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

Posted on August 18, 2015 by brettbatten

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.

Ignoring inflation it cost $550 000 dollars to deal with my mental illness institutionally.

Posted on March 21, 2015 by brettbatten

I read an article in the London Free Press regarding policing and mental health. In a survey Londoners were asked :

“What do you think is the most important crime-related or policing problem facing the community and London police?”

Mental illness replaced downtown safety/bar issues in the top five. Why do Londoners believe that mental health is a police concern? If physical health is not a police concern why is mental health? If diabetics deserve doctors from start to finish why wouldn’t people with mental illness? If we are ever going to view mental illness differently we need to insist on medical interventions rather than law enforcement interventions. Part of the problem is the widespread perception that mental illness is synonymous with dangerousness.

Less than 3% of violence is attributable to mental illness in the absence of substance abuse. If ever we notice someone we suspect as hearing voices or disoriented in their thoughts or actions or somewhat delusional we might cross the street. The truth is that on both sides of the street 97% of our vulnerability to violence comes from the people who have no mental illness. People with mental illness are more often the victims of crime than the perpetrator.

When we allow law enforcement to administer to a health concern it is little wonder that the health concern becomes stigmatized, related to crime and associated with violence. If the police escorted diabetics to the hospital we would all have similar impressions about diabetes. Consider what we visualize, assume, think, feel and understand about mental illness. Now imagine having similar perceptions for a cancer patient. It would be unfair to the diabetic person or the individual with cancer but for the mentally ill it is as it would be for others with other illnesses; a barrier to treatment and a difficulty of rehabilitation.

Five years of my life have been spent under 24 hour care 7 days a week in an institution. Ignoring inflation it cost $550 000 dollars to deal with my mental illness institutionally. If a tenth of that money was used for comprehensive treatment in my youth, I might not be writing this.

A mental health clinician paid $60 000 dollars per year could have treated me for one hour a day for 70 years.
If we continue to fund and access policing and correctional measures to deal with mental illness we will forever feed the wrong end of the cow.

We do not fight cancer by building more cemeteries.(King)

When I first started living in the community after the forensic hospital I saw a psychologist once a week, a specialized therapist once a week and my psychiatrist at least once a month. Those supports were needed initially and they would have been expensive but it was nowhere near the near $350 dollars a day it cost to keep me in an institution. People can be monitored and treated in their own homes.

I could simply say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure but people might miss the point.

We leave mental illness unanswered and instead we deliver services mainly in times of crisis. Figure out the cost of an ambulance, two police officers and a truck or two of firefighters to respond to a suicide call and with any luck deliver that person to an emergency room and possibly a psychiatric unit for an indefinite period.

Now figure out how much it would cost for a therapist to prevent it in the first place.

If the financial realization is not enough for you consider letting heart disease progress to the point where invasive measures were necessary. With every other illness we prescribe the greatest amount of medicine at the beginning because to let any illness worsen is more devastating, difficult and expensive to treat. The social costs are immeasurable.

If you were ask a child how she feels about her father finding the best treatment for his heart she would likely answer the same for helping her father with schizophrenia. The best medicine at the beginning is not rocket science.

We are stupid to continue as we do but we are wrong and inhumane to do nothing.

People seem to think you are either for Tim McLean and his family or for Vincent Li. Balderdash!

Posted on March 6, 2015 by brettbatten

I had a gentleman email me a letter regarding Tim McLean and Vincent Li. I disagree with most of what he has to say but I respect his attempt at dialogue. He took the time to express himself and was civil with me. Normally, I would dismantle his arguments and refute them each by each but I will let his letter speak for itself. He has revealed several issues that I believed underscore the hate and stigma that surround this tragedy.

I have pointed out that much of the stigma surrounding Vincent Li is ignorance. I still believe that. People are spouting their unsubstantiated opinions and are rarely attempting to become knowledgeable or informed. Some are actually using their opinions as a shield to information.

I would like to speak to one point I find personally offensive. This gentleman and others take contrary information and arguments as absolutes. Some people seem to think you are either for Tim McLean and his family or for Vincent Li. Balderdash! I attempt to explain and argue factors surrounding mental illness, Not Criminally Responsible and Mr. Li not because I do not support Tim’s mother, friends or anyone else involved in this tragedy. If Tim’s mother’s side or voice was not being heard or supported I would be bringing that to light as well. Tim’s mother has the ear of the Prime Minister and government and a nation is behind her. I include myself in this support but I speak the other side and to other issues in an attempt to provide a degree of balance. People seem to be saying there is something wrong with this picture without looking at the whole picture. A book, painting or person rarely makes sense when viewed only partially and reality is distorted when our focus is a pin point.

One person threw in my face, “what if that had been your son?” I Tweeted back and asked if they were referring to “Vincent Li or Tim McLean? We could be a parent to either.”

My son is about the age Tim was when his life so tragically ended. I cannot put myself in Tim’s mother’s shoes and I would never profess to understand or comprehend her ordeal. I can however come as close as anyone claiming anything similar. What makes me unique is that I can to a degree empathize with Tim’s mother but I can also imagine being Vincent Li or Vincent Li’s parent. If it is fair to ask me what if Tim was your son it then becomes fair to ask what if you were Vincent Li or Vincent Li’s parent? Part of the solution is for each of us to more seriously consider being Tim McLean, Tim’s family and Vincent Li and Vincent Li’s family.

After reading this man’s letter I have a softer view of some of the ignorance. For some it is not a capacity they have. I don’t think this should be an excuse to not strive but I do not think it is fair to attack.

Hey
so i just read your article in response to vince li( i don’t give him the benefit of being called a mr cause he doesn’t deserve it).
I don’t take this out of anger or me not understanding of the disease li has.You seem to be a very smart man, well written article just disagree with you and anyone else who thinks vince li should have freedom or is completely healthy, I have never argued that fact or point my argument or disagreement with is everyone is posting li the victim. He did the crime. ( not like i would know i am not a doctor or a lawyer just a everyday regular joe concerned with the worlds safety)
A rapist is a rapist ,a murderer is a murderer no matter the mind set you have to be sick to do the crime like Li he did the real victims and continues to be Tim Mclean and his family through the justice system and the health system.
The fact that any one would defend these such actions is baffling to me.These quake doctors that are releasing him and giving him more & more freedom want nothing to do with him ,won’t put him up at there own house don’t want him over for the next family dinner or have li in their community.
So with that being said lets be honest with our selfs here for a minute vince li will be completely free and be in charge of his medication one day one day very soon and what will happen that one day he forgets to take his medication and goes past a elementary school just out for recess and li hears those voices again and down kid yourself just cause he is being made to take his medication and he seem s to be doing better because he is being medically sedated with medication and being watched and monitored.
The fact that people believe he his cured and can’t compete a crime again is wrong cause this has happen once before where a guy was found criminally not responsible for killing a young woman and he was released few years later and committed another murder of 2 more.
Its not fair to justify this crime/murder by a disease poor Tim Mcleans soul will never rest
The one question i keep asking is What do we Owe to this man Vince Li? as a nation ,as other humans . What has vince Li done for Canada? he was a immigrant less than 10 years do we really owe him anything now society expects us to house him in our community near our family`s , teach him skills to get a job and to live every day life i don’t believe he deserves that the best Li deserves is either a needle to end his life ( eye for an eye) or permeant waste of life in a facility to provide him the help and care he needs since he needs to be watch and medication on a daily to operate like another human.
The best test the selkirk hospital should do is take Li off his medication while he’s still there and see what the results would be.
Thanks for listening to my thoughts & ideas i have and put out hope it opens your eyes but probably not since with this case i find you either one either side Vince Li`s or Tim Mcleans & family
Have a great day

Sincerely,

RE: Vincent Li and Tim McLean. Compassion isn’t a dart we throw it is a net we cast.

