This is the second installment of the "7 Deadly Sins" series of posts. The first post was about sloth, or laziness, and how it truly does not exist. (See link below to read it.) Today will be about envy.
*****
Envy is a difficult emotion for me. I first started experiencing it when I was in college, studying viola performance. I had a competitive spirit, which made me always want to be "the best." During my freshman year, I felt very confident in my music abilities because I sat at the front of the orchestra. But as time went on, I saw my colleagues flourish and thrive in their musical development. They practiced, they improved, and they started "winning" better seats in orchestra than I did. They learned repertoire faster than I did.
Of course, I was not a shabby musician myself. I certainly belonged at this elite conservatory. But practicing was always difficult. Whereas many of my peers practiced three or more hours a day, I could only clock in at ninety minutes. Practicing was always painful for me. I would stalk the hallways, looking for an available room. Each room was very small, and had no windows. I would take my viola out of its case, place my music on the stand, and commence.
Then things would turn dark. As I played, I would become overwhelmed with an incredible sense of sadness. The more I played, the sadder I became. There is no rational explanation for why I felt this way. The music was a gateway for sadness to attack me. After about an hour, my face would be drenched in tears. Sometimes I played past the tears, they'd drip onto the viola. But most of the time, I would give up. Again and again. I really envied my classmates. I envied how they could practice. How they could "win" the favor of their private teachers. They were able to follow their teachers' instructions and perfect their pieces. But me? I couldn't practice enough, so I was rarely prepared for lessons. I felt lazy and stupid.
I started to become bitter. I hated my musician peers. How they were friends with each other, how they socialized at parties. I never knew where the parties were. On the rare occasions that I went (less than ten times in five years), I felt an empty hole in my gut that no amount of chatting could fill. I felt no connection to anyone, because no one experienced the "musical pain" that I did. I rarely went to recitals either. Watching musicians onstage was as painful as practicing. I would immediately envy their ability to play, and I would leave feeling spiteful and bitter.
I developed schizophrenia during the first year of my Masters degree. This caused me to experience voices while practicing. Sometimes they were inspiring, other times they were cruel. These messages from the "spirit world" told me "divine wisdom" about music's "truths." It made sense to no one except me, which wasn't entirely bad at the time. It made me feel special and valuable. Practicing immersed me in a fantasy world of magic, karma and energy. But eventually I cracked, and was hospitalized. I fell hard, and I was forced to leave college mid-degree.
Even now, I struggle with practicing. When I play, I feel like a failure. I feel embarrassed. I feel like I can never live up to playing as well as my former colleagues at conservatory. I see them on Facebook, pursuing doctorates, playing in European orchestras, posing for group photos behind tables of cheese and wine. I can never achieve what they have. I scrape away at my stringed box, trying to hear the answers, trying to hear clues on how I can end up in Europe. But my viola doesn't tell me anything useful. The harder I try to hear the answers, the louder my voices get.
I have replaced my feelings of envy with resignation. In other words, I have "given up." My feelings of envy were the result of trying to reach an unattainable goal. By giving up the dream, I have relieved myself of this pressure. Very often, we are told to follow our dreams. But sometimes, the process of realizing our dreams puts us in a competitive position. A position where we see others vying for our same dream. This puts us in a state of competition. And with competition comes envy.
Bearing this in mind, we realize that envy is nothing to be ashamed of. Rather, it is a normal human condition. Envy enables us to survive. Envy allows us to remain motivated. Envy allows us to process what is around us, and apply it to our own situations. Perhaps I am too abstract. In my experience, I feel attacked by envy. I don't want to feel envious of my peers. But I see what they have, the beauty and joy they feel as musicians. I don't feel this joy, and yet I realize that I am just as deserving as they are to feel it. Yet I don't. Is envy in this situation unjustified?
Is it?
Related Articles:
Sloth: "No Such Thing As Laziness"
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Friday, October 24, 2014
An Explanation for my Absence...
Dear Readers,
I have not posted in the past few days. I am taking this time to reflect on the goals and purpose of this blog, and am also in the process of receiving constructive feedback from friends. I hope to be back to posting again by the end of this upcoming weekend.
Thanks!
~Neesa
I have not posted in the past few days. I am taking this time to reflect on the goals and purpose of this blog, and am also in the process of receiving constructive feedback from friends. I hope to be back to posting again by the end of this upcoming weekend.
Thanks!
~Neesa
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
A Lesson Learned From Evangelism
Lately, I have become very pleased with the progress of my blog. I am updating daily, and am managing to keep topics varied and creative. I have a desire to share this blog with everyone of course. But for now, I am restricting the "sharing" to a small circle of friends and acquaintances. Of course, if you find yourself here... please stay! :)
Incidentally, I have these little mini business cards that I had printed about six years ago. They're very pretty. So I wrote my URL on the back, and have passed out a few. Not to strangers, mind you. Acquaintances that I have known for a good number of months. Maybe five or so. Part of me felt nervous, but my desire to share my work overcame this feeling.
This reminds me of three years ago. At the time, I had joined an Independent Fundamental Baptist church in Queens. I was only a member of the church for about six months, but during my time there I was heavily involved. I attended both Sunday services, a weekly prayer meeting and a couple of bible education courses. I also taught violin lessons to a few children and became involved in evangelism efforts. Once a week, we would plant ourselves on a busy patch of sidewalk armed with gospel tracts in a few languages. As people walked by, we would hold our tracts out with a warm smile on our faces, optimistic of God's providence. We were 100% confident in His powerful gospel, that it would work in the hearts of those who passed by. I look back now, with my atheist perspective, and see this effort as somewhat tragic and mortifying. Warmhearted people passionately sharing information vital to their lives, all communicated in a little pamphlet. Strangers walking by, some with sneers, others feigning ignor-ance (the act of ignoring), and still others reaching out a receiving hand. A glance inside a nearby garbage can would always reveal a few tracts, clearly unread. These sights must have terribly pained the hearts of my brethren, my brothers and sisters in Christ. You might think that I disdain these people for their conservative views. There is plenty of that going around. But really, I appreciate that I got to know these people. They were kind, and received me with open arms. I know that I pained them greatly with my leaving.
This experience of passing out tracts is somewhat similar to what I am doing now with my blog. I have information that I want to share. I want people to read this blog. I have these little cute cards that I want to hand out. But I'm choosing not to share the URL with everyone I see on the street. Just a few people at a time. Over the years, I have learned that patience is the greatest of virtues. Any truly rewarding result is usually the fruit of much preparatory work. Susan Boyle may have been an overnight sensation with her television appearance, but I am certain that it took her many years to get to the point where she could sing so well.
I also do not want to subject myself to ridicule at this time. Maybe later. When I'm braver.
Incidentally, I have these little mini business cards that I had printed about six years ago. They're very pretty. So I wrote my URL on the back, and have passed out a few. Not to strangers, mind you. Acquaintances that I have known for a good number of months. Maybe five or so. Part of me felt nervous, but my desire to share my work overcame this feeling.
