Spirituality

I’m a part time atheist but I would encourage anyone experiencing mental health difficulties or not to explore their spirituality. I have found great meaning in my struggles through a spiritual framework. There are many paths to way-makers and miracle workers. If you find peace elsewhere embrace it.

For me there has been a great deal of symbolism in my various states of wellness.

We are all worthy of spiritual respect regardless of our circumstances or state of mind. The next time you encounter the hopeless, homeless or helpless keep in mind that Christ would be classified as crazy.

When we name someone as addicted, homeless, mentally ill etc., we can distance ourselves from them and absolve ourselves of a common responsibility let alone a communal response.

Do we look at individuals with mental health difficulties and assume there is only something wrong with the individual? There is usually a genetic component but most illnesses and addictions are an expression of the environment as well. If “it takes a village to raise a child” then it must follow that it takes a village to raise an addict or a ‘depressive’ or a ‘schizophrenic’. When I see my family doctor the computer with my health information is in front of me while I wait. The screen says I am bipolar, PTSD, PNES etc. I’m not even sure she knows I have been incarcerated. Most people I meet go on less so I’m not annoyed.

It might be a weak argument but what if we put a “normal” person in the environments I have endured? Having ‘been there’ I would imagine similar outcomes and symptoms. Maybe genetics would guard against certain realities but I’m not sure ‘blood’ blocks trauma. For those who believe mental illness is a shortcoming I invite you to stand where I have stood. Spend a few weeks in solitary confinement. Spend the worst part of a year navigating other inmates while fluidly psychotic.

I’m tired of being disordered. I’m tired of being mentally ill. Society puts these labels on my experiences to limit the responsibility we all have to the vulnerable. When I flop around on my floor having pseudo-seizures society can point to me as a problem. He has PNES. No shit! You put someone in a concrete box with a toilet to talk to and he has symptoms? Go figure.

When we name someone as addicted, homeless, mentally ill etc., we can distance ourselves from them and absolve ourselves of a common responsibility let alone a communal response.

London and District Academy of Medicine – Patient Healthcare Forum: Improving Healthcare and Ending Hallway Medicine Presentation

My mental health journey began when I was 10 years old. I was admitted to the Adolescent Unit at the old Children’s Hospital here in London when I was 15 and 17. In my twenties I was admitted to the 8th floor at the Old Victoria hospital.
The next leg of my journey was Two- Years- Less- A- Day in the Correctional System. I was re-arrested in my early 30’s and spent 9 months psychotic in a Detention Centre. This included about 6 weeks in solitary confinement. I was found Not Criminally Responsible On Account of a Mental Disorder and remained in the Forensic Mental Health System for 6 years.
More recently I have experienced two ambulance rides, two mental health arrests by London Police Service, two one week stays in the London Health Sciences Centre ER department and a one month say on an acute unit at LHSC. At present I am an outpatient with Parkwood Institute (St. Joseph’s Health Care).
The difficulties I have faced accessing Mental Health Care are both personal and systemic.
When individuals fall through the cracks the costs are enormous. I might not look it, but this province has invested over a million dollars in me. You might think that would be pleasing but many days I am fragmented. It’s no one’s fault but we can do better. There are a multitude of highly qualified and deeply compassionate care providers who also need something more workable.
The ER at London Health Sciences is a miniaturization and mirror of the penal system. Patients don’t wear orange, but we are coloured by diagnosis and risk. The ER rooms are quite like solitary confinement. I hope that doesn’t sound hyperbolic because they are worse. There are no windows and when you enter the hallway there are Correctional Officers monitoring prisoner patients and if you need to use the toilet it is a shared jail toilet. Stainless steel no seat. To get there you must walk the gauntlet of police officers and security staff who all look alike. This is not therapeutic it is traumatizing and a criminalization of mental health crisis. The one room I was in I urinated in the corner drain most of the time I was there. We didn’t call it the ER in jail. It was called the Hole or the Digger.
My view of LHSC is that security runs the show. Safety and security are paramount, but this makes the situation no less stigmatizing. I realize it is cheaper to handle chaos with security rather than hire health care workers but is that ethical? Is it even humane?
In the 80’s and 90’s we had orderlies. They interacted with and were familiar with patients. In those days’ patients had many of the same symptoms and the availability of sharps was the same or worse but today we have paramilitary forces in hospital. It seems as far from therapeutic as you can get. My hospitalization’s in the 80’s and 90’s were by comparison positive experiences. To treat everyone as a risk to themselves or others is stigmatizing and redundant.
The ER and acute system are not only chaotic and frightening but once you’re there you’re only honest enough to find freedom. I deal with suicidal thoughts regularly and often repetitively. As an outpatient my mind was made up that if I made that decision it would be my last. There was no way I was going to be left for emergency services or the acute unit to impart what are in my estimation traumatic treatments.

 

We need a mental health care system that is more community based with improved coordination between agencies. My perception is that we have a funnel whereby individuals access mental health care through the ER and acute services. I’m a poor example as I have an aversion to assistance, but individuals and families would be better served in the community.
We need more Mobile Crisis Teams and Teams that can deliver care in the community. Having the police involved in mental health apprehensions is inefficient, traumatizing and stigmatizing. The police by nature are agents of control rather than agents of care. When an individual is brought to the ER by the police, health care workers have a perception of that individual and it can be a barrier to compassion and care.
Too much funding is being used by the police in mental health interactions and it becomes a snake swallowing its own tail as these forces call out for more funding for a job they do ineffectively. The further they progress the more they consume. We provide piecemeal mental health training to police who are paid 70 thousand dollars per year while there is a shortage of mental health and addiction workers who are paid 40 thousand dollars per year. Using the ‘Sunshine List’ to deliver patients for healthcare is a dim idea and there are more humane interventions.
If a perennial patient can access the system outside of emergency services it is the best possible outcome. The individual can depend on familiarity and continuity of care. These elements are not only lifesaving, but they are fiscally functional as well. It costs about 25 hundred dollars for a therapist to see a patient once a week for a year. The bill for my one month stay on the Acute Unit was over 75 hundred dollars. The personal and familial costs are incalculable.
When I consider how quickly a mental health difficulty can spiral out of control I think family doctors should be able to make a true urgent referral. Many of these incidents are a matter of life and death. My family doctor made an urgent referral and had I been swiftly seen I may have been able to stabilize without calling on emergency services. It makes absolutely no sense that you can call the police and be seen right away but to access a healthcare worker you must wait. Family doctors need to be more effectively included in the circle of care.
Spirituality seems like an odd antidote for hallway medicine but distress can be intertwined with faith structures and some of my symptoms can be overcome or integrated by utilizing a spiritual framework. Spirituality can be a basis for or link to community and community supports can be a preventative factor in healthcare. Stigma is isolating, and isolation can be lethal. When I see a person of any faith I can converse with fewer words while comfort and compassion are a gesture I do not have to see with my eyes. These individuals can dissolve portions of uncertainty and fear. In the Forensic System the interdenominational pastor was part of the team.
To alleviate hallway medicine, I believe we need a two-pronged approach. I see two pressure points on the mental health system. One point is individuals who need to be able to access the system prior to emergency care. Patients are presenting at ER because of waiting 6 months or more. If these individuals can see someone within days, there is hope. That someone could be a recreational therapist. When I see my recreational therapist, I know there is a psychiatric nurse, a psychiatrist and Team behind her. These Teams can be a great resource and can be part of a system of triage where they can recognize difficulties and direct individuals to the care that best meets their needs. Hopefully this would prevent individuals from getting worse and requiring more intensive healthcare. Sometimes what a person needs most is simply to be seen. Mental health difficulties are usually manageable healthcare needs.
The other pressure point is individuals who are more chronic and require longer term beds and more intensive healthcare. It seems counterintuitive to have a hospital bed occupied for longer but if a longer admission prevents others in the future the savings are real and in effect more humane. If surgeries were left half completed, we would be appalled. Long- term treatment is integral for a subset of individuals with complex mental health care needs.
The individuals who we fail to fully intervene with and for, may not weigh directly on the healthcare system but they still require resources from other agencies. When I drive by the Elgin Middlesex Detention Centre I know that over 70 percent of inmates need mental health care and addiction services. This is the most expensive backwards delivery of care that anyone could imagine.
If we can alleviate these two points I believe we can make headway in ending hallway medicine and hopefully much of the funding required can be recouped by lessening the demands on emergency medicine, policing, corrections, forensics and shelters.
We have been feeding the wrong end of the elephant.

Apple = Love

I wrote the skeleton of this story a couple of days before I had to euthanize my therapy dog Ani.

The question I awoke with that morning was: If you could never eat an apple again would you wish to experience it in all other forms or would you choose to have the apple disappear from all your senses?

Memory can be “madness” and awareness is sometimes the suffering. Life is basically memory and imagination if in fact there is a difference.

It seems obvious that anyone would choose to see apple trees or notice the smell of baked apple pie but the alternative might be less painful. If one is unaware do they suffer less?

The experience of missing out involves a knowledge of or expectation of something different. Being five minutes late for the bus is being fifteen minutes early for the person next to you. Both kick at the cold but the same event is grief on either side of expectation and ultimately acceptance.

Having three brothers I was accustomed to missing out on apple pie but when I was incarcerated and hospitalized I seldom experienced the depth of specific disappointment. A slight awareness and imagination was tortuous but to have been fully aware of the actual taste of my Mom’s apple pie or the feel of warm sand and rhythmic waves would have exacerbated my ‘madness.’

Reading these thoughts in light of the unexpected passing of my pet leaves me not with an answer but another question: Would you choose the experience knowing the pain that is inevitable or is Love itself an upfront acceptance of and or investment in loss?

Sanity

Most of us know triumph but everyone knows sorrow. As I type this my dog Ani is growing cold in the back of my car. She was euthanized today and I am doing my best to procure similarities with 5.5% alcohol. Ani had bone cancer and one of her bones was fractured and disintegrating. Now I am.

If you’ve owned a dog you have or will have to say goodbye. To say I was fighting back tears at the veterinarian’s view of things is laughable but I tried.

Ani wasn’t an average dog that I crated up and cursed the cold with twice a day. She was my therapy and only friend. We spent the last 10 years in each other’s company 24/7.

I did not train her but if I swore she nuzzled up to me. She knew I was having a hard time if I cursed. I guess I will have to come to terms with the fact that now no-one will love me when I am unlovable.

The veterinarian said it would only cost me 30 bucks for paw prints and a measly $400 for some assholes who didn’t love my dog to guarantee that the ashes in the urn were in fact only Ani. Screw you and your mourning marketing. Poverty is impervious.

If you’re local you’ll wonder how this asshole expects to bury a dog in March. I half built a granite garden within view of Ani’s bed in the house. That is where Ani will rest. About all I have to do is thaw 15 bags of topsoil from whichever garden centre is open and stocked.

I don’t know what most people say to their dog as they slip away but I said “thank you.” I said “thank you” and I massaged the inside of Ani’s ears like I always did.

When I first got Ani I named her sANIty. I was dissuaded by the premise that she sounded like a boat but in hindsight calling her from a distance would have been problematic. “Sanity,” “Sanity Come.” If it were that easy to summon sanity you wouldn’t be reading my blog. Part of me will always call Ani from a distance but our closeness can never be argued.

I dedicate this story to all therapy and service dogs. Very few wear a vest.

I was screaming about “21 feet” so they weren’t justified in shooting anything, but they were already 10 feet away. They finally got my dog away from me and I turned around and stripped naked without prompting. “On the floor.” And they pinned me to the floor with their Plexiglas shields and handcuffed me. The paramedics gave me a needle in the ass and I was placed on the gurney I had kicked over when they parked it at my front door.

I like to think I’m somewhere near the bottom edge of normal. Some days I imagine other people with extraordinary lives. I pretty much plant myself in the same few spots of a fifty foot by 100′ acreage. Every car I see is imaginable as extraordinary. My life has been like being on a sightseeing tour except the brochure and map are for another location and the guide doubles as a guard.