Posted on March 3, 2015 by brettbatten

I spent the weekend battling on Twitter. I don’t often Tweet but there was much ignorance I felt compelled to refute. Vincent Li who was found Not Criminally Responsible for a very disturbing and tragic incident is in the process of being granted a progression of freedoms in his treatment and rehabilitation. It needs to be clarified that these measures will themselves be measured and monitored. It is also important to understand that Mr. Li has been assessed by several psychiatrists who are in agreement as to the status of his mental health. Most importantly the individuals who contribute information and make decisions on that information have and always will ensure that public safety is paramount. Paramount.

I am not an expert in law or medicine. I have some information about each but my specialty is what it means and feels like to be caught between the two. If you want the definition of psychosis you can ask a doctor. If you want to know what the experience is like, you can ask me. If you want to know the intricacies of Not Criminally Responsible ask a lawyer who specializes in such. If you want to know how those processes affect an individual, you can ask me. I don’t consider myself an expert by any stretch but few know what I know. My journey is far removed from what most experience and I believe that is where my use is found.

Unfortunately, people with opinions often have no desire to hear from someone who actually knows something, as it interferes with their ignorance. Opinions have value but when their basis is ignorance they become water balloons without water; completely ineffective and they go nowhere.

I heard the voices that are incensed and incredulous over the appearance of the case. In my estimation most of these individuals are using headlines for a measure and as a basis of knowledge from which to form and progress their opinions. If a person looks only at the atrocity they can only make basic conclusions.

The severity of the offence is not the indicator of recidivism. If a person stabs another twice they are not twice as likely to re-offend as the person who stabs once. It is an asinine assumption and a distortion of logic. The brutality of the offence for which an individual is found Not Criminally Responsible has no bearing on their prognosis or recovery. The absence of blood in no way determines the effectiveness of medications and the presence of blood in no way determines the efficacy of treatment and rehabilitation.

Tim McLean who is the deceased in this case is clearly a victim. He was simply a passenger on a bus. However, there is more than one victim. We have to consider the families and friends connected to all involved. We have to consider witnesses and first responders. We have to consider communities. We also need to consider Vincent Li himself. Mr. Li is a victim of a mental disorder and a victim of public backlash, stigma and hatred. He no more asked for this event than anyone involved. To be a monster to a nation as a result of an illness is a weight that must also be measured. Mr. Li did not choose his illness and he is quite likely near the front of the line of individuals who would wish the event never occurred.

People confuse psychosis with psychopathy. They are two vastly different states and it is unfortunate they are phonetically similar. It is the same as confusing dentistry with dysentery. Psychosis and hallucinations are Axis 1 disorders while psychopathy is Axis 2. Twitter was awash with words like psycho and I would direct those people to the internet to actually find out the meanings and intricacies of mental disorders. Knowledge is power and slang is pathetic and painful.

I was disappointed to uncover the extent of hatred and intolerance that exists in Canada. People seem to embrace the biblical “eye for an eye” mentality all the while ignoring the New Testament and specifically the red letters attributed to Christ. I guess it is easier to cast stones. Possibly people gain a sense of self righteousness and can forget their own faults. An “eye for an eye” does not bring peace or restore the order of the universe. The universe is unfair and unjust. Just ask a child with a distended belly in a third world nation. People seem to believe the world is just and they become quite worked up trying to make it so through mental manoeuvrings. An “eye for an eye” leaves two people blind and it only expands suffering. It is rather imbecilic to think that suffering can relieve suffering. It is also a little sadistic to find peace in anyone’s pain.

Many individuals seem to think that Vincent Li may be better but Tim McLean is still dead. My sympathies go out to all involved but Tim McLean will be dead no matter what happens to Vincent Li. There is no logic in that argument or revelation and nothing that is done will alter what happened to those involved.

People were flying off the handle saying maybe Mr. Li’s psychiatrist who assessed him should have him as a neighbour. The fact is Mr. Li was assessed by several psychiatrists who came to the same conclusions. The general public and even Members of Parliament like Shelly Glover think they should be the ones assessing and that their opinions which originate from newspapers or less are the only assessment tool needed. We need to allow those who are trained and knowledgeable care for the community and Mr. Li. Despite the brutality of the offence Mr. Li is considered low risk and has been assessed and is being monitored. Few of us could say the same thing about our neighbours. No one is immune to mental illness and it does not discriminate. To an extent we are all capable of atrocity if we become ill to the point Mr. Li was. If you disagree please point me in the direction of the magic water you swallow to prevent mental illness.

I was called a douche, a jerk, a scumbag, a murderer advocate and was told to go hang myself. All were desperate and illogical attempts to overcome the disparity of being confronted by someone found Not Criminally Responsible and who is intelligent, logical and able to disseminate information, form relatively sound opinions and coherently craft them into Tweets. I got a little saucy myself but being the Not Criminally Responsible individual in these arguments I tempered my responses. I came to the somewhat biased opinion that I would rather have me as a neighbour than these scary and somewhat unstable twits. I have been tested and proven not to be a psychopath or sociopath but these individuals cannot claim the same. I don’t much care what they Tweet from their parent’s basement but I am concerned that they interact with others in person and that they are probably allowed to obtain firearms and most terrifying; can vote.

I came to the edge of being insulting and was uneasy with where I found myself. I am one of only a few who to a degree represent individuals who have been found Not Criminally Responsible. I do so not always out of desire but more so out of duty. There are many days I wish to be more ordinary and forget what is past. I realize though that my abilities, experiences and gifts are meant to be shared. I have near total recall of most of my psychosis and as much as it is a curse to remember all of that, it is somewhat rare and it would be a loss not to explain and share with others in an attempt for us all to understand each other. I don’t have fame or popularity to promote my causes. I am involved in the unsavory aspects of mental health: Not Criminally Responsible, the Canadian Criminal Code, Board of Review hearings, courts, police and corrections. Possibly I could let some of this slide if Clara Hughes jumped in but she’s busy on her bike.

I told one individual to “say Hi to everyone on his paper route.” I felt bad that I might be misinterpreted. I have every regard for individuals who support or supplement their income from delivering periodicals. Unfortunately, the 140 characters allocated by Twitter did not allow me to explain my meaning. When I was growing up teenagers delivered newspapers and I was implying that this individual was a child in his thoughts and arguments.

I think it is fair and acceptable that I get a little saucy. I don’t believe that since I was found Not Criminally Responsible that I need to portray something meek and gentle. I am and we all are many things. Part of my point is that I am no different from anyone and I posses characteristics that many and most humans posses. In a way being sarcastic and cheeky is an exercise in illustrating my ordinariness. I grew up with three brothers so I was born and bred to stand up for myself. For years I was unable to do this as I was in jail or hospital. If I had no voice I would be skinnier than I am. I traded barbs with my brothers as an exercise of intellect and debate and it was an ingrained and somewhat socially conditioned form of love. We did not hug each other though we do now. Instead we insulted each other as a form of attention and we found affection, comradery and even respect in its often humourous arms.