This reminds me of three years ago. At the time, I had joined an Independent Fundamental Baptist church in Queens. I was only a member of the church for about six months, but during my time there I was heavily involved. I attended both Sunday services, a weekly prayer meeting and a couple of bible education courses. I also taught violin lessons to a few children and became involved in evangelism efforts. Once a week, we would plant ourselves on a busy patch of sidewalk armed with gospel tracts in a few languages. As people walked by, we would hold our tracts out with a warm smile on our faces, optimistic of God's providence. We were 100% confident in His powerful gospel, that it would work in the hearts of those who passed by. I look back now, with my atheist perspective, and see this effort as somewhat tragic and mortifying. Warmhearted people passionately sharing information vital to their lives, all communicated in a little pamphlet. Strangers walking by, some with sneers, others feigning ignor-ance (the act of ignoring), and still others reaching out a receiving hand. A glance inside a nearby garbage can would always reveal a few tracts, clearly unread. These sights must have terribly pained the hearts of my brethren, my brothers and sisters in Christ. You might think that I disdain these people for their conservative views. There is plenty of that going around. But really, I appreciate that I got to know these people. They were kind, and received me with open arms. I know that I pained them greatly with my leaving.
This experience of passing out tracts is somewhat similar to what I am doing now with my blog. I have information that I want to share. I want people to read this blog. I have these little cute cards that I want to hand out. But I'm choosing not to share the URL with everyone I see on the street. Just a few people at a time. Over the years, I have learned that patience is the greatest of virtues. Any truly rewarding result is usually the fruit of much preparatory work. Susan Boyle may have been an overnight sensation with her television appearance, but I am certain that it took her many years to get to the point where she could sing so well.
I also do not want to subject myself to ridicule at this time. Maybe later. When I'm braver.
Monday, October 20, 2014
A Personal Turn...
Thus far, I have written about topics in general, without revealing anything too substantial. True, I have divulged some experiences from my past. But I consider these events to be mostly resolved. I have not yet spoken about an issue that perturbs me currently. Doing such is personal. It makes my reputation vulnerable. What will people think? Should I say anything at all, or remain mum? We live in a society where we are free to not disclose. But where is the freedom in that? Let's say that I am a lesbian, and I am free to stay in the closet. That is no freedom. That's like being free to stay in jail.
Right now, I am reclining on a comfortable leather couch, and you are sitting in a swivel chair behind a desk. You have your fingertips on either hand touched together, and you ask me, "Tell me about your mother." And then you're all ears.
What do I say? Do you really have concern about my mother? The relationship I have with her?
I am hocking Freud with my piecemeal knowledge of the subject. I will go another route.
You, all ears. But are you? Do you hear me with your full, undivided attention? Or are you thinking about other things? Your personal life. Like feeding your cat. Or walking your dog that you've cleverly named "Dementia." Cute thing. Or maybe you are thinking about how your daughter has dyed her hair platinum, and now all the boys like her. Maybe... my talking about my friends (me, the patient), makes you lonely (the therapist). Think about it. It is entirely possible that a patient has a more fulfilling social life than his/her therapist. Being a therapist does not mean you are the Master of life, worthy of having devoutly religious patients bowing at your feet in utter gratitude for your advice, nuggets of gold they are. Are you so valuable?
Let us be the master of our own lives. Let therapy be a simple... sharing of notes. Collaborative. Peer to peer. And if a therapist is not a peer... then simple empathy will do. It is not a miracle. It is simply every day living. We need human connection to live life fully.
Right now, I am reclining on a comfortable leather couch, and you are sitting in a swivel chair behind a desk. You have your fingertips on either hand touched together, and you ask me, "Tell me about your mother." And then you're all ears.
What do I say? Do you really have concern about my mother? The relationship I have with her?
I am hocking Freud with my piecemeal knowledge of the subject. I will go another route.
You, all ears. But are you? Do you hear me with your full, undivided attention? Or are you thinking about other things? Your personal life. Like feeding your cat. Or walking your dog that you've cleverly named "Dementia." Cute thing. Or maybe you are thinking about how your daughter has dyed her hair platinum, and now all the boys like her. Maybe... my talking about my friends (me, the patient), makes you lonely (the therapist). Think about it. It is entirely possible that a patient has a more fulfilling social life than his/her therapist. Being a therapist does not mean you are the Master of life, worthy of having devoutly religious patients bowing at your feet in utter gratitude for your advice, nuggets of gold they are. Are you so valuable?
Let us be the master of our own lives. Let therapy be a simple... sharing of notes. Collaborative. Peer to peer. And if a therapist is not a peer... then simple empathy will do. It is not a miracle. It is simply every day living. We need human connection to live life fully.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
"7 Deadly Sins" series: No Such Thing As Laziness (Sloth) 1/7
I will be writing a group of seven posts, which will be part of a "7 Deadly Sins" series. Today is the first installment: Sloth.
*****
I had a very productive day. I cooked four recipes for the week, and penned a bit of a song. I washed all my dishes and cleaned the stove. I took out the trash. I have been perfectly responsible.
It wasn't always this way. For many years, getting me to wash the dishes was like pulling teeth. And cooking? Forget about it. I would sit in front of my computer for hours on end, rather aimlessly. I'd only write a song about once a month. I always felt strained when my mother would ask me to help around the house.
As I was doing my tasks today, I realized that I have recovered so much from my mental illness. Who was I two years ago? Who was I, for all those years before then? Why did I have such a limited capacity for, dare I say, responsibility? For years, I believed I was lazy and stupid. I beat myself up for not doing "enough." But now, after the medicine Clozapine and immense utilization of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) techniques, I can putter around the house without batting an eye. I actually find joy in washing dishes and cleaning and cooking. It is a relaxing activity that counters professional work during the week.
Having been on both sides, I now believe that no one is lazy. "Laziness" is a condition that occurs when someone is too mentally tired to accomplish a task. No one should be judged for being mentally tired. Instead, encouragement and support should be offered. Or at the very least, empathy and compassion.
Related Articles:
"Envy:" Envy Attacks Us
*****
I had a very productive day. I cooked four recipes for the week, and penned a bit of a song. I washed all my dishes and cleaned the stove. I took out the trash. I have been perfectly responsible.
It wasn't always this way. For many years, getting me to wash the dishes was like pulling teeth. And cooking? Forget about it. I would sit in front of my computer for hours on end, rather aimlessly. I'd only write a song about once a month. I always felt strained when my mother would ask me to help around the house.
As I was doing my tasks today, I realized that I have recovered so much from my mental illness. Who was I two years ago? Who was I, for all those years before then? Why did I have such a limited capacity for, dare I say, responsibility? For years, I believed I was lazy and stupid. I beat myself up for not doing "enough." But now, after the medicine Clozapine and immense utilization of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) techniques, I can putter around the house without batting an eye. I actually find joy in washing dishes and cleaning and cooking. It is a relaxing activity that counters professional work during the week.
Having been on both sides, I now believe that no one is lazy. "Laziness" is a condition that occurs when someone is too mentally tired to accomplish a task. No one should be judged for being mentally tired. Instead, encouragement and support should be offered. Or at the very least, empathy and compassion.
Related Articles:
"Envy:" Envy Attacks Us
Friday, October 17, 2014
The Unknown Future
Many people walk the path of sobriety. Some are alcoholics, members of AA. Or gamblers, members of GA. Overeaters, OA. Drug addicts, NA. All these "anonymous" 12-step groups. Networks of former addicts, helping other addicts overcome their addictions. A buddy system. A system of caring, compassion and support. The serenity prayer: God give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Serenity now.