I spent a few months hiding which is leaps and bounds beyond only moving around the house in the dark. I know every noise depending on how I shift my weight. Most days I’m suicidal but I keep my pills in weekly containers to make it all seem onerous.

I used to have more kick and fight but I’m still feeling beaten down by my latest healthcare apprehensions. In March I left the house on an ambulance gurney. I had four seizures which seems reasonable after a year of two to three hours of sleep and a drinking and fasting regime. I was screaming at my mattress because I didn’t want to go in an ambulance let alone a hospital. I was unwell, and the ambulance ride was a blackout, but I recall recalling some of my story as far as justice and innocence in the emergency department. It’s important to be heard even in a CT scan. It was a bunch of psychogenic non-epileptic seizures, but I felt like I got hit by a truck. I slept for three days and only walked to the washroom.

A few weeks later I got dragged out of the house on another ambulance gurney, but things didn’t go as smoothly. I was funneled through the police before the paramedics would do whatever it is they do; the ambulance ride was another blackout. I sure as shit remember the cops and all the Plexiglas shields as I ranted from the corner of my living room protecting my therapy dog. Things would have turned out differently had I known one of the cops told my wife “we might have to shoot the dog.”

I was screaming about “21 feet” so they weren’t justified in shooting anything, but they were already 10 feet away. They finally got my dog away from me and I turned around and stripped naked without prompting. “On the floor.” And they pinned me to the floor with their Plexiglas shields and handcuffed me. The paramedics gave me a needle in the ass and I was placed on the gurney I had kicked over when they parked it at my front door.

I was only in the ER against my will for a few days. Because of my experiences in solitary confinement and the similarities with LHSC the first hours were in my world days. I lost all sense of time again and was very agitated with anyone who turned on the lights. I was strapped down at least twice but those events are basically blackouts as well. I don’t react normally to such conditions and confinement which is where some of my agitation and anxiety arise. I guess you’d have to spend a year or two with an indefinite sentence on your person to get it.

I left against doctors’ advice in part because the only other option was to remain in “solitary confinement” until they found a psychiatric bed. Maybe if they had a window in the room or something other than a jail toilet in the hallway of correctional officers and cops. I pissed in the drain in the corner most of the time I was there.

A few days later the police came to apologize, I thought, but five of them seemed to want to stuff me in the back of a police car. I had bruises for two weeks from where they squeezed the pressure points on the insides of my arms. The cops left me back in the ER with a “spit hood” on my head and some nurse trying to medicate me. I overheard someone say, “I’ll take anyone but that one.”

After about five weeks they let me wander so I can spend half my time wishing I was dead and the other half wondering if I have a choice.

I know of no other health condition that the police are likely to respond to. I understand that behavior is a symptom, but I don’t see nurses giving out speeding tickets.

Inclusion involves sharing the experience and it involves interaction and communication.

In battling with exclusion and discrimination, I think it is important to recognize the historical nature and scale of exclusion. Much of the language and imagery which intertwines with mental illness has its roots in the idea of demonic possession or evil spirits. Some of this still lingers today in public perceptions and therefore public policy. Various cultures and groups depend on folk beliefs for knowledge of mental illness which is also reflected in core beliefs. If an individual cannot understand mental illness they cannot understand an individual with it. To me inclusion involves sharing the experience and it involves interaction and communication.

Although 1 in 5 may experience a mental illness in their lifetime a large portion of society will never feel or experience mental illness personally. It is overlooked or not imagined that illness is part of the human experience. Even the strong and healthy eventually succumb to the ravages of time. Instead of “that can never be me” it needs to be recognized that “it could be me” and “will be me”. I’m not sure how you enforce empathy but to me it is the basis of inclusion. To recognize difference is easy but to acknowledge similarities takes mindful work and it is a process.

It becomes difficult to include when exclusion is a means of psychological safety. People are prone to disengage and disavow what is a threatening possibility in themselves. Exclusion is a deep rooted and timeless function of individuals and societies. Incarceration and hospitalization can and have been forms of exclusion for those who are different, disturbing or difficult. Individuals with mental health difficulties are often unable or unwilling to conform due to symptoms. Unfortunately, it is the still suffering and or untreated by which those who are identified or self-identify are measured. The gifts and unique attributes individuals with mental illness posses are sometimes lost in the telling of only part of the story. More people are aware that Vincent van Gogh cut his ear off than have browsed his significant contribution to the world of art.

If I mention to someone with no experience outside of myth and movies that I have bi-polar disorder, often I am measured and treated as the imagery that occupies the observers mind. With mental illness a point in time or episode of illness seems to define the individual. Gifts or skills take a back seat in identity and dignity is undermined by the perception that a person is an illness. Mental illness is often viewed as a permanent flaw and shrouded in risk. On a personal level it is easier and safer to discount or devalue these individuals than it is to accept or foster diversity. The consequences then become systemic and societal.

“I simply represented a normal part of diversity in the spectrum of differentness in our community.”  Norman Kunc (The Other Side of Therapy: Disability, Normalcy and the Tyranny of Rehabilitation)

Follow the white rabbit.

We sold our chicken coop not long ago. My wife mentioned that the yard looks better without it. I told her it was a painful reminder of my recent mania and psychosis. She said to look at it more positively. “Not many in London have experienced poultry as you have.”

For some reason London doesn’t allow backyard birds. I was certifiably certain the bylaw was about to change when I purchased my birds. In my mania I ended up with five ducks and ten chickens. That’s a slight exaggeration as one of the chickens was actually a rooster. In hindsight I think he was my undoing.

The first month I thought I had lucked out and had a rooster without the ability to crow. It was a delusion. He was however the most beautiful bird I have ever owned. When I picked him up from another Londoner and brought him home I opened the cardboard box and he flew straight to the top of our aluminum shed. My first thought was how to get him down in broad daylight but then, I just watched him.

We had sod in our backyard before all this but with rains my free range flock quickly turned the backyard into a mud-hole. It was too muddy for the chickens and soon they were living on our elevated deck in full view of the neighbourhood. The bylaw enforcement officer seemed quite intrigued with the five that were Jersey Giants but less so than the rooster.

I was warned several times but my seven white rabbits were basically feral at that point. My neighbours don’t speak to me but I cant wait to ask them if they thought they had lost their minds when they kept seeing white rabbits. I found the rabbits a home about 80 bucks too late but I can still hear flapping wings and the knock of a meat cleaver my buddy used to dispatch the ducks. I didn’t see it but I think the effect was about the same.

Now our food scraps go in the garbage and I have no fresh eggs to share but I did not surrender. I now have three Eastern Cottontail rabbits to eat the complaining neighbour’s rosebush. I also own several Canada Geese, at least four Mallard Ducks, a pair of pigeons, about a dozen Morning Doves, some swallows, half a dozen Goldfinches and flocks of Starlings and sparrows. We live in a new subdivision and there are two huge mud puddles right across the street. I walk over there once a week and spread cracked corn. Location, location, location.

 

With fewer options when it comes to interpersonal relationships the individual in recovery is prone to prodding the past in an attempt to reclaim valued social roles.  It is understandable that individuals with mental illness and or addictions attempt to return to some state of Eden; a time of better health or perceived ‘normalcy’.

Social exclusion can be a factor in the reoccurrence of addictive behaviours and or a recurrence of mental health symptoms. Substances provide an escape from feelings of worthlessness and the effects of marginalization. Addictions are at times a form of self-medicating but even when medications hold symptoms at bay, stigma and self-stigma can be obliterated temporarily through substances.

Reclaiming valued social roles is sometimes not an option for those with concurrent disorders. Creating a self-directed positive self-identity then becomes more challenging and precarious. In the recovery process, friendships, acquaintances and communities may need to be abandoned to maintain sobriety and incorporate a healthy lifestyle. This can be problematic in that it initially deepens social isolation. These instances can lead to a further withdrawal from social contact which creates challenges regarding self-image, self-esteem and overall social inclusion. If steps towards ‘social recovery’ lead to a reduction of symptoms, it is imperative for individuals who are susceptible to addiction to find meaningful relationships and supportive friendships.

With fewer options when it comes to interpersonal relationships the individual in recovery is prone to prodding the past in an attempt to reclaim valued social roles.  It is understandable that individuals with mental illness and or addictions attempt to return to some state of Eden; a time of better health or perceived ‘normalcy’. Unfortunately some of the individuals rooted in these times and places offer little more than an outdated and unhealthy identity that precede the more serious or institutional aspects of mental health difficulties. By associating with old ‘friends’ individuals are able to return to memories and unearth altered and destroyed status. Individuals can vicariously reclaim or re-experience a social identity by entering the illusion of  “I’m still that guy” or in being “one of the boys.” Addictions are often hidden within this short term and illusory construct.

For individuals with addictions, interpersonal relationships can be manipulations. Some addicts use not just substances but anyone they can to procure a ‘fix’. Those with mental health challenges or disabilities are susceptible to manipulation and may be eager to form relationships without much insight into the validity or health of those relationships. Relationships that occur through acting out addictions are a substitute or mirage of meaningful relationships. When dealers or other users accept you or you are known to them, it can be an affirmation of self. It can be a community albeit with a crumbling and precarious foundation. Standing outside these relationships we can see it is a temporary solution which exacerbates mental health and overall health but addiction by nature often renders the individual incapable of viewing themselves objectively. 

The capacity to create healthier relationships or return to mainstream existence is undermined by the ‘bliss’ experienced in altered states. Remedies and interventions often are weak alternatives to the experience of being ‘high’. It is a costly and temporary ‘bliss’ but it can be obtained with no skills, little effort and with proven or expected outcomes. What can be purchased ‘on a street corner’ is convenient, immediate and it does not require an appointment, an agency or a therapist. Substances provide temporary relief and comfort without real community. 

In Canadian culture to drink is an indoctrination into adulthood which lessens feelings of being treated as a child in healthcare. It can also be an expression of masculinity and a symbol of or celebration of hard work. For someone with a concurrent disorder it can be like jumping into a family photograph without being a relation. Essentially the individual can be more and feel less.

“having no social capital or economic power relegates valuable and dynamic individuals to situations and communities where…”

For those living with serious and persistent mental illness, interpersonal relationships can be fragile at best. The reoccurrence of symptoms can undermine if not destroy what is already precarious. Occupation, relationships, healthy activities and even housing can be disrupted. The energy expended in rebuilding the basic elements of existence leaves little in the way of motivation or resources to devote to self-directed social inclusion and patients can become dependent on formal interventions and services which can highlight and perpetuate powerlessness and the perception of such. 

Feelings of worthlessness and exclusion are in a way simply a mirror of how society inadvertently and outwardly segregates mental illness and addictions. Having more than one alternative available for social inclusion becomes difficult when finances and housing are barriers themselves. Safe and affordable housing is one key to ensure that individuals with mental health difficulties are able to invest in communities outside of the ‘psychiatric community’. New hospitals are designed to be healthy and beautiful spaces but community housing here in Canada often falls far short. If community planners could incorporate housing that is integrated, affordable, safe and healthy, patients would have more opportunities to develop relationships within social mainstream and the effects of stigma and stigma itself would be lessened. Supportive housing can become or simply is ‘stigmatized housing’.

Mental health patients form relationships among themselves because of common experiences but economic similarities are also predominant in determining social mobility. This can be an effect of stigma but it also perpetuates stigma as individuals with serious and persistent mental health difficulties are inadvertently quarantined from spaces and situations where the general population could witness their humanity and gifts. 

Economic factors often impede recovery, social inclusion and the formation of a positive identity. The financial limitations that a disability income imposes leaves fewer options and opportunities for experimenting with interests or forming friendships outside of the ‘psychiatric community’. Individuals are often relegated to housing and facilities in areas which are substandard and exacerbate mental health difficulties. Individuals are at times forced to navigate neighbourhoods where addiction, crime and violence are more prevalent. Gentrification often disposes and quarantines this vulnerable segment of the population. 