The one individual who seemed quite engaged in trying to enrage me gave up when I asked him his real name. He was calling me “champ” in some attempt to belittle me and I told him “my name is Brett and I do not hide.” My full name is attached to my Twitter account. This child was Tweeting from behind his mother’s skirt and when I said to “step up or shut up” he implied that I was threatening him. I reassured him and told him he couldn’t “hide and speak” and that I simply wanted to know if he “was a mouthpiece or a man.” He did not give his name which confirmed he was in fact just a mouthpiece. He was a noise originating from the area of the head but not the brain necessarily.

People were arguing that if Mr. Li misses a dose of his medications he will buy a bus ticket and repeat his actions in some form. Medications are important but only a fraction of the treatment and rehabilitation Not Criminally Responsible individuals receive. Further, these individuals are monitored and know themselves the importance of their medications and the other aspects of their treatment and recovery. In the case of Mr. Li there are a series of supports in place and extended that were not present at the time of the offence.

People think Mr. Li should be locked up forever and worse. Punitive measures do not alter the cause of the offence when the cause is mental illness. Treatment and rehabilitation of the individual with the illness is not only humane and progressive, it is the only successful and logical approach. Mr. Anonymity was trying to argue that all criminals should be medicated and why was Mr. Li so special? Firstly, Mr. Li is not a criminal and secondly they have not discovered medications for greed, stupidity and evil. As you might conclude it was draining attempting to inform such moronity. If I had to do it again I might just walk away as many of these individuals used their opinions as a shield to information. However, some of what I was saying was getting out there and their deflection did not mean I did not reach anyone. I am also pleased that there is a lasting public record of their stupidity. Maybe eventual embarrassment will guide them towards a book.

People were using the grief of those involved as a basis and argument for their hatred, ingrained ignorance and intolerance of people and circumstances they have little basis of knowledge in. People think they are being sensitive to victims and compassionate but compassion isn’t a dart we throw it is a net we cast.

You Say “Healthcare,” I Just Shake My Head and Cry

Posted on February 27, 2015 by brettbatten

I have no “craving” to return to the issue of smoking on hospital properties and it seems a lost cause but I will. Let’s just consider it a “bad habit.”

I was on hospital property myself yesterday. When I left the architectural brilliance and heat of the building itself I noticed a gentleman in his 70’s hunched over in a wheelchair. He appeared to weigh something near his age and seemed somewhat compromised. I imagine his struggles are profound even within hospital but he was attempting to smoke in the wind and cold about 40 feet from the hospital entrance.

It has been minus “21 Forever” here in Ontario and yesterday was no exception. No exception seems to be part of the problem. This man was breaking hospital rules and even the old rule of not smoking within 60 feet of a hospital entrance. I don’t imagine he had a rebellious heart or complete disregard for rules, I think he may have been unable to make it off hospital grounds and the temperature itself may have been a further hurdle. If my ears nearly freezing are evidence of anything his wheelchair wheels may have been frozen.

There needs to be more communication between agencies in the region. When the Health Unit and police agencies issue a cold weather advisory and warn people to stay inside it may be prudent to apply this information to hospital staff and patients. It may even be important to ensure that 70 pound patients in wheelchairs have a safe and suitable place to smoke. Maybe the blankets were being laundered but this gentleman was under dressed for what I barely endured with half the exposure. This individual is unlikely to quit smoking in his 70’s or in his proximity to illness. It may be a bad habit or a long time pleasure.

We can all be proud of moving in the direction of a “Smoke Free Ontario” but my grandfather shouldn’t be run over in the process. He wasn’t my grandfather or I would have brought him home from the illusion of healthcare he was enduring. He is however someone’s grandfather, “bully for you.” I hope some idiot or at least the compassionate committees who have brought us this far find satisfaction in such an individual being tortured in the guise of health and healthcare. If you think smokers are going to hell it is no less sinful to expose them to anything similar here on earth. Perhaps we should pray on this.

I wanted to take a photo of this poor gentleman but I did not want to remove my gloves which he was without. I also respect patient confidentiality and it would have been a blurry shot as he was shaking so hard. Oh well, the rightless wretch will soon be dead and we will not be so uncomfortable in our conscienceless ideals. The grandchildren who attend his funeral will no doubt find peace that his last days were dignified and comfortable. They will hopefully find comfort that he was “exposed” to the most advanced and compassionate healthcare available.

I’m not saying hospitals are being heartless but providing a wheelchair becomes ironic and disingenuous when a 70 year old patient is allowed to suffer from exposure and near frostbite. I was in the same elements for a shorter duration and in an appropriate winter coat and I couldn’t wait until I reached my frozen car. This gentleman was under dressed and unable to access proper shelter or even stamp his feet to provide a sense of warmth.

I don’t know how we get around ridiculous rules but I would suggest those who are making them spend 6 minutes in a wheelchair, in a jacket, in minus 20 degree weather. It may provide enough exposure to uncover enough empathy to enable true compassion if not sense.

Catherine Zeta Jones

Posted on October 6, 2014 by brettbatten

An anti-stigma campaign I follow on Twitter sent me a message that “Actress Catherine Zeta Jones has been living with bipolar for several years and rejects any stigma attached to it.” Easy for her to say. It was further Tweeted that Catherine Zeta Jones says there is “no shame in seeking help.” For someone with fame and finances this might even be true.

For Catherine Zeta Jones, mental health stigma and treatment are vastly different from the experiences of many who also suffer from mental illness. For her being open about her diagnosis and experiences is at least unintentional personal publicity. As they say: There is no such thing as bad press. In the case of celebrities a personal persona and public appetite is created and nourished by being a news story. It would appear that Catherine Zeta Jones has thrown herself in front of an oncoming car for the benefit of many but I would argue that the car has already driven by. The lack of blood and guts, spell evidence.

Catherine Zeta Jones is portrayed as some patron saint of bipolar but what has she really risked? Stigma is at a point that it is rarely rolled out for the famous. I am not inferring that there is no such thing as stigma but little if any cuts through fame and favour. Call me cynical but these revelations don’t seem to affect these individuals beyond increasing their brand, public persona and popularity.

If I’m depressed in bed or manic at the mall, am I apt to seek help or find relief in Catherine’s revelations? The rubberneckers look but the rest of us are too busy trying to survive. These celebrities don’t give interviews in their underwear next to dust bunnies; they follow a loose script in their personal libraries in Bermuda. Speaking of which, what meds do I take to find myself in Bermuda with a maid?

I think “Catherine The Great” has been a source of conversation around mental illness but I would argue that her battle with stigma is similar to Don Quixote who mistakes windmills for giants and charges at full speed. My suspicion is that stigma is a word, for Catherine Zeta Jones. For many stigma is no windmill but a true giant. It affects self image, personal and family relationships, employment and status.

When I think about bipolar I don’t envision a person like Catherine Zeta Jones who uses overpriced shoes for bookends because they’re too cute for closets. In my world people with bipolar have their shoes taken away so they can’t asphyxiate themselves with the laces.

I imagine Catherine’s experience with mental illness has been challenging and difficult but in the scheme of things we are talking about First World problems in comparison to Third World problems. Did she have to wait six months to see a psychiatrist? Were the chairs in the waiting room plastic or leather? Did she have to wonder if she could afford her medication? Was she worried about missing work? Did she have to resort to disability assistance to feed herself?

I’m waiting for one of these famous sacrificial lambs to tell us about their hemorrhoids. That experience is the same for us all and if I knew Catherine Zeta Jones used “Preparation H” I could actually hold my head higher at the pharmacy. There’s little fame in swelling so I shall suffer in silence.

