results were ugly. It was uglier that I was just taking them.

I had become a consumer. I felt like a mark at a carnival game. I was customer and the best kind. I was buying products without asking any questions. What was I doing or swallowing? I didn’t know.

Doctor’s prescribed. I ingested. Doctors knew more about medications than I did. I just went along with them blindly. I accepted their wisdom, their expertise and judgement without thought. At that point I didn’t really have any thoughts to bring to any conversation we had.

The truth is that I was willingly ignorant. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to leave my health to someone else, someone smarter than me, someone who knew me better than I know me.

The truth is I had no idea what medications I was taking.

Now I have become more involved. I’m making the effort to be a partner in my treatment.

And now the story trails off…because I’m not sure of the outcome.