I consider myself a former addict as well. But my addiction does not have a support group. There is no network for me to consult for advice or assistance. I have no sponsor. Even the serenity prayer is rendered useless, from a certain perspective.
What the hell addiction is this?
...
RELIGION
...
SPIRITUALITY
...
THE ESOTERIC
...
For many years, I felt that my mental illness was due to a spiritual deficiency. I was depressed because I had bad karma, and was being punished for it. I had delusions because there were spirits from past lives haunting me. The continual relapses that prevented me from holding a job... it was all some spiritual trial that served to punish me. And I deserved that punishment, because I knew deep down that I was fundamentally evil. You can imagine that this notion is absolutely frightening. Not only does societal stigma deem me "demonic" or "inferior" due to my illness, but the voices in my head said the same as well. Is it possible for our voices to stigmatize us? Is this self-stigma, or stigma inflicted by the spirit world?
This question is irrelevant.
For many years, I felt cursed. Why me? Why do I keep losing jobs? Why don't I have a boyfriend? Why am I fat? Why am I sad all the time? Why do I keep getting hospitalized? Why do I take meds? Why don't I have friends? Why can't I smile? It was unfair. Others didn't seem to have these problems. They had all these things I didn't have. And I wanted it more than they did. I just knew it.
I experimented with different spiritual practices and perspectives. I first started by meditating with a group that had a guru in India. When I started, I was "only" clinically depressed. After a year and a half, I had developed voices, winning the "schizoaffective disorder badge." My doctors told me to stop meditating, which was good advice. But I still felt cursed. I consulted psychics, palm readers, tarot card readers, astrologers... I needed this illness out of me. I was haunted. Stifled. This shit was not me. It was outside of me. I spent thousands of dollars worth of credit money to pay these people and follow my spiritual impulses. A trip to India. A bag of glass aquarium stones that cost over a thousand dollars. A trip to Denmark. My future was unknown, and I needed comfort. I needed to know that it would be "ok." Psychics... they told me my spiritual deficiencies. My future. They shed light on my past. They all contradicted each other, but no matter. Each psychic was better than the last one.
After becoming thoroughly confused with all this New Age mumbo jumbo, I became saved by Jesus. Evangelical Christians say that, upon salvation, the demons leave a person. Yes! I was cured. Church. Bible study. Skirts. Pure love from the congregation. I say this in earnest. The people I prayed with were some of the kindest and most genuine people I have ever met. I still feel guilty for abandoning them, in the sense that my leaving made them sad.
But I had to. The "voices" told me I had to. Whatever the voices told me to do, I had to do it. With every spiritual experience I had, the voices in my head had more and more "information" to twist around. Pure mental kryptonite, tailor-made for me, Neesa Sunar. I returned to tarot cards. I'd do spread after spread, asking questions ranging from my karmic future, to why I found Glenn Beck sexy. And crystals. Each stone told me something different. But, unlike the psychics, nothing was contradictory. Every inanimate object that spoke to me seemed to follow this coherent logic, albeit twisted. That was what made it all so believable.
My need for spiritual validation ended with one little miracle: Clozapine. After titrating on it during a two-month hospitalization, the voices became less commanding. For the first time, I became stronger than them. And so, they no longer had a mystical, spiritual quality. Biology triumphed over spirituality. Over religion. Over magic. Over prayers. Or maybe not. Perhaps my prayers were answered. Or a single prayer: Dear Lord, please fix me so that I don't ever need to pray again.
So my addiction... what would you call it? The need for a spiritual "fix." To indulge in a religious practice in order to understand the voices. To consult a psychic to reassure me that the man I currently have a crush on really likes me back. To pay a healer to say prayers for me over crystals to ensure that I am no longer cursed. Never again will I pay money for all this. Never again will I put my faith in mere people. Or mere deities. And although I have some experiences that point to the fact that there is an unknown force, I remain an atheist. I remain a realist. Just because something has not been scientifically validated, it does not mean that it does not exist.
Sometimes, I buckle. I have a pendulum, a pointy stone attached to a small chain. Even now, I ask it questions, and it swings back and forth. Depending on the direction it swings, it tells me "yes" or "no." I dabble, thinking it is no biggie. Will I get that job? Will I always live in New York? The spiritual junkie in me has to know. The suspense kills me. But really, this pendulum is as toxic as a Ouija board. In the sense that, perhaps, it is my own imagination that drives me over the edge. Is it worth it? Do I have to know my future?
NO. Why should I know the future? Would I pick up a book, start it just enough to know the main character and his/her premise, only to flip to the last chapter and see what happens in the end? Is the suspense so bad that I need to read the end before the middle? Maybe. In our lives, we read many books, but we only live one book. Don't read the end. Doing so makes the middle so uninteresting. We don't need to know "what if?" or "why?" or "how come?" Just live. Break the addiction of needing to know the future. Break the addiction of ANXIETY. How? I can't tell you. For you, it might be a pill. A mantra. A friend. A job. Even religion could work for you, even though it doesn't work for me. And don't lose heart if you make mistakes in trying to find your own personal "cure." I did it. I'm sober... (mostly). Every time I walk by a store-front psychic, I turn the other way. I feel the pull, but I just keep walking. I fight this addiction every day. So can you.
I consider myself a former addict as well. But my addiction does not have a support group. There is no network for me to consult for advice or assistance. I have no sponsor. Even the serenity prayer is rendered useless, from a certain perspective.
What the hell addiction is this?
...
RELIGION
...
SPIRITUALITY
...
THE ESOTERIC
...
For many years, I felt that my mental illness was due to a spiritual deficiency. I was depressed because I had bad karma, and was being punished for it. I had delusions because there were spirits from past lives haunting me. The continual relapses that prevented me from holding a job... it was all some spiritual trial that served to punish me. And I deserved that punishment, because I knew deep down that I was fundamentally evil. You can imagine that this notion is absolutely frightening. Not only does societal stigma deem me "demonic" or "inferior" due to my illness, but the voices in my head said the same as well. Is it possible for our voices to stigmatize us? Is this self-stigma, or stigma inflicted by the spirit world?
This question is irrelevant.
For many years, I felt cursed. Why me? Why do I keep losing jobs? Why don't I have a boyfriend? Why am I fat? Why am I sad all the time? Why do I keep getting hospitalized? Why do I take meds? Why don't I have friends? Why can't I smile? It was unfair. Others didn't seem to have these problems. They had all these things I didn't have. And I wanted it more than they did. I just knew it.
I experimented with different spiritual practices and perspectives. I first started by meditating with a group that had a guru in India. When I started, I was "only" clinically depressed. After a year and a half, I had developed voices, winning the "schizoaffective disorder badge." My doctors told me to stop meditating, which was good advice. But I still felt cursed. I consulted psychics, palm readers, tarot card readers, astrologers... I needed this illness out of me. I was haunted. Stifled. This shit was not me. It was outside of me. I spent thousands of dollars worth of credit money to pay these people and follow my spiritual impulses. A trip to India. A bag of glass aquarium stones that cost over a thousand dollars. A trip to Denmark. My future was unknown, and I needed comfort. I needed to know that it would be "ok." Psychics... they told me my spiritual deficiencies. My future. They shed light on my past. They all contradicted each other, but no matter. Each psychic was better than the last one.