“It is a kind of cold and uncaring environment”

Posted on October 4, 2014 by brettbatten

A 30 year old father has died at Elgin-Middlesex Detention Centre. On the surface it seems no correctional officer or administrator can be faulted because it was a suicide and because this particular inmate did not voice an intention or thoughts about suicide. Corrections sidestep the corpse and deny responsibility because protocol was followed. What if protocol in fact hastens or facilitates the death? Following the rules in this case could be considered the smoking gun.

According to London Lawyer Kevin Egan, who represents hundreds of London inmates “It is a kind of cold and uncaring environment.” I hope Kevin Egan didn’t have to research too many legal documents to come up with the understatement of the century.

Inmates are screened at admission about their mental health and suicidality. “Do you feel suicidal?” if answered in the affirmative will bring about a second strip search and the inmate is placed in solitary confinement or for those who like to justify its use, segregation. The inmate is given a tear proof gown and blanket to go with their toilet and 24 hour light.

For any inmate who is familiar with this system of sadism there is only one answer to the question. “No.” Inmates in solitary confinement because of suicidal ideation or behavior are checked on every 10 minutes. Interestingly, it takes about 5 minutes to die. In the case of this young man because he was segregated but not on suicide watch he would have only been checked every 20 minutes in comparison to the usual 30 minutes in the general population. This deviation points to the admission that solitary confinement creates a dangerous situation that needs increased supervision.

I realize Elgin-Middlesex Detention Center is understaffed and poorly designed but is it not possible for “cold and uncaring” correctional staff to ask an inmate if they are suicidal after intake? Surely, while under the arguably tortuous conditions of solitary confinement an inmate could be spoken to and asked if they are suicidal. Would any institution grind to a hault if such a protocol was implemented? It would require conscience and a degree of compassion but it may save a life.

To be placed in solitary confinement deteriorates mental wellness and exacerbates mental illness. This is where it becomes difficult for guards, administrators and healthcare staff to sidestep culpability. This particular inmate was taking prescribed psychiatric medication and was placed in an environment where whatever mental wellness he possessed was compromised. His mental health was compromised by the correctional system which did little proactive to prevent his eventual death.

There have been 16 coroner inquests into jail suicides since 2007 and the recommendations of better screening and monitoring of inmates has been ignored. This is not only a dereliction of duty but it is outwardly reckless and a foundation for legal culpability.

“Let them drink Scotch”

Posted on September 4, 2014 by brettbatten

I read with fascination about the prime minister’s visit to the arctic. I have read about John Franklin’s expedition that disappeared while searching for the Northwest Passage in 1845. I’m happy the prime minister has a history hobby but as a Canadian it raises some serious questions. One headline read “Scotch tumblers were raised last month on the bridge of HMCS Kingston to the search for Erebus and Terror.” Many Canadians are interested in Franklin’s ships but outside of the prime ministers personal obsession, I fail to see the national significance.

Stephen Harper and the conservatives should be paying attention to the terror of the 21st century not the ‘Terror’ of the 19th century. Someone should point the prime minister to a newspaper and highlight a few current concerns. We have a war in Syria, the Ukraine-Russia crisis, conflict in Israel and Palestine, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS), Ebola, global warming and closer to home the economy, murdered and missing indigenous women, prostitution laws, marijuana laws, the tar sands, the torture of mentally ill offenders and poverty, homelessness and hunger.

It is time the prime minister pulled himself away from the pages of history to take a glance at the misery faced by many Canadians and their children. I’m not sure I could raise a tumbler of Scotch to a dead explorer being the leader of one of the few developed countries without a national meal program for children. It is not liberal or in any way political to ensure all children have access to sufficient, safe and nutritious food.

Fifteen percent or almost 4 million Canadians are considered “food insecure.” While the prime minister is drunk on his hobby many Canadians are unsure of where their next meal is coming from. These people can be sure that next meal will not come from this prime minister. Stephen didn’t say it out loud but his actions and attentions scream, “Let them drink Scotch.”

The conservatives are drunk on perpetuating their power. Stephen Harper is politically shrewd and has clearly calculated a balanced budget is his only key to re-election. He has also calculated that 4 million hungry people don’t stand in line to vote because they are across town in a food line. The prime minister would rather drink Scotch on the bridge of a ship with his conscienceless cronies and imagine an explorer who risked it all for the benefit of a nation. “You sir are no John Franklin. Nice mittens by the way. Take them off and roll up your sleeves. Your nation needs a builder not a bookworm.”

It is not frivolous to feed people and it is fiscally responsible. Hungry children are sick more often and struggle academically. The medical and social costs are future expenses but you were elected to look ahead not look back. Children under 18 represent over 40% of food bank clients in Canada. If the prime minster wants to look back he should travel back to 1989 when Canada made an all-party resolution to end child poverty. I am not geographically gifted but the answers are not in the arctic.

The search for Franklin is a joint public-private partnership. I’m not sure what the unemployed or hungry think but I feel this historical hunt could and should be entirely privately funded. This government can’t find food for families but they dredge dimes from Canadians to find Franklin. With respect to the dead the man and his mission are beyond saving. The voices of the past are important but meaningless in comparison to the voices of hungry children. This prime minister needs to toss the tumbler and drink in some empathy and social responsibility.

We have two Canadian Coast Guard ships propelling past the permafrost on government gas. What exactly are we giving Canadians? I usually save my swear words for when I’m through the drive thru but Canadian school children don’t give a FROSTY about Franklin when they can’t find food.

Sucking back Scotch with the prime minister were Industry Minister James Moore, Environment Minister Leona Aqlukkaq, Aboriginal Affairs Minister Bernard Valcourt and billionaire and Blackberry profiteer Jim Balsille was there to represent common Canadians. The Inuit on shore who pay $8.99 for a head of lettuce and the rest of Canadians were too ashamed to participate, or, a shameful reminder. Billionare Balsille “was very proud. It was a nation-building moment.” Anyone familiar with Jim Balsille or Blackberry might question his perception of building.

There’s nothing wrong with being a geography geek, a history hound, a billionaire or a bureaucrat but when your interests are at the expense of taxpayers and citizens without work or food, you become a “figurehead” of folly. The ass end of a ship is the best place for such individuals. Presently we can’t do much about many of these idiots but when the conservative ship capsizes we won’t have to yell “man overboard” as there weren’t any to begin with.

Canadians will no doubt sleep better when we find splinters of these historic hulls. Too bad the prime minister and his cronies will be the few who have food in their teeth to make use of the toothpicks.

Laying Eggs, Lifting Lumber and Other Painful Moments

Posted on August 27, 2014 by brettbatten

I went to visit my mother and step-father today. Being a quadragenarian makes one susceptible to the company of septuagenarians. I don’t know about others but such terms make me feel like something with a pin through its back on a specimen board. Earning my grade 12 diploma in my thirties obliges me to borrow obtuse and pretentious phrases but in my heart I mean forty and seventy.

My mother mentioned she had a couple of errands in town and since I had ingested a meal I felt obliged to assist. Our first stop was a TSC store which is a farm store. I like TSC stores. My roots are rural and I have pleasant memories when I can browse work boots, pellet guns and fencing. Mom wanted to pick up some chicken feed for her several hens. I was there just to check things out but I found myself next to a 50 pound sack of chicken feed. It suddenly became clear why chickens produce more poop than protein. I’m fairly logical and literal and I stood in disbelief at the size of the bag. I was expecting something about the size of an egg carton. If what goes up must come down then it stands to reason that what goes in should come out. Apparently I had failed agricultural arithmetic.