A disability income can become a barrier. It can be a safety net when illness is predominant but in times of equilibrium and remission it can undermine self-determination and it accentuates weaknesses. A disability income tethers a persons identity to that disability. In a culture where identity is synonymous with what employs a person, to answer with ‘I have a disability’ is a mantra of defect, defeat and disgrace. In social situations where a person might find connection, having no social capital or economic power relegates valuable and dynamic individuals to situations and communities where this is not a concern or it is accepted if not expected. Economics can be exclusionary and gaining independence is complicated by being a dependent.

Workplace exclusion is basically societal exclusion. Without gainful employment the ability to contribute financially to self-care and opportunities of community, social inclusion or interpersonal relationships is undermined. This form of societal exclusion also undermines an individuals ability to contribute financially to society and fractures a sense of belonging or contributing. Financial restrictions lead to a dependence on traditional healthcare services and furthers a dependence on these social supports and the community offered there. Limited employment opportunities and or dependence on social services limits an individuals exposure to healthcare workers outside of psychiatry; for example a massage therapist or a yoga teacher. Being able to contribute financially enhances self-efficacy, self-esteem, self-determination and social status which in turn enhance wellbeing and leads to the confidence required for social activity.

Disability support can become a ‘sentence’ as much as a service. Opportunities for self-improvement, social integration, social mobility and even relationship status become limited and can lead to a further withdrawal from activities and excursions into mainstream culture. ‘Money can’t buy happiness’ but by confining individuals with mental health difficulties and or addictions to the poverty line; self-determination, social status, self-efficacy and self-esteem stagnate. The seriousness of these factors is that they perpetuate and exacerbate underlying difficulties which is costly socially and economically for all citizens.

The Non’cents’ of Police Mental Health Strategies

When I first became involved in the Ontario Provincial Police Mental Health Strategy I was a well written mascot for individuals who come into contact with the criminal justice system as a result of mental health difficulties. After pouring my heart and story into a gathering of Ontario Provincial Police (O.P.P.) officers, service providers and community stakeholders I was invited to lunch by one of the O.P.P. “brass.”

We ate at Boston Pizza so funds could stay within the “ranks.” I asked this individual why don’t the O.P.P. have specialized officers like they have officers who are trained in S.W.A.T.? “It would de-escalate the situation if an officer entered the situation with “N.U.R.S.E.” written on their bulletproof vest, I said. No, we want healthcare agencies and community stakeholders to step up he retorted. They are better equipped and we are a police agency, healthcare is not our mandate. This all made “cents” and my only other question was if there was a statute of limitations on perjury. He seemed to prickle at the question. Possibly he thought I was asking for myself but answered, No, but it’s not something we normally pursue.

I made the 8 hour round trip to O.P.P. Headquarters in Orilla a few times so people being paid could bounce acronyms off my brain and to be traumatized by uniforms, locked doors and training scenarios where I could imagine myself and people I have met over the years shot to death. The main take away for me was to make sure I keep at least a distance of 21 feet from armed officers as anything less becomes licence to kill.

About a year later I had a couple meetings at the London O.P.P. Detachment and the plan was for me to travel across the province except for Thunder Bay to different detachments to help promote the Ontario Provincial Police Mental Health Strategy. I was starting to go “off script” and received one last phone call.

I was told how the O.P.P. was now visiting mental health consumers in the community and escorting them to doctor appointments and such to instil in these individuals a sense that two uniformed officers at your front door is a good thing. I asked, “what is the salary of a police officer?” “I’m not sure” was the reply. “Well, I’ll tell you, it’s around $60,000 out of the gate.” “Two mental health workers (without uniforms, guns and specially painted cruisers) is about half that.” “Why not have twice as many mental health workers do the same thing?”

For those who are unfamiliar with the difference between mental health workers and police, only one imagines themselves as such which makes all the difference. 

If the O.P.P. and other police forces in Canada do in fact want better mental health outcomes for citizens either specialize or stand down. Until then, like the individual mentioned after buying me lunch with his constabulary credit card: “We’ll let the Queen pay.”

Taking The Long Way Home (Trigger Warning: Deals With Suicide)

 

I don’t usually talk about suicide. Some people believe if we talk about it we may trigger someone who is vulnerable. I committed suicide once and have made a couple of attempts. Thoughts of suicide have consumed enough of my days to compile into years. It comes in waves and can last for months.

I was counselled to commit suicide twice by my x-wife. Once all my medications were handed to me in a grocery bag. I returned home having not carried out her instructions as it was only months since I had died in the back of an ambulance. I told her “I will not abandon my children.” My medications were then presented to me in a cereal bowl as I was having a cigarette in my garage. I was told it would “be easier this way.” It certainly would have!

By refusing these requests I found myself in over a decade of suffering and segregation, it continues today. I lost my children, my freedom, my home, my possessions, my clothes, my eyeglasses and most of my sanity. My x-wife did not want anything near an equitable divorce and so decided on a divorce by cops. Her lies and those of others culminated in her being the irrevocable beneficiary of my life insurance policy. This was a blessing at times as I clung to this world only to prevent her from further wealth.

My plan for a time was to canoe out a mile or two into Lake Huron and capsize my canoe after wrapping clothesline attached to cement blocks around my body. It was my belief that my x-wife would have to wait several years for me not to be considered a missing person. I also thought this would save my family a degree of grief.

The reason I don’t speak about suicide is that I am susceptible to confinement when I am honest about it. In places I have resided and offices I visit, to feel, think or express that depth of hopelessness is a “clause” to losing your clothes. It would probably be helpful to share my suicidal ideation with therapists but to be a danger to self in a building I have no key for is to risk my freedom and self determination. To be suicidal in an institution for me just means in the moments I am not, I am infantilized if not humiliated.

Sometimes I don’t want to surrender my thoughts of suicide. They are somewhat of a companion and a form of escape. When I am suicidal, I can dream that my anguish will cease. Those moments are horrendous in and of themselves but the surrender portion takes less energy. Sometimes these thoughts come from depression, sometimes they tear at me through psychosis and sometimes they would be your thoughts in the same situation.

I sometimes speak to God in these moments. Recently I begged Him to just take me. I was in bed and weeping. “I can’t take any more” I don’t want to see any more” “There is nothing more I want to do” “Please just take me.” Tears were tracing my temples as I begged to be released from my suffering.  

Maybe God doesn’t show His face because He wants us to see others. Maybe He wants us to serve instead of seek. Maybe He wants us to find our humanity and the humanity of others before we transpire and transpose into something else.

I’m not sure what draws me back from the edge of suicide. I wonder if it is a power outside of myself or some small flicker in myself that I ultimately wish not to extinguish. When the thoughts are milder, I find strength in some part of a song or a faint memory of goodness.  When I need mercy and I’m beyond all I can take, beyond surrender and even beyond defeat, I defer death until morning. Its a bad habit, but it makes breathing easier.

When I surface, I sometimes see my worth. Sometimes I see that I have a purpose. Sometimes I see that it is my brokenness and suffering that are my gift. Sometimes I don’t want people to have to travel for my funeral and leave with nothing but questions. “Why did he give up now?” “Why didn’t I see, say or do?” Sometimes I don’t want to pass my pain onto others. Sometimes I don’t want to leave a mess or be found with shit in my pants. Sometimes I see that to throw away a second chance would probably give some doctor the opportunity to give me a third which would be harder to swallow.

Sometimes I can trace my suicidal thoughts to specific losses or pain. Sometimes I can’t escape the loops of traumatic experiences. Sometimes it is anger or even rage. Sometimes it is shame. Sometimes I simply think too much and feel too much. 

We sometimes judge those who have made attempts or been successful. It is not for us to shame an individual who is incapacitated to the extent of not noticing what is worthwhile or for an inability to find what we might see on the surface.

Usually when I’m suicidal, all I see is the worst in my circumstances, people and the world. It’s like wearing an old raincoat that doesn’t breathe. My perceptions repel that which makes most things thrive and I am drenched by my own manoeuvrings. My efforts and small solutions are basically more discomfort and I am soaked in sorrow.

My wife pisses me off by showing me that unconditional love crap. She cooks and keeps a schedule which makes it hard for me to get worse. In my flight from life I do dumb shit all the time. I use humour, answer requests to speak, grow plants, talk to my dog and therapists with less hair and recently I applied for a distance education course. I won’t hear back for a few more weeks, so bridges will just be bridges until the end of August.

If you can’t be well, be here.

London Joint Mental Health Research Day: Mental Illness Stigma

The following is an excerpt from a keynote panel I participated in with Dr. Heather Stuart on Mental Illness Stigma on June 21, 2018.

I think when we use the word stigma it can be a disservice. It becomes a boogyman for those who find its flavour and it seems a less harmful substance for those who administer it. I was not even familiar with the term stigma in the 1980’s which may be why I prefer the term shame. I think we all experience or have experienced different forms of stigma for various reasons. What makes mental health stigma so dangerous is the uniqueness of the experience. I can identify with psychosis, depression, mania and more but those terms seem trite to the realities of such and the comradery of other forms of stigma do Not exist for me. 

I recently visited an optometrist. The lenses are switched and we are asked “better …or worse?” When healthy I strive to choose that which offers a clearer view. When I am unwell I start choosing the lens that Feels correct. My stigma and stigmatism frustrate but it becomes familiar. I recently asked myself, which is greater; self stigma or societal stigma? The image that came to mind was a terrarium. Societal stigma exists and acts upon the individual but that which fogs the glass most are the processes within.

To me stigma is a veiled judgement but in my sensitivities I can see the hearts and forms as they maneuver to safer spaces. My father and step mother had a sheep farm. Sheep wander to graze but when the border collies are pushing them where the shepherd calls; they follow the same path. The pasture areas were a series of pathways. They lead to the barn, the pond etc. These pathways illustrate two areas of significance. One is mine. My mind has many pathways that lead to points of pain. I see or hear things and I am faced with the very things I seek shelter from. The other relates to stigma. When we are presented with a mentally ill person our minds travel well worn paths.

We also compartmentalize. A sheep farm is often a system of segregation. The ram is sometimes left in a paddock, the male lambs are eventually shipped off. The ewes that have lambed are left in the open area of the barn and orphaned lambs are brought into the farmhouse.

In caring for and processing a sheep herd the farmer uses ear tags with identification numbers to manage genetics and tend to the herd. As sheep are cared for sometimes the tag on the ear is of no use so the farmer uses a big grease pencil to mark the nose or back of the sheep that have been cared for. The mark is a way to keep track of feet trimmed or which ones have been inoculated etc.

Stigma is similar but at times with less planning, purpose and on levels we are not conscious of. The labelling; the branding marks of stigma allow the one or the group using the grease pencil to flee to the pond, the barn or some point of psychological safety. We are sheltered from our fears and we can nourish and replenish our perceptions of self. It allows the mind of the marker to safely segregate and build fences around misconceptions, misunderstandings and the unusual.

 

“Auld Lang Syne”

I finished a granite sink. I made it multidimensional because I have never worked with granite and I don’t have the tools. I used a skillsaw with a 4 inch diamond blade to cut the sink out and a hacksaw blade to square the corners. It probably took me longer than people who have laser saws with sliding tables.

As is often the case with Forensic patients there are not many people to witness your struggles. Only a few family members and some therapists can confirm the fact that there were many months that I would disappear from a conversation and stare at the floor. It made fellow patients uneasy and those familiar with me questioned why. I have been told that it was a Dissociative state and or symptomatic of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Maybe you can appreciate that I now finish too many sentences and thoughts but they are conversations and ideas I left in hallways and Treatment Rooms.

I spent more than a few sleepless nights imagining living on my own in an apartment with a private bathroom, light switch and lock. Granite is good. It is significant that I speak publicly but only as far as having episodes of being non-verbal and non-responsive.