After becoming thoroughly confused with all this New Age mumbo jumbo, I became saved by Jesus. Evangelical Christians say that, upon salvation, the demons leave a person. Yes! I was cured. Church. Bible study. Skirts. Pure love from the congregation. I say this in earnest. The people I prayed with were some of the kindest and most genuine people I have ever met. I still feel guilty for abandoning them, in the sense that my leaving made them sad.
But I had to. The "voices" told me I had to. Whatever the voices told me to do, I had to do it. With every spiritual experience I had, the voices in my head had more and more "information" to twist around. Pure mental kryptonite, tailor-made for me, Neesa Sunar. I returned to tarot cards. I'd do spread after spread, asking questions ranging from my karmic future, to why I found Glenn Beck sexy. And crystals. Each stone told me something different. But, unlike the psychics, nothing was contradictory. Every inanimate object that spoke to me seemed to follow this coherent logic, albeit twisted. That was what made it all so believable.
My need for spiritual validation ended with one little miracle: Clozapine. After titrating on it during a two-month hospitalization, the voices became less commanding. For the first time, I became stronger than them. And so, they no longer had a mystical, spiritual quality. Biology triumphed over spirituality. Over religion. Over magic. Over prayers. Or maybe not. Perhaps my prayers were answered. Or a single prayer: Dear Lord, please fix me so that I don't ever need to pray again.
So my addiction... what would you call it? The need for a spiritual "fix." To indulge in a religious practice in order to understand the voices. To consult a psychic to reassure me that the man I currently have a crush on really likes me back. To pay a healer to say prayers for me over crystals to ensure that I am no longer cursed. Never again will I pay money for all this. Never again will I put my faith in mere people. Or mere deities. And although I have some experiences that point to the fact that there is an unknown force, I remain an atheist. I remain a realist. Just because something has not been scientifically validated, it does not mean that it does not exist.
Sometimes, I buckle. I have a pendulum, a pointy stone attached to a small chain. Even now, I ask it questions, and it swings back and forth. Depending on the direction it swings, it tells me "yes" or "no." I dabble, thinking it is no biggie. Will I get that job? Will I always live in New York? The spiritual junkie in me has to know. The suspense kills me. But really, this pendulum is as toxic as a Ouija board. In the sense that, perhaps, it is my own imagination that drives me over the edge. Is it worth it? Do I have to know my future?
NO. Why should I know the future? Would I pick up a book, start it just enough to know the main character and his/her premise, only to flip to the last chapter and see what happens in the end? Is the suspense so bad that I need to read the end before the middle? Maybe. In our lives, we read many books, but we only live one book. Don't read the end. Doing so makes the middle so uninteresting. We don't need to know "what if?" or "why?" or "how come?" Just live. Break the addiction of needing to know the future. Break the addiction of ANXIETY. How? I can't tell you. For you, it might be a pill. A mantra. A friend. A job. Even religion could work for you, even though it doesn't work for me. And don't lose heart if you make mistakes in trying to find your own personal "cure." I did it. I'm sober... (mostly). Every time I walk by a store-front psychic, I turn the other way. I feel the pull, but I just keep walking. I fight this addiction every day. So can you.
Poem: "Rain"
RAIN
What does it feel like to be rained on?
I’ll tell you.
Rain hurts. Rain burns my skin. Rain scars. Rain burns the scars until they are not scars anymore. Burns them until they’re not anything anymore. Just little gnarled nubs of what was once there. And then the rain burns the little nubs away. And then there’s supposed to be nothing left. I’m supposed to be gone.
But I’m still here. I have no body, and yet my imagination is still here. My imagination is still standing, with its two feet, on this hill. The grass on this hill is green, I see it. But when I wave my imaginary hand in front of my imaginary eyes to see if I am real, I only see grass. Green grass. Why didn’t the rain burn the grass? Why is the grass still green? Why is the grass still living and thriving, and I am…
Not? Not alive? Not here? Not aware?
No. I am aware. I am aware of this ironically green hell. I am aware of my invisible skeleton that is still alive, even though no one sees it. I don’t even see it. But I feel it. I feel me. And that means I’m real. Even if nobody else knows it.
(c) Neesa Sunar 2014
What does it feel like to be rained on?
I’ll tell you.
Rain hurts. Rain burns my skin. Rain scars. Rain burns the scars until they are not scars anymore. Burns them until they’re not anything anymore. Just little gnarled nubs of what was once there. And then the rain burns the little nubs away. And then there’s supposed to be nothing left. I’m supposed to be gone.
But I’m still here. I have no body, and yet my imagination is still here. My imagination is still standing, with its two feet, on this hill. The grass on this hill is green, I see it. But when I wave my imaginary hand in front of my imaginary eyes to see if I am real, I only see grass. Green grass. Why didn’t the rain burn the grass? Why is the grass still green? Why is the grass still living and thriving, and I am…
Not? Not alive? Not here? Not aware?
No. I am aware. I am aware of this ironically green hell. I am aware of my invisible skeleton that is still alive, even though no one sees it. I don’t even see it. But I feel it. I feel me. And that means I’m real. Even if nobody else knows it.
(c) Neesa Sunar 2014
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
How Body Intelligence Can Promote Mental Wellness
I strongly believe that every person should have a keen sense of "body intelligence." What is this? For me, it is understanding how my joints work, how to stand with a relaxed posture, how to move freely and with flexibility, how my body responds sexually, knowing what kinds of sports and/or exercises my body prefers, and so forth. But it doesn't stop with the physical. Body intelligence affects virtually every aspect of our lives. What clothes look good on me? What fabrics feel good against my skin? What colors look good? What kind of shampoo should I use? What kind of weather do I prefer? How heavy are the bags I carry around, and am I comfortable with that? What kind of food do I prefer? How does what I eat affect me? On and on and on. Every aspect of our lives has a physical component in one way or another.
How did I find out about body intelligence? For me, the route was music. I began playing the violin in first grade, and continued until I was eleven. I was a very tall girl, so by this age, I was playing a full-sized violin. I continued to grow, and the instrument remained small. I felt cramped. And the high E string irritated me, causing discomfort in my ear. I had a very "heavy" grip with the instrument, which suggested that I would do well on the viola. And so I did. The viola is still held on the shoulder like a violin, but it is slightly larger and plays lower notes. It was perfect. My heavy grip was nicely accommodated, my arms could stretch out in comfort, and I could continue my musical journey. I played viola in high school, and then went to college at the large conservatory at Indiana University in Bloomington. Home of the Hoosiers. (Note: I never went to a single sports game. Such is the musician's life.)
College was a wake-up call. In high school, I was a big fish in a little pond. Always the best. But when I hit college, that was no longer the case. I realized that there were flaws in the way I held the viola. My "heavy" hold was actually due to tension, a musician's worst enemy. Holding the instrument with tension in any part of the body can cause repetitive strain injuries like carpal tunnel syndrome or tendinitis. Poor "technique" also results in reduced dexterity, speed, and facility in playing. During my IU stint, I studied with a few teachers who all had significant input on teaching me how to "relearn" how to hold the instrument. I also took a body technique class with a woman who was experienced in kinesthetic modalities such as Alexander Technique, Feldenkrais and Pilates. This process of relearning viola technique allowed me to respect my body with an almost meditative reverence. Playing the viola became a kind of yoga. It was all terribly fascinating. No longer was my body a frustration. It became this work of art. A sculpture. A moving statue. My body contained lines and joints and ranges of motion. My imagination ran wild. Near the end of my time at IU, I cared less about the music I played, and more about my posture and how I held the instrument. I came to believe that the sound a musician made was less important than how he/she appeared on stage visually.