I looked at my mother. I looked at the feed and again looked at my mother. I waited for what seemed like minutes expecting her to grab the bag and get on with it. She didn’t budge. She mentioned that she usually uses one of the carts which were in the vicinity. It was a subtle challenge and I grabbed the bag and awkwardly threw it over my shoulder. It became a bad idea about halfway to the checkout. I struggled with the weight and my legs were wobbling. I bumped into the display of garden seeds and frantically searched for my mother. I have never wanted to pass an object as much since I was running down the football field in high school with fierce athletes on my heels. Like then I was on my own. I suddenly didn’t want to be at TSC. Normally I would be cursing but I kept telling myself there are eggs in butter tarts and biscuits. My mother is an exceptional cook. I wanted to explain she could obtain the same results with store bought eggs but I needed to save what little breath I had.

I made it to the checkout sweating profusely. I wanted to ask the cashier why the damn batteries were near the door but the 50 pound sacks of cat, dog and chicken feed were in the back corner. Fighting back tears of frustration I asked the woman if they guaranteed that my dog would lay eggs if I fed this to her. Not missing a beat she retorted with “not in writing.” It seemed she was trained to deal with difficult customers.

I was spent but we had to make a stop at the local lumber store. I like lumber stores. Trees are one of the few things that smell good when they’re dead. I entered the store without trepidation as I know they have employees who load your larger purchases.

We backed up near the loading bay with our slip of dead tree which is used to inform the yardman that you want more dead tree. I turned the car off and looked at my mother. She didn’t budge. I flung open the door. “Seriously?” “This is ridiculous and repetitive.” I met the yardman with curses on my lips and we nearly ended up with lattice and a bag of cement. I finally sputtered darn board and he clued in and climbed the shelving to fetch some barn board. I couldn’t quite understand why he was making money sliding two boards off a shelf while I had to drag it across the parking lot to the car. I pinched my hand between the boards which sent me off on a tirade. “She probably wants me to cut and nail this crap as well…I’m in hell.”

Joking aside and as lazy as I am there is a degree of defeat in doing favours for my family. I give up on any sense of balance when I look back at all the jail visits and court appearances. I can’t compete with lawyer’s fees, canteen money and a roof over my head. There have been so many meals and forms of love that can’t even be logically listed.

Chickens are like children. We put bags of food into them and usually end up with more crap than accomplishments but love isn’t logical. Like an egg it forms naturally and sustains, fortifies and is often made into something nearly as wonderful as my mother’s butter tarts.

Found In Translation

Posted on August 25, 2014 by brettbatten

I attended a birthday meal for a septuagenarian this evening. I wasn’t the cook so it was this side of better. It seemed a breeze was breathed on us continuously which was relief from the humidity I seemed to experience everywhere else I was present for the day. We were sitting talking before the meal which for me means listening to predominantly Chinese phrases. I am sometimes isolated by my vocabulary which consists of ‘xie xie’ or “thank you” and ‘dou bu qi’ which means “I’m sorry”. I have had a six year relationship with my Canadian Chinese fiancé knowing nothing more and needing not much else. There is some English when we visit her family which provides me the opportunity to put my foot in my mouth and say ‘dou bu qi’ and practice my Chinese.

Someone asked what time it was. My initial reaction was to suggest it was time to eat as BBQ almost everything was already on the table but something struck me. Someone reached into their pocket and siphoned the time from their cell phone while I turned my wrist and glanced at my watch. If I want to know the time I look at the microwave, the oven or my watch before I even think about the cell phone in my pocket. As far as I’m concerned cell phones are for music, EBay and confirming how few of you read this blog. I don’t even use mine to make calls as I have one of those old phones you have to travel half way across the house for. I would like to argue that I like the exercise but there are people I know who do read this blog and they could only laugh at such an argument.

Time means something different to each of us. To the 8 year old at the table it was an eternity until we cut the cake. The chef at the BBQ toiled for hours marinating and turning several forms of flesh and I ate most of it in a fraction of the time it took others. This slight failing falls squarely at the feet of my parents who birthed four hungry boys. Last one to the table scrapes the bowl. My swiftness to swallow was further fine tuned among inmates who would ask “are you going to eat that?” If it was on your tray you didn’t want it.

Like time, life experiences are subjective and subtle. Money for someone who experienced the Great Depression is something different from the 13 year old with the X-Box, IPod and Dr. Dre Headphones. Homelessness is a foreign concept to one and a reflection and reminder to the other. The 8 year old waiting for the cake will likely never fathom his grandmother passing her portion of rice to her children.

If you were to ask one about food, the stories, memories, impressions, meanings and experiences would be as far apart as the years themselves. I hope neither know hunger again or ever but there is nothing like it to add to appetite and to colour food with flavour and celebration. It becomes not something we do three times a day but something we are blessed with in the moment.

Goof’s

Posted on March 5, 2014 by brettbatten

Criminal charges have been laid against two correctional officers and one supervisor at Elgin-Middlesex Detention Centre in London, Ontario, Canada, in connection with the October beating death of 29-year-old inmate Adam Kargus. All three staff members were charged with failing to provide the necessaries of life. They are 47-year-old Leslie Lonsbary, 55-year-old Gregory Langford, and 52-year-old Stephen Jurkus.

It surely must have been a strange day for the three to spend some hours in jail. I suspect unlike Mr. Kargus, they were not placed with a historically violent offender. They probably weren’t bullied for their meals and I would be surprised if they even had to show their rectums like the rest of us.

I’m not sure who to swing at first. The provincial Liberals even after inquests have ignored systemic and specific problems at Elgin-Middlesex Detention Centre (EMDC). There is blood on their hands. The Liberals and ministers have a societal if not legal duty not to endanger lives. The Liberals have not performed their duty and are negligent. They should be held responsible but will receive pensions rather than prison. They have shown complete disregard for officer and inmate safety. It may not be criminal negligence but it is clearly political negligence. They won’t find themselves in court but come election time they may not find themselves in office. Being in the provincial legislature should be an honour, not a defence. In court it is not necessary to show intent regarding negligence, it is enough to show indifference. This story involves an incident but the situation and conditions have been presented to this government for over a year and a half and it has been mishandled as long.

Don Ford who is a spokesperson for the Ontario Public Services Employee Union (OPSEU) is quoted as saying “The ministry hasn’t fixed the problems in there and now we do have a tragedy, the death of this inmate (his name was Adam)(sic)and officers being charged.” If officers being charged is a tragedy it must also be a tragedy that the murderer was charged as well. “That is just heartbreaking to be honest.” said Mr. Ford. Funny, I don’t recall OPSEU or Don Ford being heartbroken until officers were charged. That’s the problem right there. Respect and concern can be found in spades amongst guards but it is extinct in many instances between inmates and officers. It is probably a good thing that Corrections doesn’t have their own Special Investigations Unit made up of correctional officers like we have for police forces. We know that track record or is it a broken record – “found no wrongdoing.” Don Ford is also quoted as saying the murder “did not happen in isolation of conditions.” Isn’t that like saying the driver wasn’t responsible for going 100 miles per hour but rather rain slick roads were the cause of the crash?

Adam Kargus was beaten and died on October 31^st and discovered at 10 a.m. on November 1^st. So much for checking on your charges every 30 minutes. It will be argued that only two officers were working in a situation that required three. I would be curious to know if union breaks and meals were taken. I was a business owner and often duties fell to me that required two people. It was a flooring business but I was conscientious enough to ensure the job was done. People had kitchens and bathrooms they needed back and now a family has a son they need back.

We are talking about a minimum level of care. Can we not expect that at least from our government, its ministers and civil servants? The necessities of life are a societal standard, unfortunately correctional officers sometimes use personal standards. Hopefully Adam’s death will raise both.