I remember my first speaking engagement at the University of Western Ontario School of Occupational Therapy Welcome to the Profession Ceremony. I was back in my seat before I finished my last paragraph. Speaking was the last thing I wanted to do but I kept doing it. I can see now the my Advocacy has been a form of Occupational Therapy but as I spoke at the Grand Opening for the Southwest Centre for Forensic Mental Health Care I was wide aware of the fact that the fathers and daughters who would reside there lived with me at the old facility to the south.

To make a long story longer the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) recently awarded a documentary film maker as one of 150 Leading Canadians for Mental Health. John Kastner made a series of films about Forensic Mental Health and Not Criminally Responsible individuals. According to the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) John Kastner “has courageously and expertly told the stories of people who have committed crimes while mentally ill. Through his films, he is educating Canadians about the complex issues surrounding the Forensic system and giving voice to the people involved in it.”

I admonished John Kastner about speaking for Forensic clients and assuming being there is the same as being there. I assumed he figured that since he filmed the accident that he was a survivor. I’ve witnessed worse and realize Mr. Kastner was focused on similar outcomes.

I had forgiven and forgotten John Kastner but the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH); an organization that has Forensic facilities, has gone out of their way to perpetuate, promote and praise the paternalization of Not Criminally Responsible (NCRMD) individuals. Not Criminally Responsible individuals are a marginalized population but the secret is that most NCRMD individuals tell their stories every day.

We pass you in the grocery aisle. We applaud our children at the same school plays. We sit next to you at the hockey rink

Maybe making a movie about Forensic Mental Health and Not Criminally Responsible individuals living successfully in the community would be too much. Maybe that footage would humanize too much. Maybe that footage would de-stigmatize too much.

I was having a tougher winter than usual in 2014 and I was practicing a presentation I gave at Queen’s University in Kingston Ontario. I was reading and re-reading to myself out loud for days. The stories I presented included some traumatic and painful scenes from my life. I was as close to suicidal as many are able to mention. I spent my monthly income on travel, lodging and food to speak to the students and faculty. Why?

So I can use my voice.

So I can demonstrate my autonomy.

So I can tell the story of a person who has “committed a crime while mentally ill.”

So I can educate “Canadians about the complex issues surrounding the Forensic system.”

“For the sake of old times.”

Mayor Matt Brown, Councillors Maureen Cassidy and Mohamed Salih and Integrity Commissioner Gregory F. Stewart

I received a $60.00 parking ticket a few weeks ago. I am blessed to be living in a new subdivision and up until a few months ago we had no sidewalks and our driveway was clay with engineered big stones. This winter my car tires froze in the ruts a couple of times. I’m still working on the property and am making use of a trailer. There are several new homes nearby and several hundred townhouses being constructed within 500 feet.

My car was partially parked on the new sidewalk and I have received notice of impeding conviction. The sidewalk is unfinished a couple of hundred feet around the corner so I’m not sure who I was endangering or inconveniencing. I always park the car in the drive as there is heavy equipment placing dust on my TV and I am cognizant of the inevitable snow plows. There are construction trailers littered along this street weeks at a time but I don’t see any fines fluttering from those windshields.

I called the city and mentioned my predicament but the lady said I had come in person to explain. I asked if she would pay for my parking fees but I think she was offended. Being institutionalized more than most of my neighbours I have an aversion to such excursions. I might wait and see what the collection agency has to say but in the meantime I have a few things to say about City Hall and company.

I am uncertain of the fairness regarding my infraction and what was dealt to the mayor for his indiscretions. For those of you unfamiliar with London Ontario, our mayor had an extramarital affair with the deputy mayor. As punishment both took a paid leave of absence.

London has an integrity commissioner who looked into the affair but nothing happened. Gregory F. Stewart from Donnelly Murphy law firm is among other things paid $250.00 per hour to investigate complaints and alleged breaches of the code of conduct for members of council. Mr. Stewart found that Mayor Matt Brown and councillor Maureen Cassidy’s affair broke council’s code of conduct but stated that any deeper investigation would only uncover “salacious details” and would be unnecessary.

I repeat: for $250.00 per hour London’s Integrity Commissioner decided while investigating possible breaches of conduct that to “investigate deeper” would only uncover “salacious details”. Hmm. But what if a complete and professional investigation actually uncovered further breaches, conflicts etc.?

Mr. Stewart has no power to punish or fine people (it’s not like he’s a bylaw officer) and as some have stated he is toothless. That needs to be fixed after we fire Gregory F. Stewart and are fully reimbursed for fraudulent fees. The next Integrity Commissioner should have integrity and hopefully balls if not brains.

I don’t think the mayor and company should be fined sixty bucks or anything cruel and unusual but what irks me is that Londoners paid for them to flirt at work. I imagine, though I haven’t investigated that Londoners paid for a few romantic meals and possibly a candle. Gregory F. Stewart’s fake fees are the chocolate on the pillow. Sweet!

Three down one to go. Mo Salih is a councillor and the newest member of the Police Services Board. He is quite popular on Twitter and fairly full of himself. With all the sexual harassment and assault claims in the news he has taken to Twitter in support of alleged victims. Great. His last troublesome Tweet basically said I believe her and her and…AND Her and HER. Great. This is worrisome. Firstly not all victims are female. Secondly as I pointed out to Mo Salih most legal systems consider the accused to be innocent until proven guilty with clear and consistent evidence.

People are being convicted by the media and the public and lives are altered if not ruined. I don’t give much credence to statements made to the media before a sworn statement is made to the authorities. The code of conduct some city officials have difficulty with includes following the letter and Spirit of the law. The spirit of the law is presumed innocence.

As a councillor making laws and holding an official and authoritative position Mo Salih has undermined the justice system. If civic leaders are finding guilt what message does the accused take away. Neighbours will be just as judgemental and prejudiced. Having Mo Salih on the Police Services Board is detrimental to justice. His position includes influencing the objectives and priorities of the London Police. Mohamed Salih is also a prominent Muslim in London and from the Sudan. Normally this is irrelevant but for newer citizens in London and or individuals with a similar faith Mo Salih is a visible example of behaviour. In essence Mr. Salih has contaminated the jury pool. If only one jurist thinks Mohamed Salih is correct or just, they may vote or influence to the detriment of justice.

I think Mohamed Salih needs to at least relinquish his position on the London Police Services Board if not his council seat. Noticing this breach of the code of conduct I wrote a letter to the Integrity Commissioner. Hopefully Mr. Stewart reads it before this. Four!

I have until the 22nd to argue or pay my fine. Maybe by then I will be the only idiot at city hall.

Take care because I don’t!

 

How Would Hitler’s Nazi’s Deal With Indigenous People’s ? “Wabi”

If Indigenous Peoples who so far seem to have evolved and migrated from Afrika were not contacted by European’s who may have departed from the same area what might have happened?

Many languages, cultures and slight genetic differences have become extinct. Some has been the result of genocide, famine, flood and appropriation.

Thanks to many individuals of various ethnicities and genders we can only wonder what Hitler might have done had he encountered an indigenous person in Algonquin territory.

“Hallo, I’m building a road. Are you busy?”

As in Afrika peoples could have survived in Canada without modern influences.

We can be ashamed of any national attempt at cultural genocide but I can be thankful for my grandfather’s military service. I did not meet the man.

I do not know who owns the land we fight over and for.

I do not know an appropriate apology for survivors of the Residential School System.

I am slightly aware of the living conditions in Attawapiskat, Ontario.

Perhaps we could pay survivors enough to give them clean water.

“Pejig”

Trigger Warning: There’s Something Wrong With the Person Telling Me Things I Don’t Want To Hear

I usually stick to Twitter because Facebook is just a place where you can watch people get murdered or raped. Unfortunately, there are a lot of disturbing things happening in the world even when your car is idling in the McDonalds drive-thru. With an awareness of the ink in my pen I will only point out a couple of the feel good ones.

Let’s start with Nobel Prize laureate Malala Yousafzai and Prince Henry of Wales. I don’t usually pick on kids but they seem old enough to address nations.

Malala Yousafzai is doing great brave things but she might be more successful if she acknowledged more. I realize she was shot in the head by the Taliban but the faith she fashions was an accomplice. Malala will tell you the story of her family’s apologetic neighbours telling her mom that maybe next time she will have a boy but the question is were they Taliban?

Malala will come to Canada and tell us to do more because there’s not much we can do where the problems originate. We can marvel that after all her hard work and world recognition her family acknowledged that she existed. Her story is that she was the first female whose name was written on a 300 year old family tree. If Malala was truly brave she would have grabbed the sharpie and scribbled her grandmother’s name who breastfed her father. She might have fetched a few pails of water but I don’t know the family well.

I’m just jealous because I wasn’t invited to stand beside my feminist husband who is a political drama teacher.

More recently we have been hearing from Prince Harry. Co-incidentally he has turned his grief into a mental illness while he and his brothers pretty princess are kicking off a mental health campaign. It must have been hard trying to forget about your mom with her picture splashed everywhere. Then again Prince Harry could have been living in a shack without a single photograph of Lady Diana.

I think it’s great to imagine royalty with haemorrhoids but before we crowd the gates of Buckingham Palace with sympathetic signs let’s ask some questions.

  1. Couldn’t Queen Elizabeth 2 afford a grief counsellor?
  2. Does Queen Elizabeth 2 know how to speak to a 12 year old?
  3. Can Queen Elizabeth 2 use that wonderful waving hand to hug her grandson?

If you can’t imagine the Royal Family as dysfunctional as any fine. But if you truly care about the monarchy just ignore them.

Take care because I don’t.

What Direction Does A Muslim Person Face To Pray When They’re In Outer Space?

If it takes 40 seconds to recite the Lord’s Prayer and it takes 12 seconds for the plane to crash are you damned?

I remember standing in the wooden box thing in Courtroom #5 and looking out at the jail priest in her collar. The prosecutor person said “I understand you’re a spiritual person.” I didn’t answer him because I was being found Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity but the reverend was nodding her head so I copied her.

I’m not sure if it’s a contradiction to be a delinquent and a disciple but I heard there was a guy named Paul who killed people before he saved them. Maybe prisoners find God so they feel better about their sins but the same could be said for anyone. Maybe prisoners are in a place in their life where they can shut up and be still. I didn’t find God in jail, He entered my body when I was losing my mind in Solitary Confinement.

I was brought up in North America so I use Judeo-Christian imagery and language to communicate my spiritual experiences but I have read the Koran. I didn’t create my own religion like the Mormon’s I just beg and borrow from a few religions to make nonsense out of my own. It might seem sacrilegious to some but I also read the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and it seems legal. You can even follow no religion at all.

I sometimes fast. I don’t do it to please God, I do it so I think about people who don’t have the luxury of food and to appreciate that which finds my mouth. It’s also more economical to be an alcoholic on an empty stomach.

I guess I do pray but I don’t gather to do it out loud. My God has better hearing I guess. I would pray out loud but I’m basically always communicating with God so I’d probably get pulled over and put back in the padded room which is hard on my spirit.

I don’t write down the rules and regulations of my religion because that kind of thing leads to wars and I’m the only parishioner so that would worry me. Maybe my God cares about what I eat and what I wear. He’s probably just given up on me because I don’t eat much or wear anything.

I was on Facebook the other day because I give a fuck about followers. There was a beautiful story about faith. Some pious people built a church but they couldn’t open it because the building inspector said the parking lot was too small. The people who pray were wringing their hands and tearing off their clothes because the only land they had left was a mountain. The priest asked the parishioners who believed “faith can move mountains” to join him in prayer. They believed it could be solved by next Sunday for the grand opening. Miraculously a construction dude approached them to ask if he could remove the mountain to use it for fill that he needed for a nearby shopping mall being built. With goosebumps on my gonads I felt compelled to leave a comment.

