My apologies for not writing to you every day as I said I would. I was making it a point to do this for a while, but I had problems concentrating and I could not overcome a blank screen. As I have freely admitted to you, I am mentally ill, and I’m under the care of a psychiatrist and a psychotherapist, along with being the reciepient of several state sponsored programs to assist me in living independently. I cannot navigate life on my own. I have a mental disorder which the second cousin to schizophrenia, in which disorganized thinking is at its core. On top of this, I have severe emotional problems. This is the reason why my writings have been a disappointment to me, because I’m making the focus all about myself and the ugliness within, instead of describing life in my town as I had planned to.
I told my therapist, Dana, that I didn’t wish to be a recluse anymore. She had told me that she was happy that I was working so hard in therapy, and making so much progress in such a short period of time. But this progress has been painful. Sometimes it gives me feelings of joy — a sense of blessed relief — but at other times, it can cause me sadness, anxiety, along with feelings of agitation and anger. This shows up sometimes in my writings also, but my face is now turned toward the sunshine, and I’m committed to finding positive modes of expression, while, at the same time, being a realist when it comes to social issues, equality, and justice.
“But when I observed the affairs of men plunged in such darkness, the guilty flourishing in continuous happiness, and the righteous tormented, my religion, tottering, began once more to fall”
I have begun to feel uncomfortable about writing to you and revealing so much about myself. According to my statistics, most of my readers are not hitting the “like” button or leaving comments here. Sometimes, I think some of these mysterious people are fellow bloggers, but I’m also sure that some of them just Googled something and found me, glancing at me once, then moving on. I’m concerned about online harassment, or if maybe someone from Robersonville will find my blog and can identify me using my picture, using it to hurt me and Laura. But to everyone who follows me in here, I know I can trust you. I was especially moved by the online support I received on my last post. If you don’t know the people I’m writing about, I invite you to visit their blogs and follow them, for I am sure they will follow you in return.
Radhika offers beautiful thoughts, along with lovely haikus and poetry. Her modest and unpretentious style is what draws me to her writings, and I find them fascinating and uplifting.
When you visit Lillian’s blog, you will see a portrait of a woman looking upward, her long tresses covering one side of her face, the painting covered with beautiful shades of red, green, purple and blue. This is her own original creation. She also shares an entire art gallery with us, showcasing her wonderful art. Not only that, she is a poet — following a sensitive muse — creating her art in her own space in her kitchen. I was deeply moved by her recent comment, where she sent me her loving kindness from her home country of Norway.
There is nothing more delightful and inspiring than Kranti’s philosophy. These are the thoughts of a person who wishes to influence others for the good of humanity. She spreads good vibes and good thoughts, showing us that, in her words, everyone’s life is their own personal art, encouraging us to create a beautiful aesthetic.
One morning, I was searching in my WordPress reader, looking for a blog which would give me inspiration, then I found Anjali. She has encouraged me, through her blog and comments, to view the proverbial glass as half-full instead of half-empty. She once wrote to me that if I would view the positive side of the coin, and reject negitivity, I would live better; and I know for certain that she spoke the truth. Her outlook, along with Kranti’s, have influenced me tremendously, and helped me to gain strength of mind, and to change my life.
Moushmi is an intelligent young woman from India. I’m always impressed with her. Sometimes she shares with us the books she has read in the past month, and she reads numerous ones. I have gathered from looking at her blog, that she is putting off marriage and having a family of her own for school and a career. (If you are reading this, Moushmi, please correct me if I’m wrong.) And I have gathered that she believes in justice for women everywhere, and that they should be paid as much as a man. She believes — and I agree to this — in justice and equality for women everywhere. Women and men should be equals, and women should not be made to be subservient to men.
Deeksha has a cooking blog, where she encourages us to “savor and eat.” I have just met her in this blogging world, and I appreciate her sudden interest in my personal story. She has recipies for many good things to eat.
“A friend is the medicine of life.”
— Unknown Author
On Monday morning, I left at dawn on my bicycle for the city of Greenville to keep my appointment with Dana. There air outside was cool and humid. As I placed my bike in high gear and pedalled rapidly, I passed through the outskits of Robersonville and began to look at the crops growing in the open fields. The tobacco plants were progressing nicely, being over five feet tall, their bottom leaves ripe and already pulled off to be placed in barns for heating and curing. The cotton crop was all bushy, with a dark color green enfolding white blossums. The corn has not fared so well, however, turning brown prematurely, its growth, stunted.
When I entered the north side of the city, passing through downtown, turning toward the streets leading me to the Medical District, then arriving at the human services building at the Brody Medical School, I had some extra time before my appointment, so I went up to the medical school library to cool off and look at some of the books. I find the treatises that comprise the milestones of the history of medicine to be the most fascinating texts I have ever read. As I continued brousing from book to book, I laid down my biking helmet somewhere in the stacks, and absent mindedly walked away from it. I was the only person on the third floor, it was very quiet and I was basking in the silence, the students having gone back home for the summer, and, when I suddenly realized what I had done, I walked around everywhere among the desks and aisles of books, looking everywhere for my helmet, but it was nowhere to be found.
When it was time for my appointment, I left the library and walked over to the clinic. Dana called me back into her office soon after to start my session. I might take you inside with us sometime, and share with you the things that we have been talking about, but right now my emotions are raw, and I’m not able to do this.
When my counseling session was over, I walked back upstairs to the front desk of the library to see if somebody had found my helmet and turned it in. The librarian looked inside a nearby cabinet, but the helmet wasn’t in there, so I rode my bicycle to the bike shop to purchase another one. When I arrived, there was a young woman with an effervescent personality who helped me pick out the perfect helmet. She even went so far as to fit it upon my head, adjusting the straps and the knob on the back as if she were a tailor fitting me for a fancy suit. I realized that losing my old helmet was actually a blessing — it was as if I had traded a cheap helmet for a really good one. The young lady, with sandy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a cheerfulness that was guaranteed to win over even the most hardened misanthrope, crushed the box the new helmet came in, folding it up so I could fit it into my backpack, and, as she held the front door open for me, I pushed my bike through the doorway toward the bustling street outside.
“Have an amazing day!” she exclaimed as I was leaving, with my new helmet strapped securely upon my head.
And you, too, my friend, may you have an amazing day.