At one point, my awareness of my body was brutally skewed. As a child and young adult, I was always incredibly thin. But in January of 2009, I started taking a medication that made me gain 90 lbs. It was devastating. My body had completely changed. I turned into a different person. Only after 2.5 years did my psychiatrist "allow" me to get off this devastating medication. The weight stopped going up, but it remained nevertheless. In February of 2012, I made a commitment to lose weight. As I exercised, I began to learn more about my body once again. How it moves. Where it was weak. Where it was strong. When to rest. When to push. Listening to my body. And I changed what I ate, reducing my calories significantly. At first it was rough. But as I got used to my new diet, my stomach started to grow more intelligent. How many calories have I eaten? How much more should I eat? Should I have an apple or a carrot? The more I got to know my stomach, the more we got along. And the more we got along, the easier it became to lose weight.
I realize now that, as different parts of my body become more and more intelligent from exercise and diet, my brain can find respite from the incessant rumination endemic to mental illness. I always used to worry about what I looked like. What others think of me. Unsure if I looked ugly or unfashionable. But now, I have body intelligence. My body tells me if it is comfortable. If it is uncomfortable, I can "listen," and it intuitively tells me what it needs. Instead of thinking about being fat, I just think in the moment. Maybe I'm hungry. But do I want a banana? Do I want salmon? Do I want celery? A Luna bar? How much before I stop? My body tells me. Regarding ugliness and appearance, I could stand with better posture. That could speak volumes more than just simply changing clothes. This whole process of developing body intelligence also creates "mind intelligence." This term is cumbersome though, so we can just call it intuition. I think that if people had intelligent bodies, we would have greater intuition. And with intuition, we would all be less insecure. Because intelligent bodies and intuitive minds want to be comfortable. Balanced. They want to maintain homeostasis.
I want to tie this in to a topic specifically related to mental health: MEDICATION. We have both sides. Some people find medication to be beneficial and necessary to maintain mental health. Others find medication to be unnecessary and downright evil. In my opinion, there is a lot of confusion out there. People who are crippled with fears and delusions will read articles saying that schizophrenia recovery in third world countries is higher than in the first world, and they have less access to medications. A person who could benefit from medication will then adopt a strident attitude, all in the name of "freedom." But what is freedom?
I think one step towards freedom is developing body intelligence. Because an intelligent body doesn't only know how to exercise and eat and dress fashionably. It also knows how to "interpret" the medications we ingest. I'll share my observations. With a new medication, there may be noticeable adverse side effects, like weight gain. But instead of waiting for weight gain, you could potentially sense a difference in how food sits in your stomach after you eat. Or maybe your stomach starts feeling like a black hole, whereas before it felt like a pillow. I'm using "odd" terms to demonstrate that this body intelligence process can be an incredibly creative one. Medications can do the same thing. Maybe there is a new medication that causes you to feel "like a slug."
Of course, many will stop right there. Down with the pharmaceuticals! Down with prescriptions! It's quite easy to assume that a foreign substance in a body is an unwelcome one. But I beg to differ. Based on my personal experience, I find that medicine actually increases my ability to access my body intelligence and my intuition. Before finding the right medicines, I was crippled by schizophrenic delusions, tactile hallucinations, anxiety and depression. My intuition stood no match against the absolute convictions coming from my ailing brain. But once I got on better medications, my mind cleared. I was able to start exercising. And the more I exercised, the better the medications worked. And about a year and a half ago, I believe I truly found the exact balance of meds that now allow me to work at my 100% best. These medications do not diminish the quality of my life. They enhance it. I feel in control. I wake up, and I feel an excitement and a zest for life. I feel patient and tranquil. I feel excited and loving towards my friends. I feel sexual fulfillment because I am able to choose partners that I am fully attracted to, instead of "following the crowd" on what's attractive. And I feel motivated and ambitious in planning my future. Without medicine, attaining homeostasis was impossible for me.
I challenge all of you who are only on one side of the fence. Too often, we feel the need to choose one side or the other. This is natural. But do know that the mind is flexible. And the more flexible we make it, the healthier it becomes. Of course, I tend to analyze things into the ground. Discussions like these often exhaust my friends' brains. But for me, I am energized. Musings like this give me a passion for life. But if this article enervates you, then make an attempt to discover what energizes you. That will help you learn more about yourself, how your body works, how your mind works, and so forth. The goal of all this is to achieve overall wellness.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Howie the Harp Graduation and Beyond!
A milestone of an event occurred today... graduation ceremony from Howie the Harp!
This year, I completed the 500-hour training course at Howie the Harp, and am now 2/3rds done with my internship. This graduation was a time where we came together to celebrate our successes thus far, and also to encourage ourselves in our new career as peer specialists. Among all the keynote speakers and class speakers and this and that speakers, I was invited to go up to the front and play my guitar. I performed an original song that I wrote, called "Muse." It went over well.
Right now, though, I would like to avoid making this blog entry resemble a "journal." The purpose of this blog is not for me to share or vent my personal musings here. There is more to be accomplished than that. Everything written here should return to the ultimate purpose I would like to reach towards. The ultimate purpose of educating readers in how to think about mental health issues creatively.
Yes. Creatively. Too often, I hear opinions on both sides. "Medications are evil! They destroy lives!" or "Meds are the only way! People should have access to them!" Many persons are on one side or the other. Their personal experiences dictate their opinions, and very few persons can put themselves in the other sides' shoes. I always wonder: why are people so inflexible? Why are people so confident that they have the answer? Why do people think they are correct, and that dissidents are wrong?
It is a good thing that there are many people who are passionate about the mental health field. Whether they agree or not is irrelevant. It is actually good that there are people on both sides, because this prompts dialogue. If everyone agreed on the issues, no one would find it necessary to converse. Debate not only serves to educate, it also keeps the mind fresh. Fresh, because one needs to always devise new arguments, new angles of perspective to prod the opponent's views in weak spots. Through disagreement, we grow more intelligent.
Go Howie grads! Let us go forth and share our stories, opinions and ideas. That is what I plan to do.
This year, I completed the 500-hour training course at Howie the Harp, and am now 2/3rds done with my internship. This graduation was a time where we came together to celebrate our successes thus far, and also to encourage ourselves in our new career as peer specialists. Among all the keynote speakers and class speakers and this and that speakers, I was invited to go up to the front and play my guitar. I performed an original song that I wrote, called "Muse." It went over well.
Right now, though, I would like to avoid making this blog entry resemble a "journal." The purpose of this blog is not for me to share or vent my personal musings here. There is more to be accomplished than that. Everything written here should return to the ultimate purpose I would like to reach towards. The ultimate purpose of educating readers in how to think about mental health issues creatively.
Yes. Creatively. Too often, I hear opinions on both sides. "Medications are evil! They destroy lives!" or "Meds are the only way! People should have access to them!" Many persons are on one side or the other. Their personal experiences dictate their opinions, and very few persons can put themselves in the other sides' shoes. I always wonder: why are people so inflexible? Why are people so confident that they have the answer? Why do people think they are correct, and that dissidents are wrong?