“i’m sure God is pleased as punch that you bulldozed a mountain to make a church parking lot. I mean how can you pray if you don’t have a flat spot for your Lexis?”

I was flustered after I noticed the auto correct spelled Lexus wrong but then I looked up lexis and it dawned on me that some mistakes have meaning.

I guess my religion is like the auto correct on a computer except it’s more like auto-connect. I don’t have customs that connect me with Spirit it just happens automatically.

We’re not really looking for congregants but if you want to join my sinagogue just send $29.95 and make the cheque payable to Brett Batten.

Take care because I don’t.

It’s Like A Natural Disaster That Nobody Is Noticing

Saturday morning after I told my wife what to wear I said “do the dishes and vacuum quietly then I’m taking you to Toronto for a romantic getaway.” She wasn’t very quiet with vacuum but I let her walk behind me for the day anyway.

We found our seats on the train next to a nice young couple with two children who had a volume problem. I felt bad for them because they couldn’t afford sedatives for their children. I asked the woman pushing the food cart if she had any cough syrup I could donate to them but the answer was no. The conductor told me I had to remain seated until the train came to a complete stop so I walked backwards while we glided into Union Station and exited from the last car.

We walked in the rain to the aquarium and I was thankful to have an umbrella. I was still annoyed by the young couple and their spawn mainly because they were 15 feet in front of me heading towards the aquarium. In a loud voice I turned back towards my wife who forgot her umbrella, “Hey, isn’t that the CN Tower?” “Isn’t that the Rogers Centre?” “Isn’t that a bus with bad brakes?” The family didn’t go for the bait so I stopped for a cigarette to give them a head start. Again, I was thankful to have an umbrella. My wife seemed pleased to be in the building because she was soaked but when I realized the screeching wasn’t whales but 387 children I was a little hesitant. I stuffed the umbrella into the backpack my wife was carrying and took a gulp from one of the water bottles I noticed there.

I haven’t been anywhere in a couple of years so I was shocked at how the world has changed. I had no idea people are now using cameras for eyes. The last time I was out in public people experienced things in real time but I guess it’s more fulfilling to go home and look at what you missed while you were capturing it with a cell phone. It only happened 5 times but apparently if your face isn’t pressed to the aquarium glass it’s okay to step right in front of a person and hold out your phone so neither of you has a view. Even walking around was confusing for me. It seemed like every 15 seconds or 7.5 feet a Hollywood movie set appears out of nowhere and you have to freeze or take an alternate route while people pose for pictures. It’s like a natural disaster that nobody is noticing.

The aquarium itself was pretty cool if you like looking at shark anus gliding over your head in a glass tunnel but I was bored to tears by the Horseshoe Crabs. We should just make them extinct. It’s okay I just spent those moments doing math problems and thinking about scientific stuff like what makes the most noise:

A. 387 children who think seeing a fish is as exciting as hooking one in the mouth and dragging it through the water to watch it suffocate in the bottom of a boat    OR

B. 387 children temporarily floating in a million gallon fish tank with their shoes on  OR

C. 387 children kinda splashing in a million gallon fish tank with 18 sharks and no shoes

Whoever said watching fish in an aquarium is relaxing wasn’t being stepped on by screaming children and getting poked in the shoulder by some parental prick with a selfie stick.

None of the nose-pickers looked smart enough to trick but if I asked their parents 93% of them would be gifted, exceptional and ahead of their peers. I’m not sure how you discourage kids with their fake fascination of marine life but I know how you can keep most of the adults out of the place. Tell them no cell phones allowed. I mean, who the hell would show up to look at a sea urchin with just their eyes?

We narrowly missed the protestors telling people looking at fish who eat smaller fish not to eat fish and headed to the Royal Ontario Museum.

I thought the museum was going to be a peaceful perusal of the past but the idiots who thought it was a good idea for their offspring to see what that deep fried white flaky stuff looks like when it’s alive thought the little loudmouths should see paintings and pottery. What kind of a moron takes a child to a museum? I was somewhat buoyed by the fact that their eager “aren’t children wonderful” look had shifted to a “someone shoot me” grimace but they were all still wagging their tongues instead of choking on them so it wasn’t a truly fulfilling moment.

I pretended to be interested in the Chinese clay pots and crap because I like to pretend I love my Chinese wife because it leads to sex once in a while. Eventually I ran out of patience. “Honey, we have the exact same dish at home and that one is 29 bucks at Pier One. Even in these paintings and statues you all look the same.” The uptight Korean woman standing next to me seemed offended but at least I wasn’t wandering around with my hands clasped behind my back pretending to give a shit about culture. It’s not my problem she was too stupid to realize there were dinosaur bones in the building.

Coming out of the Chinese Culture Corner I held the door for 3 middle eastern adults because I like to pretend I care about people once in a while. They didn’t even look at me or say thanks. Not even a nod of the head. It only took about 20 seconds off my life but I was afraid to tell them to “fuck off” in case they were Muslim because I heard that kind of thing is basically illegal in Canada now. I certainly don’t want to be called Islamophobic because I’m not even racist. I hate everybody. I don’t understand hating someone for their skin colour or religion when you can hate them for no reason at all.

I went out a side door for a cigarette and they wouldn’t let me back in the museum so I missed out on seeing all the stuffed birds and mammals but most of them won’t be extinct for a few months so I’ll just put some diesel in my truck and hopefully I can run over a few so I don’t have to see them behind glass.

While we were waiting for the train back to London I had to use the queer, non binary trans person room. I went into the stall and the first thing I noticed was someone had carefully laid toilet paper all over the seat because like the internet says you can get an ass cheek infection if you don’t. I was disappointed that I had just missed meeting the Prime Minister but I was pleased he was travelling like the rest of us. I’m not saying he stinks but I’m not sure he’s as healthy as he looks. Despite what people say he is a visionary, I mean how did he know I was going to piss all over the seat? Why was I peeing in a stall? Because some liberal turds decided I can’t smoke in the main areas any more.

It was a nice trip back on the train until I smelled vomit coming from the woman having a coughing fit two seats back. It was awful. I didn’t turn to look at her as I sprinted off the train because I figured she was embarrassed and I don’t like seeing vagina on other peoples chins.

If you’re not offended by this blog please forward it to someone who might be.

Take care because I don’t.

Is It A Wonder Our Youth Fabricate Catastrophe When Their Ass. University Professor Shows Them How?

Twitter is becoming a Wailing Wall. We post our pain which in the scheme of things is simply pathetic.

Emmett Macfarlane an Ass. University Professor in Waterloo was quite incensed that journalists called his home at “fucking 7:15 a.m.” for an interview. I too would probably angrily Tweet to the world if someone woke me up at 7:15 a.m. when my alarm was set for 7:30 a.m. but I like to think I would find some perspective between relieving my morning pee boner and filling the coffee pot.

I don’t need as much sleep as an Ass. University professor but isn’t that why they have doors on their offices? I guess I’m unedimigated enough to imagine a dairy farmer who gets up at 4:00 a.m. even during Reading Week and Summer Break. I’m so stupid I can even imagine someone with a medical condition that prevents them from the 6.5 hours of sleep a tenured professor is entitled to.

Is it a wonder our youth fabricate catastrophe when their Ass. Professor shows them how?

When I saw the cruel and unusual treatment Emmett Macfarlane was receiving from the media I reached out with sympathy and support and Tweeted my condolences.

“Put your thumb back in your mouth and go back to bed. Some people have real problems.” @brett_batten

I must have used incorrect punctuation, spelling or I cited my sources wrong because he blocked me from seeing his Tweets and from Tweeting to him which seems odd considering his interview and Tweets were about academic freedom which in my unedimigated world seems like freedom of speech. I guess I will have to sign up for one of his courses so he can impart his logic on me. Jesus wept…because He was laughing His Ass off.

Another lady Tweeted for a week about her luggage being lost on an Air France flight. I didn’t Tweet to her because I wasn’t sure if she was actually upset here in Ontario or if she simply wanted to keep reminding me that she had been to Paris recently. I’m not jealous, I’ve seen pictures and I don’t drink whine.

I have lost a few things in my life a few times so I can empathize. I lost my home, job, money, health, family, freedom and foreskin twice. Well, not the foreskin but I haven’t exactly given it a chance to grow back. Sorry God.

I guess it’s okay to broadcast that you lost your shirt somewhere over the Atlantic but it is my belief that it is more helpful to keep in mind that you didn’t exactly “lose your shirt”, you’re more precisely losing your shit. Losing your luggage or a phone call at the unGodly hour of 7:15 a.m. is a problem. It’s a problem of perspective which apparently isn’t always part of a university syllabus.

What would Twitter be like for people in an African village?

“Four hyenas ate our last two chickens and pissed on my brand new lawn gnome.”

“Not sure what my children will do for food today but hopefully they find something edible on the 3 mile walk for water”

“Does anyone know how that poor professor is doing with his sleep deprivation? All I heard was machine gun fire last night but I slept like a log. No wait, I have a log for a pillow. My bad.”

“Does anyone know where I can make a donation for that lady from the Air France flight so she can replace her blouse? We need a plane full of Red Cross supplies but I can’t sleep thinking about her.”

Twitter isn’t all bad. I do get a kick out of knowing someone I don’t know is at a meeting I don’t give a shit about with a politician nobody likes, but then again I don’t. Why don’t I just stay off Twitter? Because watching people twisting in agony while they are having a near orgasmic experience fascinates me.

If you think this has nothing to do with you read this Tweet from Topless in Tanzania.

“Can someone message me about what works best to remove hyena urine from a gnome’s beard? I tried Lysol, CLR, mouthwash, vinegar, sea salt, car polish, dandruff shampoo, turpentine, lavender scented dish soap, furniture wax, PAM, WD-40, SOS pads, 3M pads, Bounce, lemon infused organic olive oil, hand sanitizer, hairspray, shoe polish and I wrestled with a starving stray dog that had an extra absorbent paper towel stuck to it’s half missing tail. Seriously. I’m getting desperate. I’ve tried everything I can find in the cupboards of the kitchen area in my hut with the hole in the roof we call a skylight and everything in the granite topped cupboard in the ensuite. I even waded through all the crap in the two car garage. I shouldn’t whine. I tidied up during this difficult time. You could almost park a car in the garage once I buy one of those contraptions I can suspend the kids 24 speed bikes from. There’s enough room in the hut for that massage chair I ordered. If only I could get the kids to put away their Lego, Star Wars action figures and gather up the Sony Playstation games.”

If you’re not offended by my blog please forward it to someone who might be, like maybe Emmett Macfarlane @EmmMacfarlane. He hasn’t been sleeping well so don’t pass it on to him at like 7:15 a.m.. He might lose his shit again.

Take care because I don’t!

 

I guess we know what Justin Trudeau meant when he said “sunny ways.”

I guess we know what Justin Trudeau  meant when he said “sunny ways.” For Justin it is actual sunning time with a billionaire on his island in the Bahamas. For the 99% its a bit of a colder version. It’s possibly somewhat easier to be a “sunny ways” visionary from behind sunglasses. I’ll be on board as soon as I scrape my windshield.

We probably don’t have to scratch our heads long to figure out the ethics of smoozing with a billionaire who receives Canadian taxpayer dollars. Whoops. Even if all that is fair we need to look at our own gut ethics. What is a post Christmas vacation? Maybe the Liberals mean that it was like the day after Boxing Day that the clerk from 7/11 gets for Christmas vacation after working the real one?

I reckon that leads to another question. If it is important for someone to sell cigarettes and gas shouldn’t it be important to have someone at the rudder of the nation? The rudder of the nation in the dead of winter is not to be found on a dinghy in the Bahamas. One might question his  effectiveness as a leader with sunscreen on his nipples somewhere off continent.