Since I am calling out people I will also call out the inmates themselves. One inmate who was on the unit at the time of the murder said in court that “he was screaming for help.” The prisoner code is animalistic, immoral and perverted. Anyone who heard those screams for hours should be haunted. Your silence was the fatal blow. Your code and infantile rules such as never to call someone a “Goof” has become a nail in a coffin. A Goof is as a Goof does.

Herstory

Posted on February 15, 2014 by brettbatten

I was at a funeral this afternoon. I was there as a personal comforter and had never met the departed. One never knows what to say at a funeral and this opportunity was more so for me. I was sorry for their loss though I didn’t even know what they lost.

I learned the departed’s age, knew what she looked like as a young woman and saw the flower in her hair everyone seemed to be mentioning, in more recent photographs. I learned about her family history and stories from her life.

I met the departed in the voices of a daughter, a grandson, a granddaughter, a niece, a friend and a minister. Her spirit trembled in their words. She floated from their thoughts and hearts even into me; a stranger. If I could be touched without a real glance at her what might have she been like alive? There was no casket but she moved through the room and down the cheeks of several sitting in front of me.

The person I was accompanying had never been to a funeral and was a little unsure of herself. I didn’t give her any advice on what to say or where to sit. She figured it all out as she sat next to me wiping away tears as well. Tears are always appropriate and a funeral is a good opportunity to feel someone one last time or for the first.

Ten Cent Shoes

Posted on December 19, 2013 by brettbatten

I recognize the fact that many of you have better things to do on Christmas Day, so I will speak out of turn. Experience has made me morose and more but I hope you can find some piece of truth or the heart of the Day in my musings.

Christmas in many jails is like any other day. The timing is impeccable as is the monotony. We tend to not watch the TV specials so it even echoes yesterday. There is nothing to signal what rattles your very soul. There are no funny Christmas presents and if orange is festive you would throw up on Easter.

The most painful part of incarceration for me was to surrender my fatherhood like it was as worthless as my watch and clothes. We are numbers and last names; nothing more.

On more than one occasion the flavour of the season was delivered by the Salvation Army. Bars prevented the hug I longed for but candies and such were a welcome amusement; humble gifts. I was more satiated by their presence. Who wants to go caroling in a jail? I listen to hours of music each day, it is my morning coffee but seared in my mind are the notes coming from the accordion on the other side of the bars. Strangers can help to mend a torn heart. I was a father without the whiff of my children and visions of them tearing into wrapping paper laid waste to my strength. I don’t know about most of you but I have many Christmas memories. Imagine letting them all loose when you’re in shackles that very day. There is only anguish at each passing vision. I was disinfected of any meaning despite what swirled in my mind. It was like being a Goldfish. There was all that stuff beyond but the best you could hope for was a sore nose.

The first Christmas I spent in jail was in the Stratford Gaol. It was built in the 1800’s with nothing much more than stone. The season was colder than I was accustomed to. We hooded ourselves with blankets as the stone shone cold on our bodies. Our frigid defence was rendered useless as we were ordered to leave blankets in our cells as they were a security issue. Fire with Fire.

I soon decided Christmas was going to be delivered even if compassion was held up with customs. I had a weakness for sweets while incarcerated. When I was in hospital I would waken in the night and eat a black licorice. I would waken in the morning with a piece or two on my pillow and lost half a tooth soon after but it was comfort. My family has a taste for black licorice and I must have found a connection when I was without them. Sweets were also a connection to the outside while in jail. A “snickers” tastes better than a “snickers” on the outside…trust me.

I always had a couple of chocolate bars either near me or in me. I would ration them. To eat a whole chocolate bar was like throwing away several moments of ecstasy. I ordered enough chocolate bars using the system used to procure street food and product on canteen. On Christmas Eve my cellmate turned into an Elf and ran diversion as we were being locked up. As he pretended to use the toilet I filled my pockets with chocolate bars and scurried from cell to cell and gave each man a chocolate bar. I shook hands with my own pain and glanced into the same infinitely sad eyes but there was a sparkle. It was Santa in an orange jumpsuit wearing ten cent shoes.

P.S. Thanks Mom for the canteen money.

My Neighbour’s Children

Posted on December 16, 2013 by brettbatten

I’m not sure how it slipped by Mr. Harper but it seems one of his officers has put his foot in his mouth. Industry minister James Moore is quoted as saying:

“Is it the government’s job – my job to feed my neighbour’s children? I don’t think so; obviously nobody wants kids to go to school hungry…but is that always the government’s job? Empowering families with more power and resources so they can feed their own children is I think a good thing.”

Mr. Moore,

That may be a good thing but your dream doesn’t fill half our heads and less stomachs. While you’re making signs to tell us about your plan to empower families many of them are going hungry. If you guys can pass something between prorogues we would all be pleased. When there is no food in your stomach there’s a lot of grumbling between budgets. You sound confident in your plan but just to prove the earnestness with which this government is dealing with the issue we would like you to stop eating 3 meals a day till this all blows in. I think that’s a good thing. This power and these resources you speak of might be helpful if wrapped in a sandwich. We can’t eat your perspective or promises. This problem is like a sore thumb never to heal. How many more meals do these children have to go without while you dance this into a motion that brings food and more? It is not a simple economic principle when in fact many who use food banks are employed. Selling the country to create jobs doesn’t always end hunger.

The next time you walk to the refrigerator sir, I would have you pause. Go sit somewhere quiet. Wait until you start hearing your stomach rumbling. Now wait an hour and consider the number of times your thoughts turn to food. The rumbling and anguish you may sense is in fact a regular and often prolonged experience for some Canadian children. Children who have no voice, no vote and clearly from you sir, no compassion. Possibly you’re so smart because you had the privilege of growing up with nutrition. Imagine algebra with an empty stomach.

You may think it is not your job to feed your neighbour’s children but as a federal minister you represent each of the homeless and the many more who go without food. There are 30 000 homeless in Canada and 833 000 visit a food bank each month. When we see this sort of disaster in another country we are alarmed, recognize the need and take action. When these numbers happen slowly and are spread out, our empathy is diluted. Does hunger feel different in Canada than Cambodia? If a tornado hit Toronto and the numbers were the same, I doubt we could expect such callous and stupid statements. These numbers are a national disaster being administered to by charities in many cases. Why can the military be roused to assist another country but will not hand out food packets from the back of their trucks here in Canada unless their government declares it an emergency. This is an emergency. To not have a roof or to be hungry is not something we ignore or prorogue when it happens far away. I do think Mr. Moore that it falls on government to administer to something this serious.

From your words it would appear you have no problem passing the potatoes with the prime minister but to hell with those hungry kids next door. What specifically is the distinction you make?

It is interesting that you don’t consider it your job to feed your neighbour’s children but assuming your neighbour pays taxes it is their job to work and save for you to eat your parliamentary meals, a salary and even a pension. You sir would like to be fed by your countrymen with a silver spoon but you won’t commit a quarter for a hungry child.

I can swear like a drunken sailor but you sir are curse enough.

Toronto South Detention Centre

Posted on October 6, 2013 by brettbatten

I would rather chew nails than drive near Toronto. I don’t mind Toronto drivers but I am not the best among them. I was quite prepared to drive there this morning but was offered a ride from a fine friend. Our team of three included two who to my surprise had never been to a jail before. This was important as their view was as significant as mine. We took the public tour of Ontario’s newest and largest super jail, Toronto South Detention Centre. It is rather large with over 1600 eagerly awaiting occupants; I’m just not sure it is super.

