I wasn’t there.

I cannot attest to the factual accuracy of what I’m about to share with you.

But according to a very close relative with whom I visited this weekend, I was given “everything” ~ all the love and attention in the world ~ but “there was something wrong with me.”

“From birth,” the relative pronounced with profound authority, “you were a very, very, very difficult child in every possible way.”

That is one truth. But is it the only truth?

Take a gun. Aim it at my heart or head. Then pull the trigger. I have heard this from this relative and others in my family more times than I can remember. It is in “the family record.” It IS the family record.

And I am not buying that particular truth anymore. It’s old. It’s out of date. It’s been disproven. It’s no longer valid or real.

Perhaps I was difficult. So?

In 1948, the year of my birth, perhaps I was difficult ~ compared to other children and other “norms” of the period. Who knows? For sure?

Perhaps there were other expectations of me. Was I a bad child? Did I hurt other people purposely? I don’t know and it’s all history now. Ancient history.

You may be wondering where I’ve been since November 30 ~ Day Three ~ of my outpatient eating disorder treatment program.

Read the comments to that last post. You’ll see some of my progress.

Since then a few things happened…

I snapped the picture you see, this morning. It’s a tight shot of my right hand.

Note the discolouration on my thumb. Not dirt. It’s a bruise, black and blue.

Also…

I am very right-handed and not, as I have discovered ~ in the least, whatsoever, in any remote way ~ ambidextrous. The plaster cast you see goes up to my elbow. It weighs “a ton.” Feels like it, anyway.

After a stupid fall on Wednesday, December 14 ~ all falls methinks are stupid, right? ~ and an x-ray revealed that I had indeed broken my right arm above my wrist, the technician in the ER fracture clinic said I would be able to have a yellow fibreglass cast in a week. Mmmmmm. My favourite colour.

This afternoon I met with the service manager of the Canadian National Institute of the Blind ~ the CNIB.

Kids with mental illnesses and visual impairments…

She and a group of teachers, parents and professionals working with blind or visually-impaired kids had asked me to speak at an annual conference ~ about mental health

A New Challenge…

Admittedly, I have never spoken or facilitated any kind of workshop on the subject of mental and emotional health for children and youth who are visually-impaired, had never even thought about this particular demographic

The topic fascinated me, so I was anxious to continue our dialogue.

Since Hurricane Irene visited New York…

I am relieved to report that Cherry Grove is still there, but the phone lines are bad and my cousins are busy moving back to Manhattan. I have no other details.

As I was saying…

It’s hard to explain how I felt when I first visited Cherry Grove 15 years ago.

Then I found this charming graphic by Fire Island resident and artist Susan Ann Thornton titled “Fire Island Boardwalk.”

It’s from her series of children’s books called Adventures of Baby Cat in Cherry Grove and it captures my perception of the ethos and spirit of this heavenly little summer place.  It’s magic transformed me back then, temporarily, and it did, again, a few weeks ago.

As conflicted I am right now about my body and my eating, in Cherry Grove, I found myself wandering about in shorts and halter tops and engaging easily with lots of people, especially those with dogs.

My psychiatric ‘history’ doesn’t exist. Nobody’s does. People let each other “be” and this total acceptance and inclusivity is utterly liberating.

Hello…

I was thinking of taking my “rant” about Norway down. Killing it.

I was thinking it might be hurting you and others.

It might be insensitive. It might be completely wrong. Out of line. Madness. My madness.

I wrote it on Monday, the day after ~ I can’t remember when, exactly.

Lately, I’ve been turning day into night…

My sleep cycle is all over the map. I was speaking from emotion, more than reason. Pure feeling. Not stream of consciousness. That would be too kind. And incorrect.

Just bald, naked, raw anger and fear. Fury, about how such a horrible and horrifying act of violence could happen to such a beautiful nation of peaceable people.

Other things were playing in the background of my mind, too.

Here’s my new head shot.

It was taken last night by my son-in-law Andrew Baxter, a professional videographer and photographer, at our birthday dinner for his wife, Rebecca Lager, the older of Marty’s two daughters.

I needed a new one…

The photo running here at Psych Central with my May 1, 2010 introduction was taken in 1998.

Time for an update.

So, Andrew, an absolute darling, schlepped all his lights, camera, backdrop and other photographic paraphernalia up here and took an hour to set up the lighting, whilst everyone was imbibing wine and merrymaking, before he sat me down in front of the camera.

He made “it” quick, easy and painless…

Not always so, for me. Let’s rewind a bit.

Yesterday, in my Leadership in Society class, the second last class of the term, my students discussed change.