If not out of good taste then out of respect I find it tasteless for Justin and his nanny to be on a beach while someone in Alberta is up at five in the morning coaxing along a truck heater.There were Canadian’s who suffered through the holidays. There were military personnel long flights from home. If you wanted to catch planes and fly on helicopters you should have relieved someone who was doing it out of duty.

I don’t think Justin is heartless. I just think he’s clueless. His life experiences have been mostly play and his perceptions of reality are so far removed from ordinary Canadians that it is an impediment to his governance of them. He can make us all feel warm and friendly and polite. He can put a pretty face on what makes Canada great but what makes Canada great is not he and Sophie on safari but average Canadians.

Step up or step down.

Yesterday I saw a schizophrenic man shot by a police issued firearm. I was in the same room…

 

Yesterday I saw a schizophrenic man shot by a police issued firearm.  I was in the same room standing in the dining area. It was a one room apartment with two smaller rooms to the side. I wasn’t sure what was going on. As far as I could tell the man was talking to himself with the door slightly ajar. I could see him moving about and I heard words clearly but not completely or with the advantage of knowing their concept.

The man’s mother was at the door speaking to the police. The man opened the door to his bedroom and asked his mom about lunch. He said something about being hungry and asked for the time of day then went back into his room. My next memory is of him standing in his bedroom doorway and his mom telling him they had visitors as the officers stepped into the room.

I noticed his mother walk to the side of the upholstered chair. The next thing I saw was the man pulling a knife into the air and with arm raised he came at his mother. His last words were something about wanting to eat. I heard the shot echo quickly into the room. I felt bad for the man’s mom. She only wanted to help her son. She was the one who called the police.

What would you do? I’m not sure what I would have done differently. I am told most police in England do not carry guns. How would it have turned out if there was no gun at the scene? Maybe it wouldn’t have been a lethal encounter. Maybe stitches would have been the worst of it. Maybe only the man with the knife survives and knocks on your front door.

I am still in shock but I thought things in the apartment would have ended differently the way the same officers handled someone similar who was beating a rather nice full size black SUV. The officers were able to talk to that man. They were able to determine from him that his delusion was with a vehicle and not a human. After some cautious and courteous interaction on the part of the police the man was safely convinced to put the aluminum bat down.

I too co-operated with the officers when I was directed to leave the parking area. The aluminum bat landed on the SUV during some of this interaction but the officers were trained in the safety of space and appropriate action in the event its dimensions shift toward danger. It seemed a little fun seeing a guy beating a vehicle with a baseball bat but when the officers arrived at the scene I saw it as a different scenario.

Police are called to protect those directly involved in the interaction, the public and themselves. In this circumstance we could add the protection of property. I don’t know about most people but when the poop hits the fan I have a hard enough time figuring out what is appropriate for the preservation of self. When an officer reacts in circumstances we can view in reverse and memorize we need to keep in mind that we are sitting in a chair without the officer’s training, adrenaline level, or the information they may have to react to in seconds.

It is a thin blue line that volunteers to walk into any situation and possibly defend against danger. We watch the video of some questionable interaction but what may be obvious to us may be otherwise in real life. Watching it on a screen we are also void of a need to protect the lives of those involved, bystanders, fellow officers or self in a fluid situation. I’m not saying every death is without liability all I’m saying is to give pause to possibilities most of us can be thankful to avoid.

I thought about what I saw the whole way home from the Ontario Provincial Police General Headquarters in Orillia, Ontario. The OPP used to handcuff me and put me in the backseat of their cars but now I get a comfortable chair and a sandwich better than I can make. I’m locked in hallways within a locked building but it seems like progress.  I am a member of the Ontario Provincial Police Community Mental Health Advisory Committee.

The gentleman I saw get shot was an Ontario Provincial Police instructor. He seemed fine afterwards and I shook his hand. He could act half as crazy as I am. The two uniformed officers in the scenarios were female officers. If you encounter a female officer outside of a scenario please know they are every bit of police that make up the rest.

I have met more police officers than most people. Even when the circumstances were unpleasant there was not one among them that I imagined coming to work hoping to shoot a person. When officers have the luxury they too hope every situation ends safely.

If you want to judge police I suggest you take a look at the Ontario Provincial Police Mental Health Strategy. This organization has our backs and they are proactively and progressively improving mental health outcomes for all.

 

 

 

Someone needs to remind Toronto Mayor John Tory that municipal politicians are elected on a non-partisan basis.

 

It sounds like the Wild West to the east of me. According to Toronto Mayor John Tory the reefer is becoming rampant. It sounds like people are putting up lemonade stands next to schools and dealing in marijuana. Conservatives would have us believe kids will be accessing marijuana with some increase in ease from today’s unregulated standards. Their ideal is having drug dealers decide who buys and throw in a bunch of expensive law enforcement. As far as controls and safety measures I envision something similar to how alcohol and tobacco are regulated.

Mayor John Tory seems to believe marijuana should be kept from near schools and community centres. For decades past, marijuana has been anywhere it pleases. It has existed hidden in plain neighbourhoods. It has gone from pocket to pocket almost everywhere. Why do we need to fear it now that it is open and nearing more?

Where I live there is a large industrial brewery with a beer retail store attached that is on the opposite corner of a Boys and Girls Club. When I grew up the community centre served alcohol most weekends for weddings and such. I can walk past a playground with a case of beer but for some reason dangerous people use marijuana. Why exactly does Mayor John Tory think that individuals who are or soon will be part of new or existing laws and their anchor in freedoms and rights need to be kept away from schools and community centres? There used to be a variety store in my neighbourhood that was directly across the street from a public elementary school. I used to buy my cigarettes there. Imagine the calamity if I was buying a package of marijuana cookies. Boo! Are you shaking with irrational fear?

Mayor John Tory writes “the city has a responsibility to ensure this emerging industry operates responsibly, without a negative impact on the health and safety of our residents and neighbourhoods.” You could put a marijuana dispensary on every corner of Toronto and it would be safer than letting criminals be the leaders of the present industry. Are guns involved with these dispensaries? They are when we treat marijuana as an illegal substance. We tried leaving it all to criminals, cops and courts. It was dangerous, expensive and socially scarring for many and all of us.

Someone needs to remind Mayor John Tory that municipal politicians are elected on a non-partisan basis. It is an insult to every Canadian who has or will be involved in the industry or consumption of marijuana. Mayor John Tory is stigmatizing hundreds of thousands of Canadians. To insinuate that any or all of these individuals are something to protect the community from is laughable at best. They are part of community’s. Should we banish Prime Minister Trudeau from schools and community centres? He’s a druggy isn’t he? “I don’t want my child associating with someone who has consumed marijuana…I don’t care if Justin just wants a selfie.”

Any community will be safer when marijuana is legal. The stigma surrounding it hopefully will lift as it did for alcohol prohibitions of the past. There are those who would have marijuana remain illegal for reasons of addiction, health emergencies, impaired driving, underage use or more. We have these scenarios with alcohol but any city resident could find it within 15 minutes of any intersection.

I think Mayor John Tory is simply posturing politically. Marijuana ignorance is a by-product of his conservative roots. I think the mayor should apologize to Canadians for stigmatizing Canadians.

We would be jailed for brushing our own paint on a work of Michelangelo. Is God that much less?

My issue with transgendered individuals is not who they are but that their ideas and inclinations should supersede and All-knowing and All-powerful God. Outside of some physical emergency I do not believe it is up to humans to alter their physical sexual characteristics. Gender is in part a social construct. As such it changes. If your idea of throwing a dart at gender is to distort nature the new creation may fall from the board as the world changes.

Just as the baptized baby may wander from the flavour of their Faith why not a gender identity? Is mine a permanent state or are there other possibilities? I consider myself a man but then again I have never worn panties. What if panties suddenly seem permanent? How many years into my sexuality and gender identify do we consider a point of no return?

What if there comes a day when any and all variances are accepted? If you and the people you interact with change their perceptions and permissions you may have stirred the bread before it had a chance to rise. What if a person changes further or later or intermittently? No matter what the world thinks or you think, we are all trapped in some sort of visible existence. Has anyone considered a reverse re-assignment or is the transgendered community content and permanently so?

You’re sure God made a mistake but what of you? What are the eternal odds of not being quite sure what you are? Cut, snip and more across the corpse that was created for a purpose. I get a kick out of a transgendered person saying: “Now I’m me.” I’m nearing 50 and I’m still not sure who or what I am. If anyone says “he was” at my funeral it will be followed by an “also”. If my identity shifts throughout my lifetime is it not possible that any part of it may be a different thing from birth to death?

What is wrong with the painting we are given? You can spend your life reworking a Master or you can dance down the street showing off the original. We would be jailed for brushing our own paint on a work of Michelangelo. Is God that much less?

Personal obsessions aside, embrace what you are. If something stirs in you that would betray some characteristics and offend some social stereotype, find thee who cares not. Do not carve away your flesh to fill a twisting and turning vessel. Grasp it and learn to calm its contents. Find your personal equilibrium for what appears and what is. It is your cross to bear. Each of us is many things we would rather not be.

“Chick with a dick”

If there are some things I can’t say I end up not saying what I want but what others want. I’m a simple man but in my opinion being able to say what you want is the right from which the others rise. If you can’t write what you think on the picket you carry it kind of moots the right to strike. “I need a seven percent raise but I don’t mind a muzzle.”

There are an ever increasing number of omissions of language used in public. I doubt there is one person who would know of each and every word or grouping thereof that would offend some individual or group. Eventually those with PTSD will prickle at being less than a word. Do you draw the line or does it aimlessly meander as it does?

Any sentence can be offensive but we are nearing a point where the laughable can become liable. If I think our Prime Minister Trudeau is a selfie-stick who will be seen for the boy he is when the nation’s thumbs up tacks fall out of his pin up poster of politics; it would be a shame not to.

I was thinking about the bathroom pooh haw haw south of us. It’s a real pickle and surgically so. It has been trans-planted into an election. I foresee the writing on the wall being torn off or at least the washroom symbols on the doors. Will individuals who even temporarily identify as being more of one gender than what could be argued as assigned by God be free to pee from a contrary point?

If exposure alleviates fear and prejudices this is one way to do it. I guess the real question is whether the way it was set up is worse than the way it will be re-written? Who has the right to comfort in a comfort station? You? Me? Anyone? Everyone? Who will the solution please and who will the solution displease? Is it progress when the rights of the few are foul to the many? Does female poop contaminate male poop? You can either put a menu on the washroom door or it is open for people in any washroom to be of any identifiable gender or unidentifiable gender.

Maybe all the fuss is that if we get rid of the pictures on washroom doors so must we remove sexual identity from payroll. I guess segregating who poop’s and pee’s where is still segregation. In some small way civil rights have entered the toilet. I understand that people have rights but there are times when that right might just be a wrong.

We can’t expect everyone to be in the same place as some are regarding sexual identity. Does my 85 year old step-father have a say? Where are his rights when you’re screaming for yours? Where are his rights when someone with breasts stands next to him at a urinal? Is it fair to expect individuals like him to shed over 80 years of upbringing and personal propriety so a chick with a dick can take a more pleasurable piss? Is it okay if someone’s grandmother would rather powder her nose without the patron next to her powdering an Adam’s apple?

Maybe it wouldn’t be chaotic but will it be a comfort to my 85 year old step-father? I don’t give a shit where you do just that: all I’m asking is that when all these individual rights are being claimed for that his voice is not lost in your chants for fairness.

I realize it is my 85 year old step-father with the problem. He should have to retrace 80 years of what he considered and his societies considered appropriate. He has Parkinson’s so he’s busy with that but I guess he should rearrange most of what was imparted on him since childhood. He will no doubt go from an individual who should be recognized for leading an exemplary life to a family shame. He will like the slave owner will not be held in high regard. People will whisper that when he ran a business he only allowed the men in the men’s room and the women in theirs. He will be called a segregationist and it will be rumored they were all across North America.