It is a good thing that there are many people who are passionate about the mental health field. Whether they agree or not is irrelevant. It is actually good that there are people on both sides, because this prompts dialogue. If everyone agreed on the issues, no one would find it necessary to converse. Debate not only serves to educate, it also keeps the mind fresh. Fresh, because one needs to always devise new arguments, new angles of perspective to prod the opponent's views in weak spots. Through disagreement, we grow more intelligent.
Go Howie grads! Let us go forth and share our stories, opinions and ideas. That is what I plan to do.
Monday, October 13, 2014
What's In a Name?
To break the ice in this blog, I thought I'd play a little game.
A game that introduces you to me, and how my mind works.
To me, there is always an underside to every statement. At least, "artistically crafted" statements. What's an "artistically crafted" statement? Basically anything I write. hah. Song lyrics. Poems... Conversational nothings. There is a statement's face value, and then its underside. Or multiple undersides.
Let's take the title of this blog, Let Them Take Pills. On first impression, this might remind you of Marie Antoinette's statement, "Let Them Eat Cake." Imagine though, that it is not Ms. Antoinette, but the pharmaceutical companies. They look down at us with disdain. They want to make money off of us. They invent illnesses that describe our distasteful behavior, and then make us take medications to cure these behaviors. Ha. Let them take pills.
But this statement can be interpreted another way. What if you don't know about Ms. Antoinette? What if you just interpreted it literally? Let them take pills. Ok. If someone wants to take pills, then they're free to do so. No reason to stop them from taking their pills. Let them take their pills. Truly, this is my personal opinion regarding pills. Live and let live. If you want to take pills, that's perfectly fine. I take mine, and I love them. They have changed my life incredibly.
Let's try another way. Let them take pills. Who? That group of people over there. The mentally ill ones. The ones who are crazy. They need pills. But not me. Let them take their pills.
Or: Let them take pills. Give them pills, because if we don't, then they'll "self-medicate." They'll smoke pot, they'll have promiscuous sex, they'll abuse their children. Make them take pills before they do something worse.
Or: Let them take pills. Huh? Oh yes. Medicaid. They give us disabled slackers free pills. We don't buy our pills. We take our pills for free. Yes. Let them take their pills. Lord knows, they didn't earn them. They're not buying them.
As you can see, you can shine a light on a sentence, and it shines back many different colors. Like a prism. In my opinion, a well-crafted sentence, or paragraph, or document is like a prism. It can be viewed in many different ways, by many different people, and it will mean something different to each person. Music can be like this too, or visual art, or dance. For me, the process of trying to discover many ways to interpret one sentence, or song, or painting makes my brain stronger. More flexible. And as my brain gets stronger, I become more open-minded, and also more resilient. More confident. More well. More in control of my recovery.
In closing, I would like to say also that we can view people this way too. Challenging! But we must realize, that each person is not only who he/she is at face value. Like a prism, or a diamond, there are many facets. Some facets are vulnerable, some facets are fierce. Some facets are very private and should be left in the darkness, other facets are hidden but brilliant when exposed. We need to view each other flexibly... is that a word? I tend to make up words.
Yes. If we are flexible in the ways (more than one) that we view people, we understand them better. We are also more forgiving of their flaws. Because when there is a flaw, one only needs to shine the light in a different direction for another shimmer to happen.
This is one way to understand my idea that "I like to look at both sides of the coin at the same time." Perhaps impossible. Not even the sun can shine on two sides of a coin equally at once. But the human brain CAN. And even if it can't, it can TRY. And in that process of trial, it becomes stronger. More confident. More well.
*****
Disclaimer: I am not a trained therapist. Not an MD, not a PhD, not a PsyD. I am a peer. And proud to be such.
A game that introduces you to me, and how my mind works.
To me, there is always an underside to every statement. At least, "artistically crafted" statements. What's an "artistically crafted" statement? Basically anything I write. hah. Song lyrics. Poems... Conversational nothings. There is a statement's face value, and then its underside. Or multiple undersides.
Let's take the title of this blog, Let Them Take Pills. On first impression, this might remind you of Marie Antoinette's statement, "Let Them Eat Cake." Imagine though, that it is not Ms. Antoinette, but the pharmaceutical companies. They look down at us with disdain. They want to make money off of us. They invent illnesses that describe our distasteful behavior, and then make us take medications to cure these behaviors. Ha. Let them take pills.
But this statement can be interpreted another way. What if you don't know about Ms. Antoinette? What if you just interpreted it literally? Let them take pills. Ok. If someone wants to take pills, then they're free to do so. No reason to stop them from taking their pills. Let them take their pills. Truly, this is my personal opinion regarding pills. Live and let live. If you want to take pills, that's perfectly fine. I take mine, and I love them. They have changed my life incredibly.
Let's try another way. Let them take pills. Who? That group of people over there. The mentally ill ones. The ones who are crazy. They need pills. But not me. Let them take their pills.
Or: Let them take pills. Give them pills, because if we don't, then they'll "self-medicate." They'll smoke pot, they'll have promiscuous sex, they'll abuse their children. Make them take pills before they do something worse.
Or: Let them take pills. Huh? Oh yes. Medicaid. They give us disabled slackers free pills. We don't buy our pills. We take our pills for free. Yes. Let them take their pills. Lord knows, they didn't earn them. They're not buying them.
As you can see, you can shine a light on a sentence, and it shines back many different colors. Like a prism. In my opinion, a well-crafted sentence, or paragraph, or document is like a prism. It can be viewed in many different ways, by many different people, and it will mean something different to each person. Music can be like this too, or visual art, or dance. For me, the process of trying to discover many ways to interpret one sentence, or song, or painting makes my brain stronger. More flexible. And as my brain gets stronger, I become more open-minded, and also more resilient. More confident. More well. More in control of my recovery.
In closing, I would like to say also that we can view people this way too. Challenging! But we must realize, that each person is not only who he/she is at face value. Like a prism, or a diamond, there are many facets. Some facets are vulnerable, some facets are fierce. Some facets are very private and should be left in the darkness, other facets are hidden but brilliant when exposed. We need to view each other flexibly... is that a word? I tend to make up words.
Yes. If we are flexible in the ways (more than one) that we view people, we understand them better. We are also more forgiving of their flaws. Because when there is a flaw, one only needs to shine the light in a different direction for another shimmer to happen.
This is one way to understand my idea that "I like to look at both sides of the coin at the same time." Perhaps impossible. Not even the sun can shine on two sides of a coin equally at once. But the human brain CAN. And even if it can't, it can TRY. And in that process of trial, it becomes stronger. More confident. More well.
*****
Disclaimer: I am not a trained therapist. Not an MD, not a PhD, not a PsyD. I am a peer. And proud to be such.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Flash Fiction: "Child"
She
hides behind me. The little girl holds
my hand for safety.
"It's
ok, dear. No need to hide."
She
shakes her head no. She never speaks.
She
goes everywhere with me. I have a one-night
stand, she is curled into a ball in the corner of the room watching me with a
lump in her throat. I have another
one-night stand, she is hiding under the computer desk watching me with
water-logged eyes. I am in a car with a
strange man, she is crying noiselessly in the front seat.
She
goes with me everywhere. She is my
child.