I met with and spoke with several correctional officers and my guides were accomplished administrators. My main focus was on how this new facility addressed the mental health needs of Ontarians. I was also curious to know how the new facility differed from what I experienced. I have nothing against corrections. I shook several hands today in familiar uniforms and would gladly do the same to each officer I have known.

The one correctional employee I spoke with seemed proud of how the new facility addressed mental health. It was he who mentioned the importance of mental health among the incarcerated. He informed me of the mental health professionals who would actually be inside the building. It must have seemed to him a novel idea to have on premise mental health care for a population where 24% have major mental illness. Do we laugh at the fact that this was not the case miles away at the old jail or cry at our utter disregard for the mental health care of a segment of society? We can point fingers and make judgements but we are all on trial for this sadness.

I was pleased to hear that the Center for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) was part of the onsite mental health care. I was disappointed the tour included little information let alone a view of how Ontarians with mental health care needs are dealt with within a correctional facility. It is unfortunate most Ontarians assume it has been dealt with appropriately in the past but sad that some do not care in any case.

“So that’s 24/7 right?” “No, the mental health area would only be fully staffed during the day. It cost 600 million dollars to build Toronto South; let’s go all out and have a psychiatrist on site 24/7. It would seem a great place for business. If things are slow maybe one could talk to someone in segregation. I loved those house calls! Mental illness does not pay attention to a clock. I have had too many depressions that ignored months and have gripped the bars of a jail screaming when it was more quiet than dark but surely night. I hope I am misinformed because I find worry in the fact that correctional officers and administrators will have the night shift. If the administration of this facility has the ability to intercede in the care and treatment of people with a mental illness, the same design flaw exists that was harmful to me. Psychiatry is medicine so to give the prescription pad to corrections at any time of day seems foolish if not unethical.

Human decency can be denied in the name of security but the humane treatment of those with physical or mental illness is the right of not only Ontarians but Canadians. Not everyone expects to be in jail but you should be able to expect humane treatment while there. For those immune to arrest, rest assured these individuals will be treated like cows at times minus some of the dignity. For those of you concerned about mental health care within the correctional system I say there is still reason to be concerned.

I applaud the advances and me more than anyone hopes my concerns are only misinformation. One aspect of the tour that stood out as different was the accessibility to spirituality. I hope it takes root. In truth what I saw was more of the same thing. In the processing area or Admitting and Discharge the person with Schizophrenia is delivered in handcuffs by police and directed into cells where 20 men mingle in an area most of us would find distressing singly. Commands and hand signals direct them through a “public” strip search. All identity and attachment is relinquished to a stranger. A ring removed from a finger can be devastating within a delusion. Within a half hour I am lucky enough to see a nurse who I can inform I have schizophrenia but by this time my world is forever altered. If mental illness must be stripped upon entry it must be done with the mental state of the offender in mind. It can only be as important to security to have knowledge of mental illness immediately. If the police are not passing this information it needs to be discovered before processing becomes mistreatment.

Today I experienced what the general population can expect from this facility. I wasn’t moved by the machine that can x-ray my every orifice. I’m sure it’s easier on their eyes. Good for them. I’d have figured out a better way of searching ass when they invented radar for planes.

Fresh air for these prisoners will come from the top grate of a 30 foot wall. Outside of temperature the area one would consider yard is in fact indoors. As part of containment, the minimization of staff and in the name of security visits will be held by video. We all like Facetime and Skype. It’s hard to defend what are often prematurely referred to as criminals but from a mental health perspective this seems alarming. I realize in jail they don’t put you in the sunshine with your cast even if it helps but to be out of the sunshine doesn’t make the break worse. They don’t allow open visits for people in wheelchairs but we would be fools not to if it helped them stand. A prisoner is a prisoner but if your treatment or conditions cause a deterioration of an identifiable illness it kind of takes the correct out of corrections.

I had a thought and wondered who the representative for those who have been incarcerated with severe mental illness was at the planning stage. It seems silly to ask but pure stigma if we don’t. If we do not look to those who are affected how can we assist those affected? The very problems we address are in fact mute if those with them were not consulted. We stumble blindly when we make mental health facilities without asking individuals with mental illness what is helpful and what is harmful. A correctional facility is more severely advised to consider the experience of those with mental illness as security must be worked into treatment. It is a challenge to design around mental illness but madness not to attempt.

I saw this facility through the eyes of my experiences. From what I can understand the periods I spent psychotic in isolation may now occur in a more hospital like setting with mental health professionals on site. I will be able to experience outside temperature at times but I am not allowed in the same room with a friendly face; someone I know and possibly the only one I do or can trust. I find some comfort in this facility but I would experience her worst regardless. I was high functioning at times and my only complaint some days would have been depression. My sense was that depression was welcome in the areas I toured.

If as a society we are going to accept that mental health care is administered at the point where the justice system becomes involved it must become a point of proper mental health care. If we accept that corrections are the deliverer of mental health care it must be recognizable as mental health care. If I get my prescription filled at Costco they don’t give me toilet paper.

I wonder if anyone has ever asked an inmate what might be most helpful to bring about the change all this punishment is supposed to elicit. I can stand in awe at the design, technology and security features but if they continue to accomplish the same things we’ve experienced for 50 years its tinsel on a toothpick. Is it really a feat to have a facility environmentally designed and constructed if it is only going to be filled with recycled ideas and ambitions?

Crackerjacks

Posted on August 26, 2013 by brettbatten

When I was in primary school, part of my path was lined with huge old Horse Chestnut trees. Even before they fell to the ground I would stop and see if any nuts were ripe enough to knock down. It mattered not whether I was on my way to school or returning home; I would spend timeless minutes stomping on the prickly fruit, doing my best to expose the smooth, shiny nut within.

In some ways I am still the little boy. Through lessons learned I often watch trees and keep an eye for their fruit. Today it is often a discarded piece of wood for my lathe from something fallen. I don’t fill my pockets with chestnuts but I do carry three or four marbles. I see a similar currency now as I did then. My marbles and chestnuts are worthless but they have purchased hours of amusement for generations.

With my brothers and friends we devised or inherited a game. We would dig a hole in the center of the nut and knot a string through. They became war clubs and we would surrender each to the blows of another. The chestnut that didn’t crack was the victor. Sometimes it was the one laid on the ground and other times it was the one swung downwards. Resilience is a funny thing.

When I see chestnuts as an adult I am still drawn to pull the shiny nut from the prickly shell. Like the Crackerjacks I ate those days; the prize is on the inside.

Can You Feel The Spinning Top?

Posted on July 29, 2013 by brettbatten

I have been turning spinning top toys on my wood lathe. I am planning on taking an assortment West when I visit my niece and nephew. My nephew is quite young and considering distance and exposure I am probably more stranger than kin. West is a plane trip so there are few visits.

In my mind I only met my great-grandmother once. I can still picture the rocking chair and sense the dimness of the corner she was near. What I recall most were her hands on my young face. She was blind for much of her life but I see lessons only a disability could teach.

I have learned that each face is different but we all feel the same. Rough, cold, smooth, sticky, hot and sharp feel the same to us all. Hunger, sadness and laughter are common experiences as well.

When I spin a top I can’t take my eyes away other than to glance at my watch as I time the odd good throw. I smile somewhere deep inside if not outwardly. I hope what I have shaped with my hands will touch my niece and nephew the same way. I hope they smile. Several of the tops are made from a discarded but well loved railing post. I picked it up for free and knew I wanted to use it for making tops. I told the woman who gave me the post that many hands would continue to touch this piece of wood.