Maybe we should have to use the washroom according to how we were sexed at birth. It’s a simple rule. Maybe we can pay homage to the nature that is and always will be a part of each of us. You can maim it but it cannot be destroyed. You can be whoever you want but don’t expect everyone to agree with your measures.

 

 

If Mr. Schoenborn had a tumor in his head that caused this tragedy how many years would we sentence him for?

 

A tough on crime agenda becomes a tough on mental illness agenda when we are dealing with Not Criminally Responsible offenders. In these instances the crime and mental illness are intertwined. You cannot set the accused aside and apply retribution for the crime without also being retributive to a mental disorder. Should we sentence symptoms?
The Harper government passed into law the Not Criminally Responsible Reform Act. There are several faults to the Act but my focus is on the designation of a high risk offender based on an arbitrary value of brutality and the implementation of a three year review rather than an annual review.
This Act allows crime scene evidence to be the stand alone predictor of present risk; indefinitely. On the same level treatment and rehabilitative interventions will be based on the dimensions of a delusion itself. Should we apply criminal sentencing protocols to medicine?
This new law will base the application of more restrictive measures for certain patients on the severity of the offence and or who happens to have certain delusions. Someone who is hallucinating is able to control their hallucination in the same way a cancer patient controls tumor growth. They don’t because they can’t. If psychosis is not a choice then what power does the individual being affected have in determining the width and breadth of the delusion it creates? The individuals in these tragedies are not making choices; they are being pulled in directions designed by delusions.

 

It is difficult for many to reconcile illness with atrocity. It needs to be kept in mind that without the illness there may have been no crime. We recognize the accused but we cannot see the culprit. The culprit is mental illness.
The Not Criminally Responsible Reform Act is being tested in British Columbia. The Supreme Court there has ruled that as written by the Harper government, the designation of high risk offender can apply to people entering the forensic mental health care system and existing patients. Fair enough. If we are somehow protecting the public this law should include. We might consider that this reach may eventually apply even further.
I have had an absolute discharge for near a decade. What influence do the circumstances of my crime have on my present risk? If the mechanics of the crime scene influence at 6 months can they at 16 years? This law puts all individuals impacted by mental illness in a susceptible position depending on political powers. It is my hope that in reviewing the laws the Harper government pushed through with ideology in place of evidence that the Minister of Justice will take note of the Not Criminally Responsible Reform Act.
“High-risk offenders” are detained indefinitely and do not have access to the public as the law was. To label certain patients high risk offenders may be fine but on what is it based? With the NCR Reform Act it can be based on an opinion of the court “that the acts that constitute the offence were of such a brutal nature as to indicate a risk of grave physical or psychological harm to another person.” This opinion can result in confinement of the patient for a three year term. The progress of the patient will be ignored. A court can decide a patients future mental health care based on measurements and opinion of a delusion or hallucination. Which delusions bring about disqualification? Is it not more logical to use qualitative measures rather than an opinion of brutality?

 

To interpret an act as ‘brutal’ – and to allow that interpretation to affect a disposition– assigns a degree of responsibility from which the accused has already been, by definition, excused. Should we place such value judgements on acts wherein the accused had no capacity to understand the nature of the crime? For an act to be considered ‘brutal’ does there need to be intent? Are we interested in rehabilitating the accused or in assigning blame where it doesn’t belong?

 

I do not clearly see how what anyone does at a point in time implies risk of repetition. This is clearly blurry when we are dealing with an instance of severe symptomatology. If the act was a result of a symptom we increase safety and security by progressively dealing with the illness from which it manifests.

 

If we are going to punish mental illness is it ethical to do so during recovery? If we are going to punish an individual for circumstances they were delusional for should we not have them fully rehabilitated so they can gain whatever effect said punishment is believed to have?

 

I am not arguing that certain events haven’t been utterly traumatizing. If you can find the guilt then the individual responsible should have a sentence. This Act piggy backs a finding of neither guilty nor innocent. It is worded as Not Criminally Responsible which as it sounds finds the accused from that moment on indefinitely excused from sentencing principles. We do not sentence anyone under any of our laws without first finding guilt. The finding of Not Criminally Responsible is not a finding of guilt.
If the law finds an individual Not Criminally Responsible it has also been found that it would be an injustice to punish or sentence in any way the individual in who the mental disorder at that time resided. As it stands we annually review the progress of the patient and re-examine risk and public safety. It seems in Canada these yearly reviews have become a public debate on the verdict. We seem to think that as citizens we should be making the calls on safety, security, rehabilitation, psychiatry, the courts and more.

 

We cling to our ignorance because it is safe, familiar and requires no effort. I don’t have to access or disseminate information. I don’t have to think, change or challenge old perceptions and I do not need to find opposing information or views. To be the king of incorrect is to rule none the less and we all want to issue creeds even if they are not credible.
We are competent in our incompleteness. Though in reality, we are complete in our incompetence. It is easier to remain self-righteous and defend what is incorrect than to journey into the difficult work of rearranging perceptions, presumptions and past efforts.
We could totally remove the Not Criminally Responsible provisions found in the criminal code. If we do that we have a clear path to punishing mentally ill people. The only unfortunate part for all of us as Canadians is that none of us are immune to mental illness. Further, none of us is born with any kind of ability to influence the unfolding or duration of a delusion or hallucination. That’s risk.

It seems a blindness brought on by a spiral of swirling thoughts that pull in more darkness than light.

    Parched though I am for something to do I have not felt like doing much. About a month ago I “sort of” cut a third of my finger off. I say “sort of” because the band saw saved a thin section of skin on the palm side.

   When you’re struggling and tripping your way out the door of the garage that small bit of skin is more terror than tendon. It is human nature to attempt to survive. I have had many moments of being suicidal and have made attempts at ceasing my life. I am claimed to have died in an ambulance and have a healthy will to live as a result. Very few get a second chance. Even still I cannot always claim this. There are days when I wish I was not here and there have been times it would have been easier not to exist.

   There are times when I get out of bed not wanting to get out of bed. There are moments I can’t see a spec of anything much good in myself or anything or one around me. Most days I would rush from the garage holding a dangling finger. Most days I am on some level aware of at least some blessings and I am able to immerse my soul into life. I have never truly had a reality not worth existing in but I have experienced deserts as I wander in an oasis. Here I cannot see the water and my mind is incapable of manufacturing a mirage. The mind becomes a cocoon to what truly exists. For me it’s like being high beamed by darkness. For a period all I can perceive is the darkness but eventually my sight adjusts and I can at least see the light in the rear view mirror. There has been good. If something in the past was good is there not the possibility that it can at any time exist in the future?
Don’t get me wrong; today and most days I notice and experience mainly mercy. I am surrounded by people, pets, projects and even possessions. I often fire out of bed. My soul can be nourished by even the barbs of life.

     The stigma surrounding suicide seems unfair. It is not a symptom or situation a person would choose. People don’t run their fingers through a band saw on purpose and no one pulls the life out of themselves on purpose. Suicide can happen to anyone. Who chooses to one day find no hope in tomorrow? Who would decide to find the point where suffering is the absolute? It seems a blindness brought on by a spiral of swirling thoughts that pull in more darkness than light. Depression is becoming less stigmatized but we stigmatize those who tragically make an irreversible action as a result of depression.

      When I was in emergency for my finger the doctor advised me to have it completely amputated. I didn’t crash through the garage to have it cut right off! I thought about typing, more woodworking and being able to continue being a terrible guitarist. It’s a lovely piece of finger, maybe the surgeon didn’t want to be at the hospital on a Saturday night. Maybe the surgeon had no use for that third of my finger but I was thinking of some as I waited in emergency.The second time they unwrapped it and let it dangle for the next doctor to see I was a little proud. It was on a perfect forty-five degree angle. It was probably better than any piece of wood I had purposely tried to bring to the same angle.

      Suicide is not a simple inability to perceive it is a matter of being pulled away. There is no humour to life. It’s a bit like having the wind knocked out you. There are moments when try as you might, no breath can be pulled in. Desire is not enough; it is a moment of complete incapacitation.

      I plan on pointing my finger around fairly well. If part of it falls off I will figure out how to do a guitar trick with what remains. Today Iike most of us I’m trying to save every inch of myself. I kind of get a kick out of life most days. I want to be able to pull my finger out and proclaim the miracle. Life is a miracle; every inch of it. After I supposedly died in the ambulance I spent three years in jails with a mental illness and seven years navigating the forensic system. Laughs can be found in both but I would not call the circumstances of my life during this decade easy.

     The word suicidal was washed from my mouth by the correctional system. I was suicidal many times in jail but I would never have told anyone. I said the word once and they put me in solitary confinement. It was only one night that time but being suicidal was preferable to solitary confinement. I cannot condemn someone who doesn’t reach out for help as I have rarely done so myself.

    When you can gauge the light and dark of things and you have the ability to perceive some blessing, you can focus on one small piece of light. It always blocks out a certain amount of darkness. When I have the ability to perceive something small in my life that has value I am like a crow with a coin. I flip it about and other small bits cling to it. Eventually I end up with a wonderful wife, a generous mother and stepfather, three brothers and even the jerk across the road is more friend than pain.

    I wish I could say I never lose sight of all this but something I don’t wish for makes it all vanish. I have spent days in solitary confinement knowing full well no one but the authorities knew where I was. I had an orange jumpsuit, no hair, no eyebrows and no shoes. I paced an 8 by 8 concrete box. I sat on one blanket and I had a Bible. I received no mail or phone calls and a shower or toothbrush were nowhere for days. Depending where you’re standing it would appear I didn’t have much going for me. The big screen was on the fritz and as much as I searched the walls, floor and ceiling I never did find a way to recharge my Smartphone. I wasn’t sure of time itself but not once did I imagine taking my life. I did not try to drown myself by plugging my toilet. I played with its leak until the guards were stepping in water when they came to peer in my four inch window.

    I have lived in solitary confinement while psychotic but I was not suicidal during this time. Some of my time in solitary confinement was fairly content. I had things to do. The people guarding my box needed me. I made friends and told a few I loved them. I shared my spirit with one of the nurses quite innocently and was shipped to another jail. I was robbed of everything I owned when the two fellas returned to drive me back to the jurisdiction of my court. I was warned by the lieutenant and permitted back to my original quarters if I promised to profess less love. I obliged and did so only in French and sign language on jail property from then on. I was banished from banishment’s to the bowels of a system where I was seemingly powerless. Had I owned a suicidal perspective I would have spent my hours forming my head to fit far enough down the toilet to drown myself.
Instead I drew my daughters face and guessed at what years might have done to her features. I imagined my ceiling contained all the stars. My food slot became a patio door and I wrote what I found meaningful on the walls of my cell. I had the ability to notice and converse about the flowers in the nurse’s office. They became a flavour in my mind that remains still. I cannot rationally explain why when I was most likely to be suicidal I was instead fully alive any more than I can explain the opposite.

     There are moments where some cannot notice the fragrances of life. I don’t think it remains for others to condemn someone for that inability. I usually ride out my suicidal feelings. This too shall pass works for me. Eventually and always I return to some point where I find that one good thing. I can once again see the significance of saving even an inch of a finger. What if that little bit comes in handy? What if it has a use or a purpose? Can it not touch a face?

    For now it has reattached itself as something to write about. I don’t have a remedy for suicide but maybe something I have written dusts off a little peace, humour or hope for someone.

The London Free Press has undermined their standing to mount a legal challenge to a bona fide publication ban and have castrated themselves of being a fair voice.