But
now I have met a new man. He notices her
hiding behind me. He is the first person
who has ever seen her.
"Hey
sweetie... look what I have for you."
He gives her a daisy and tells her she's a beautiful girl. I close my eyes as he stands to kiss my cheek.
When
I open them, my baby is gone and the flower is in my hand.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Flash Fiction: "Obedience"
I understand love when my father yells at me. He first beckons me to come close to him, so that he may share some important information only intended for my ear. I trust him, and I also fear his coffee breath. No words are exchanged. I only receive a good boxing on the side of my head from his clenched adult fist. I bleed. My ear clogs. Quite a lot of information for me to process. Pain, but lovingly numbed and cushioned by liquid love. Directly from the heart.
(c) Neesa Sunar 2014
(c) Neesa Sunar 2014
"Introduction to Author" and "Purpose of This Blog"
Greetings! If you have found this page, congrats! You will be privy to my ideas and musings regarding the mental health field. What authority do I have? Well, I am *simply* a peer. What is a peer? A person who *simply* has personal experience dealing with mental illness. Yes, I have a diagnosis. Yes, I have suffered for over twenty years. I like to say that, while my psychiatrist has an MD, I have a PhD in "insanity." College? The University of Neesa Sunar. Dean? Me. Valedictorian? Me. Last in class? Me. Student population? 1 person and 40,000 people all at once. The triune God of the Bible ain't got nothing on me.
I will introduce the logistics of myself briefly:
Name: Neesa Sunar.
Age: 28
Credentials for writing this blog: 1) Mental health services recipient for 20+ years (as earlier stated). 2) Recently trained as a "peer specialist" by Howie the Harp Peer Advocacy Center, and now embarking on the career path of "peer."
Did I say briefly? Read on if you long for something more verbose:
I have an extensive background as a classical musician. Specifically, the viola. I studied viola at the undergraduate level at Indiana University, whereupon I was awarded a Bachelors of Music in viola performance after coasting for four years. Coasting, meaning I played Sudoku during lectures, procrastinated assignments and practiced viola as little as possible, while attending less than ten parties over the course of my entire degree. I started a graduate degree directly afterwards, also at IU, when psychosis slapped me in the face. I realized that my "dream" of becoming a "rock star violist" was not really something I wanted. Forced to return to my native home of "terrible" Bayside, NY (located in that "terrible" borough of Queens), I discovered that the grit and hatred endemic to everything New York was endemic to me too. I, Neesa Sunar, hated smiles. Hated hugs. Hated happy couples. Hated the "happily ever after" that followed satisfying marriage ceremonies. But I certainly loved the subway. Comfortable place to sleep, don't you know. Cradles me as well as my mother's uterus once did.
Yes. I struggled to make use of my musical talent by teaching private lessons to children for three and a half years. I attended a K-12 New York state music teacher certification program at Queens College, while simultaneously teaching near-full-time at a private school in Brooklyn. Again, the stinging slap of psychosis across my face. All fell to pieces like Humpty Dumpty, and I became disabled once again. Ups and downs, but all under the bar of "acceptable behavior."
Much has happened since, which I care not to disclose at this moment. The sheer joy of this blog will be the gradual unraveling of my past. The fact that you DON'T know me is exciting. I can present my life as a soap opera that serves to cleanse its readers, much like soap in a shower. Do know that I currently am using a lemony bar of hand-crafted soap that I purchased in Woodstock in the summer of 2009. A bit stale, but still fulfillingly pungent and luxurious.
I name this blog "Let Them Take Pills," which is a play on the Marie Antoinette's statement, "Let Them Eat Cake." Whether or not she even uttered this statement is questionable. But no matter. The context is such: people were starving, and her answer was that they should eat "cake," something they could not afford. Hence: "Let them take pills." We suffer from ill mental health, and we are given pills. Pills, manufactured by pharmaceutical companies, exorbitantly expensive, and filled with ingredients as determined by super intelligent people with degrees and dexterous tongues, all flexible enough to pronounce jumbles of freshly-invented ten-syllable words. I take my pills, yet I have no understanding of how they work.
This being said, my pills are my lifeline. Years of experience with and without medications has shown me my comforts and my limits. And ultimately, I have learned the following lesson: the foundation of my wellness is indeed my medication. Without my medication, I am unable to reach for any degree of wellness at all. A few painful experiences show me that, without medicine, I am unable to control my racing thoughts. These thoughts issue commands, which are as forceful as the electric finger of God. I am unable to rest from obsession. My mind races a million miles a minute. My mind cannibalizes itself, leaving me incredibly exhausted at all times. Medication relieves this terrible state of being. I am grateful for this miracle in my life. At the same time, pills alone are not enough. I have had wonderful success in my recovery due to the caring friends and family in my life, as well as the ingenious Long Island Jewish hospital system in Queens, New York. In particular, I thank Zucker Hillside Hospital to my rehabilitation. Also a part of LIJ, ZHH is an entire hospital campus dedicated to mental health, as well as a center for research in schizophrenia. It was here that I was put on Clozapine. It was here that I learned vital techniques of CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It was here that I participated in a weight management group that helped me on my path of weight loss. (Weight, that was gained from medication.) It was here that I developed the confidence to know that I am not doomed to the life of collecting an SSI check.
My story is long, and definitely not boring. But all in good time. At this point, I would like to communicate that this blog is a voice. My voice. And I do believe that my voice is different from all other voices. How so? Let me list the ways:
- I am an eloquent person that strives for a sense of classicism in communication. Complete sentences, comprised of words spelled correctly. A literary flow in all that is described, with an attempt to be both cruelly acerbic and kindly soothing all at the same time. If you are curious of the influence of my writing style, you may thank W. S. Gilbert, the librettist of such Victorian gems as the Pirates of Penzance and HMS Pinafore.
- My particular tastes are different from most others'. For example, I was unable to discern the difference between Billy Joel and the Beatles until about the age of 23. As a child engrossed in the arduous task of learning the violin, I decried the satanic evils of non-classical music from the tender age of six. Songs with few chord changes and monophonic musical textures were considered brain candy, and the reason for a dull mind. I could never discern a single lyric over the cacophony of drum sets and electronic bleeps that strove to insult the brilliance of contrapuntal genius from centuries before. Elitist, you say? Yes. Just like books are elitist. Oh really? Yes. Books are elitist, because you have to know how to read in order to enjoy them.
- I have achieved superior mental health and health in general. I daresay that I have achieved a higher degree of wellness than most "mentally well" people. Despite my diagnosis, I have managed to lose over 75 pounds of weight gained due to medication. I continue to eat a diet of absolutely no candy or bread or grains, and I count the calories of everything I eat, every single day. I exercise, and love doing so. I dress fashionably, and fancy myself attractive. I am surrounded by a thick network of close friends. I have a gem of a mother, who has sacrificed everything in her life to ensure that I have had the best of opportunities to develop my skills and education, as well as have the freedom to express myself as I wished. She offers me shelter and love, and I am indebted to her forever. How many people can say that they have achieved all of this?