“Keeping in mind her safety. The Free Press never identified her during this week’s trial, even though there wasn’t a court-ordered publication ban.” Free Press

My father was a newspaper editor. He told me once that he often had mothers plead with him to keep Johnny’s name out of the newspaper; specifically the court reporting. My father knew all these people personally as it was a small community. It must have been difficult but he had the integrity to follow ethical and unequivocal news standards. He published my ex-wife’s name when she plead guilty to assault and he would have published mine had he been alive. It was an unenviable position but in some ways it was the easier avenue for my father. If he omitted Johnny’s name he would have to do so for others. The criteria would become chaotic. What would you use as a guide? Do I publish some, a few or just you?
What protocol was followed or not followed in the case of keeping secret the identities of those involved in this case? If the court did not proclaim any issues of safety, who revealed or how were they fashioned by the Free Press? There are rules to publication bans and I think Londoners should be informed of the Free Press instances and exclusions. Is it willy nilly? Does the court reporter throw a coin in the air and call heads? Should I contact the sports editor to find out what the exclusions are? If the court found no legal or so called safety issue and therefore imposed no publication ban what grounds did the London Free Press have? Who advised the Free Press that safety was an issue?
The first day this woman’s identity was unfoundedly protected the London Free Press coverage became prejudiced. It is difficult to protect a victim without creating an offender. It can only be inferred that the Free Press assumed the accused to be guilty prior to him being officially found or in this case claiming to be so. At the point of secrecy both individuals were only alleged.

The London Free Press and or Sun Media have undermined their standing to mount a legal challenge to a bona fide publication ban. They have castrated themselves of being a voice for the community and seem to have an agenda and or are influenced by certain agencies and individuals.
“Keeping in mind safety,” will the Free Press also refrain from revealing identities in other cases? What are the parameters? Who provides the litmus? Is it to be reserved only for alleged victims or will the accused also at times be protected? There are verdicts of not guilty. Will the London Free Press protect an alleged offender? The revelation of their identity creates conditions which are unsafe for them and their families. Some people are only ever accused. What about the accused who will never be found guilty? What about individuals who are Not Criminally Responsible? It is difficult to argue that Vincent Li who killed Tim McLean wouldn’t be safer if his identity was protected.
If find it frightening that the Free Press has taken it upon themselves to identify those worthy of anonymity for safety or any reason outside of a court decision. It flies in the face of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and the presumption of innocence.
http://www.lfpress.com/2015/10/07/husbands-surprise-plea-ends-london-attempted-murder-trial

I Often Find Myself Where I Was Never Expected

I’m not sure I have ever been afflicted with writers block but I do suffer from long silences. I may not put pen to paper but I am usually thinking and as a writer it is always in sentences. Even in my thoughts I manipulate language in my mind. I am often shy about posting and am minus the motivation to speak my truths. Who am I to think another would care what I conjure?
I have a scapegoat for my most recent drought. I have been without paid work in over a decade but of late I am a member of the workforce. I was employed this past decade with speaking, writing and blogging but I am closer to conventional employment these days. I’m not sure milking 1600 goats is conventional but money for manual labour is.
The majority of my work history involves sweat and most recently stiffness. I was going to write sooner of my endeavor into employment but I wasn’t confident of my commitment. For me a disability pension has been a disgrace; I always felt less or worse, lazy. These past few weeks have convinced me again that I am neither. I challenge any twenty something to outperform me in a milking parlour. I’m not bragging, I’m crying.
Writing is a sedentary lifestyle or at least mine was. I sat and smoked organizing my passion into phrases. I have been a month without tobacco and officially a goat milker. I am also officially stupid as I have found a farm where it is my responsibility alone to feed and milk over 1600 goats. That’s two barns full of frustration. Goats are fairly friendly and docile but definitely devious. A goat can see an unfastened gate from a quarter mile and any and all will squeeze through a four millimeter gap.
I’m still trying to figure out if they like to be milked. Feeding is part of the process and though it is a distraction each and every goat knows how to kick off the milking mechanism with a mouthful of food. You might ask “how do you milk 1600 goats in less than five hours?” and some day when I have five seconds or more I will figure it out. The word exhaustion will have to be a clue for now.
When I found the help wanted advertisement I thought, “That might be interesting. I like goats or the three I have met.” I now realize intense is closer than interesting when you’re talking about 1600. I want to quit for the first half of my shift which morphs into I want to finish which is followed by a 35 minute commute where I can say I just milked 1600 goats. I revel in the fact that no other driver on highway 401 is saying anything similar.
It is an agricultural assembly line of sorts but no two goats are the same. Each goat looks different from behind. I don’t have much time to compare but I am recognizing the odd rear end. One goat is freakishly bowlegged and unequivocally the only cooperative goat in the whole flock.
I bought a quart of goat’s milk as a form of job security and I encourage all my readers to do the same. I am giving a one year free subscription to my already free blog for any who mail in proof of purchase. I as yet don’t know how goat’s milk gets distributed in the area but I wouldn’t be surprised if any litre had a spoonful from “my” goats. I can’t say these goats are sweet but a lot of love goes into a gallon.
I use a staff to herd the goats from pen to parlour. I bang it on the gates and walls to speed them from place to place. One goat calmly ignores me. Number 208 waddles along and scratches herself on any and all surfaces. She reminds me not to rush in my fever of frenzy.
Another goat inspires me. It is a young buck who has a triangular wooden yoke fastened around its head to prevent it from escaping from its pen. I find myself confused about six times each night as it defies its constriction and enters and mingles with each pen of goats. I too dislike being told where to be and though not as adept as this bugger I often find myself where I was never expected.

Grace, Grit and My Damn Brother Wherever the Hell He Is

I was once a forestry technician. For any who wonder what exactly a forestry technician does, we basically plant trees in the spring and spend the rest of the year cutting them down. It all made sense to me when I was paid but in hindsight had they hidden the chainsaws, spring would have involved less perspiration.

I am reminiscing because my brother and I did some tree cutting ourselves at the family cottage. It was a long weekend and we actually cut down two trees. I use the term ‘we’ loosely.

My brother and I each have our own chainsaws. Between you and me my brother doesn’t know how to use his. Although his is more dormant I was on this occasion thankful he has one. I was exhausted before we were even near shade. I spent the first hour pulling the chord on mine. It ran quite well but only for a few seconds at a time. I gave up when oil started oozing out of spots I’m pretty sure contain no oil. I found a part in the grass near my folly and I could find no place to reattach it so I surrendered. I’m a tree hugger at heart but by this point I could barely lift my arms.

I sometimes mock my brother’s abilities and equipment but on this occasion I openly embraced his much cleaner and operable saw. We installed my larger blade and chain on his saw and were ready for forestry. We scampered along the slope in front of the cottage next to the tree that was in age more weed than wonder. It grew on a 30 degree angle opposite of where we wanted it to fall and its limbs conspired with their weight in the same direction. It was half rotten at the base and I struggled to make a notch in the side I wished it to fall. I made a cut on the opposite side fully expecting it to transfer its angle and weight in the direction of my desire. In protest it leaned logically and pinched my blade and my brothers saw. My knees were shaking as I know the danger of twisted, leaning, half cut trees. I was soaked with sweat and seriously considered unbolting my blade and handing my brother back the portion he owned. He doesn’t get out much and had been practicing yelling “timber” all morning so I obliged his obsession.

I climbed the hill to the shed where I put my hands on two axes, a hatchet and a sledgehammer. To this day I am unsure of what my brother was doing at the time. If a tree can be obstinate this one was. I placed the axe into the wound the saw had inflicted prior to being pinched. I pounded it in with the sledgehammer until the saw was released. Again, I am unsure what my brother was doing at the time but I heard him exclaim that the saw was free. “Thanks for that.”

I was basically petrified at this point since there was little holding the tree up and I knew it could kick out or fall in any direction, the least likely being the one I wanted. I did a little more cutting with the saw but I was basically at a point a beaver would be ashamed of. A beaver would have enough sense to leave the rest to the wind but I could see the eagerness in my brother’s eyes. I grabbed the axe again and using the sledgehammer pounded it with all my might in the direction the tree was deciding to go. “It’s going…wait…wait… did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed. In fact the tearing noise was fully audible to me as well and did nothing for my trembling knees. I kept swinging the sledgehammer wildly and it finally started to fall in the exact opposite direction of our initial plan.

It was somewhat anti-climatic as it fell into the limbs of other sympathetic trees and landed on the uphill slope as though settling into a favourite chair. I started to limb and cut the trunk into lengths that will eventually warm my mother. I struggled in the mess of leaves and limbs as I maneuvered up the slope. I couldn’t see much for all the trees but in need of someone to pull cut branches out of my way I had to again wonder where my brother was. I finally sawed a path to the top of the hill where the deceased tree had stretched. I stood on the cottage deck and took in the new view. It was only one tree but the view was entirely different. It only took two hours of fiddling, fear and frustration to see things differently. It all reminded me of the many other things I could not see at times in my life. The barriers and obstacles I have had to get past. I would like to say I have removed them myself but many have only been overcome by grace, grit and my damn brother wherever the hell he is.

“Homosexuality is sin Jesus saves from sin” Should we capsulate a portion of a belief system and label the individual?

An individual attended the London Pridefest Parade with a sign that said:

“Homosexuality is sin Jesus saves from sin”

There was a small counter “protest” to mock his belief and I saw one message on Twitter stating that “Mr. Homophobe doesn’t understand.”

Are all Londoners who would agree with this man homophobic?

We need to be careful what we attempt to stomp out for some day we may cherish what we did not recognize as religious freedom and freedom of speech. Dissension has the ability to be a voice only when protected.

This man is some symptom for what he believes? Is a 70 year old man of faith a homophobe for using Biblical precepts? Does this man hate the LGBT…community or is he merely showing them his love? What if further into his faith there is no privilege for homosexuals post mortem? What if it tears at his heart to see people marching away from heaven?

What if the man does not hate but is in fact doing a duty of his faith? Some faiths include passing on God’s Word or a message of salvation. Is there something wrong with sharing faith? Maybe this man believes God loves homosexuals but that it is a sin. Maybe he has no intolerance himself but believes God does.

Maybe this person does not judge homosexuals but is hoping to save them from God’s. What if this person see’s a hole in the street you are about to parade into? Is it okay to point out the hole? I see a man not pointing to a hole but what to him is Holy. This man’s beliefs may have allowed him to endure or accomplish things he otherwise wouldn’t. Maybe the man hopes at least one other person finds the hope, peace, strength and or purpose that he has found within his beliefs.

Does every parade goer need to be a convert?

Why is this individual labelled and discounted? What if it is more spiritual than psychological? I think we are on dangerous ground when faith or belief is labelled as homophobic. Essentially Biblical interpretation becomes censored. It becomes unsafe or unacceptable to freely express any aspect of our beliefs and or non beliefs. Should we capsulate a portion of a belief system and label the individual? If this sign is homophobic we have labelled a number of Londoners as the same. What’s next…medicating them?

If a person believes the Bible is the Word of God and they are called to share their faith I don’t think any label needs to be applied to them. “Homophobe” is a stigmatized identity so we need to be careful who we affix it to. It seems sad that at an event such as Pridefest Parade someone was essentially stigmatized for their faith.

We should take care when trying to remove stigma from ourselves that we don’t place it on another’s head. I rather enjoy a city that differs in faiths, beliefs and thought and I don’t think that sign said much outside of love.

If I believe other things are a sin is it okay to share those beliefs? When Christ said something about offering the other cheek maybe He was also referring to resilience? Turning away is easier than finding some symptom in another’s world view or eternal view.

Calling this man a homophobe would make some members of the LGBT…community homophobes as well. What of the LGBTQ…individual that would find peace in continuing with or a conversion to a faith that commits to heterosexuality? Would you rather them not see such a sign? Can’t God’s messages be for anyone at any stage?

To label something as homophobic pushes a minority of thought into an area of stigmatization we are trying to stamp out. If we want out of swimming in stigma it does no good to pull someone in.

I have been in spaces where only two possibilities exist. It is just you and a box of space or you are part of a reality with possibilities beyond what are rationally explainable. When I lost my reference to self I was defined by my faith. It was what I thirsted for and what sustained me. Even in a jail or prison freedom of religious conscience is only secondary to safety and security.

If we seek acceptance for ourselves is it not a duty to do the same?