And finally:
- I am exceedingly intelligent. And creative. And ambitious. With these qualities combined, I am an opinionated person who strives to poke the issues at angles never before attempted. I strive to kick "opinionated giants" in the backs of their knees, crippling their arguments to the ground. And I am fearless. I am not afraid to criticize the medical model for forcing pills on unwilling patients. And I am not afraid to criticize the peer movement for minimizing the benefits of medication. I strive to look at both sides of the coin at the same time. Impossible, you say? I beg to differ. 1) Insanity makes anything possible. 2) If you lay the spine of a coin vertically along the bridge of your nose, you will see both sides, one by each eye. Of course, you would look like a cross-eyed fool, but many brilliants looked foolish in their beginnings. Dare to be one yourself.
***
Aside from blogging on issues related to mental illness, I will also share the occasional poem or creative work. I believe that my poetry carries an innate spirit of mental health awareness. I am sure it will please. Thank you for your attention, and adieu. For today.
~Neesa
I will introduce the logistics of myself briefly:
Name: Neesa Sunar.
Age: 28
Credentials for writing this blog: 1) Mental health services recipient for 20+ years (as earlier stated). 2) Recently trained as a "peer specialist" by Howie the Harp Peer Advocacy Center, and now embarking on the career path of "peer."
Did I say briefly? Read on if you long for something more verbose:
I have an extensive background as a classical musician. Specifically, the viola. I studied viola at the undergraduate level at Indiana University, whereupon I was awarded a Bachelors of Music in viola performance after coasting for four years. Coasting, meaning I played Sudoku during lectures, procrastinated assignments and practiced viola as little as possible, while attending less than ten parties over the course of my entire degree. I started a graduate degree directly afterwards, also at IU, when psychosis slapped me in the face. I realized that my "dream" of becoming a "rock star violist" was not really something I wanted. Forced to return to my native home of "terrible" Bayside, NY (located in that "terrible" borough of Queens), I discovered that the grit and hatred endemic to everything New York was endemic to me too. I, Neesa Sunar, hated smiles. Hated hugs. Hated happy couples. Hated the "happily ever after" that followed satisfying marriage ceremonies. But I certainly loved the subway. Comfortable place to sleep, don't you know. Cradles me as well as my mother's uterus once did.
Yes. I struggled to make use of my musical talent by teaching private lessons to children for three and a half years. I attended a K-12 New York state music teacher certification program at Queens College, while simultaneously teaching near-full-time at a private school in Brooklyn. Again, the stinging slap of psychosis across my face. All fell to pieces like Humpty Dumpty, and I became disabled once again. Ups and downs, but all under the bar of "acceptable behavior."
Much has happened since, which I care not to disclose at this moment. The sheer joy of this blog will be the gradual unraveling of my past. The fact that you DON'T know me is exciting. I can present my life as a soap opera that serves to cleanse its readers, much like soap in a shower. Do know that I currently am using a lemony bar of hand-crafted soap that I purchased in Woodstock in the summer of 2009. A bit stale, but still fulfillingly pungent and luxurious.
I name this blog "Let Them Take Pills," which is a play on the Marie Antoinette's statement, "Let Them Eat Cake." Whether or not she even uttered this statement is questionable. But no matter. The context is such: people were starving, and her answer was that they should eat "cake," something they could not afford. Hence: "Let them take pills." We suffer from ill mental health, and we are given pills. Pills, manufactured by pharmaceutical companies, exorbitantly expensive, and filled with ingredients as determined by super intelligent people with degrees and dexterous tongues, all flexible enough to pronounce jumbles of freshly-invented ten-syllable words. I take my pills, yet I have no understanding of how they work.
This being said, my pills are my lifeline. Years of experience with and without medications has shown me my comforts and my limits. And ultimately, I have learned the following lesson: the foundation of my wellness is indeed my medication. Without my medication, I am unable to reach for any degree of wellness at all. A few painful experiences show me that, without medicine, I am unable to control my racing thoughts. These thoughts issue commands, which are as forceful as the electric finger of God. I am unable to rest from obsession. My mind races a million miles a minute. My mind cannibalizes itself, leaving me incredibly exhausted at all times. Medication relieves this terrible state of being. I am grateful for this miracle in my life. At the same time, pills alone are not enough. I have had wonderful success in my recovery due to the caring friends and family in my life, as well as the ingenious Long Island Jewish hospital system in Queens, New York. In particular, I thank Zucker Hillside Hospital to my rehabilitation. Also a part of LIJ, ZHH is an entire hospital campus dedicated to mental health, as well as a center for research in schizophrenia. It was here that I was put on Clozapine. It was here that I learned vital techniques of CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It was here that I participated in a weight management group that helped me on my path of weight loss. (Weight, that was gained from medication.) It was here that I developed the confidence to know that I am not doomed to the life of collecting an SSI check.
My story is long, and definitely not boring. But all in good time. At this point, I would like to communicate that this blog is a voice. My voice. And I do believe that my voice is different from all other voices. How so? Let me list the ways:
- I am an eloquent person that strives for a sense of classicism in communication. Complete sentences, comprised of words spelled correctly. A literary flow in all that is described, with an attempt to be both cruelly acerbic and kindly soothing all at the same time. If you are curious of the influence of my writing style, you may thank W. S. Gilbert, the librettist of such Victorian gems as the Pirates of Penzance and HMS Pinafore.
- My particular tastes are different from most others'. For example, I was unable to discern the difference between Billy Joel and the Beatles until about the age of 23. As a child engrossed in the arduous task of learning the violin, I decried the satanic evils of non-classical music from the tender age of six. Songs with few chord changes and monophonic musical textures were considered brain candy, and the reason for a dull mind. I could never discern a single lyric over the cacophony of drum sets and electronic bleeps that strove to insult the brilliance of contrapuntal genius from centuries before. Elitist, you say? Yes. Just like books are elitist. Oh really? Yes. Books are elitist, because you have to know how to read in order to enjoy them.
- I have achieved superior mental health and health in general. I daresay that I have achieved a higher degree of wellness than most "mentally well" people. Despite my diagnosis, I have managed to lose over 75 pounds of weight gained due to medication. I continue to eat a diet of absolutely no candy or bread or grains, and I count the calories of everything I eat, every single day. I exercise, and love doing so. I dress fashionably, and fancy myself attractive. I am surrounded by a thick network of close friends. I have a gem of a mother, who has sacrificed everything in her life to ensure that I have had the best of opportunities to develop my skills and education, as well as have the freedom to express myself as I wished. She offers me shelter and love, and I am indebted to her forever. How many people can say that they have achieved all of this?
And finally:
- I am exceedingly intelligent. And creative. And ambitious. With these qualities combined, I am an opinionated person who strives to poke the issues at angles never before attempted. I strive to kick "opinionated giants" in the backs of their knees, crippling their arguments to the ground. And I am fearless. I am not afraid to criticize the medical model for forcing pills on unwilling patients. And I am not afraid to criticize the peer movement for minimizing the benefits of medication. I strive to look at both sides of the coin at the same time. Impossible, you say? I beg to differ. 1) Insanity makes anything possible. 2) If you lay the spine of a coin vertically along the bridge of your nose, you will see both sides, one by each eye. Of course, you would look like a cross-eyed fool, but many brilliants looked foolish in their beginnings. Dare to be one yourself.
***
Aside from blogging on issues related to mental illness, I will also share the occasional poem or creative work. I believe that my poetry carries an innate spirit of mental health awareness. I am sure it will please. Thank you for your attention, and adieu. For today.
~Neesa
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