I learned that we touch more than we see. The things we do and words we convey, even a simple gesture may seemingly touch only one person but like my great grandmother’s hands or the railing post how we make someone feel spins in perpetuity.

I hope to leave some sort of impression on my young niece and nephew. They won’t carry my picture or remember the words I have spoken to them but if I can connect them to the magic, suspense, and laughter that fly from a spinning top I think it might be like me running my hands over their faces.

Fathers

Posted on July 22, 2013 by brettbatten

I helped a good friend put up an above ground swimming pool. He is not a wealthy man but he possesses many qualities worth stealing. He has a good heart and a sense of humour worthy of an hour drive.

My friend was pleased when we were finished but mainly for his children. I’m sure he can see the work and cost but a father sees more. A father can see forms floating and diving. A father can hear the splashing and screams of pleasure. A father feels the clinging hands at the thought of swimming with flesh and blood.

A father remembers his so it is easy to be one.

Living In A Cave

Posted on January 14, 2013 by brettbatten

I always marvel at people who have done something for decades. It could be an occupation, hobby or even a relationship. I can proudly boast to have breathed for such lengths of time but little else.

Is it some character flaw or am I inherently dynamic? Is it natural to be somewhat static or are we meant to be instruments and products of change?

If you look at technology and products, change seems to be an aim as much as a need to fulfill a present need. If you look at nature change seems to be part of the design. Mountains become hills, rapids brooks and trees soil. Death may seem to be static but a life lived carries forward in the hearts and minds of many. We ripple through the ages through family, friend and foe. A word spoken or a fist raised may weaken but does it die? If a poet inspires one person or a generation is it not somehow felt by the next?

Possibly, our notion that there is an end to something leads to carelessness. If you believe the gesture is simply that, it may be easier to be casual about it. If you believe it is a current that touches more than one shore, it may be prudent to be more tactful.

Have you ever scolded a child or pet? They are forgiving and resilient but what is said remains lurking somewhere in their minds. They may not cower at the next consonant but what do they carry into their futures beside your words and actions?

Some argue that the past is simply the past but I see my past as essentially what I am made of…it can’t be anything yet to happen. What I have seen, what I have heard and what I have experienced and felt have a huge impact on today. It may be something like coming out of a cave. The present experience of the outside is directly impacted by the former experience of being in the cave. Is it the brilliance of the light or lack thereof in the cave that causes you to squint and blink? Is the view actually unimaginable or has the sterility of the stone walls made it so?

We all live in caves of habit and routine. It could be the aforementioned occupation or hobby or something less productive. What we continue to do we continue to experience. How we react and act towards one another is a result of these experiences. Can we change anyone or anything without changing ourselves? The past will always reside in the cave but do you want the future to reflect those stone walls or the brilliance of what lays beyond?

Dear Mom,

Posted on December 17, 2012 by brettbatten

This letter was written from a place that haunts me still. I think it is illustrative of the importance of “presence” at Christmas. Love is the punishment; it is what ties you to the outside world and pulls you in directions you are forbidden from going.

Dear Mom:

I hope this letter finds you sometime during the holidays. Consider this your Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year as well.

We haven’t had hot water for three days now. I was lucky and had my shower during the few moments when there was some. The kitchen is really messed up because they can’t do dishes. We have been served on Styrofoam plates with disposable spoons. Our cups are the same as we were issued on day one. I wonder how sanitary a cup is after several months without being washed in soap and water. Mine is brown inside, stained from hundreds of coffees and teas. At least it’s easy to keep separate from the new arrivals clean green cups.

We also haven’t had yard for four days at least. The new mesh fell to the yard floor along with support cables with its first exposure to snowfall.

One of the guys is getting out in the morning. I feel a little sad to see him go. We’ve shared this same small space for three and a half months. There were things I didn’t like about him, times I wished he wasn’t here, but when it’s all said and done we got along. That’s the most you can ask of your fellow inmates, to get along.

I received a Christmas Card today. It is a northern scene of White Birch with a blanket of snow on the forest floor. Standing out from all the white is a bright green Spruce tree. I showed it to my cellmate and we decided we would use that little Spruce as our Christmas tree. So tonight December 18^th we put up our tree. It was the first tree I put up that I didn’t curse at. It was nice to receive and let some spirit into our cell and some laughter into our hearts. I wish the same for all of you. I will miss you this Christmas but I will probably think of you all more than if I was there. I know I will never forget the Christmas I spent in jail but I wonder what will make it memorable; the spirit that will creep into our day or the spirit that is absent. No doubt some of each.

Say ‘Hi to the dogs and use my name.

I still have the card…thanks Candace, wherever life finds you.

21 Years !!!

Posted on December 17, 2012 by brettbatten

The Conservative government in my country is participating in a misguided exercise to get “tough on crime.” It’s easy to fashion votes on such a platform but morally wrong to do so at the expense of your most vulnerable citizens. The only people “tough on crime” policies don’t appeal to are usually behind bars or a step away. I can forgive a government that makes easy political points but I am offended that they think I care not for those affected. The individuals affected are not criminals; they are the severely mentally ill and the families connected to them. They are referred to as the “accused” because they are not found guilty despite public desire.

This government proposes to enhance public safety by prolonging the incarceration and detainment of those found and proven to be Not Criminally Responsible. At present these individuals come before a panel of legal, medical and public members to determine a course of action suitable to both the public and the accused on an annual basis. The Conservatives by a sure stroke of political gain would have us believe that every three years is better suited to all involved. The government is interested in victim rights or so they say. I am of the opinion that in casting a net for political votes they will in fact create more victims than they will serve.

Don’t ever assume the laws you find attractive and sensible for “others” will never land in your lap. Hopefully, you won’t find yourself the accused at a Review Board hearing but you will know what prayer is if you happen to be that persons mother. The Review Board process is an excruciating and slow process as it stands now. I understand and am sympathetic to the prayer involved in being a victim of a crime but are you a victim of someone who is or was part of the Forensic System or are you a victim of someone who was outside of the system? Retribution can taint treatment. This law will do little to protect us from anyone on the street; it will only prolong the process that we subject the accused to. It is like taking a double dose of Viagra. It only succeeds in screwing you indefinitely. Will you thank Stephen Harper when you leave the building knowing your child will remain for three more years?

I had 7 annual hearings for a crime that probably wouldn’t have fetched 6 months from someone found guilty. Would you sleep better at night if it was 21 years instead of seven? I have conscience enough to find that fact alarming even outside of personal reasons.

It is easy to be indignant of another’s sins!

I know of a case where the accused stole a bag of chips. It is a fallacy perpetrated and perpetuated by the media that Not Criminally Responsible individuals are all murderers. It is also a fallacy that these individuals receive shorter sentences than those faced by the criminally sane. (Please read “Not Criminally Responsible: The Burden of Accusation and Popular Misconceptions” in my blog) I stand far outside of these fallacies and I am not an anomaly.

We need to listen to victims and their families but we need to remember the same brush with fate that delivered them to their suffering could have easily delivered them or a loved one to the confines of a Forensic Psychiatric facility. If you disagree please point me to the clinic that inoculates me against mental illness. This government agenda shows clearly that they care not about those afflicted with mental illness but more telling is the insinuation that the laws they impose will have no effect on themselves or those they care about. We are no more immune to being a victim than we are of being the accused. Those found Not Criminally Responsible received the same lessons in school. Their parents transferred the same morality and sense of right and wrong. For an array of reasons many of which are outside anyone’s control they became mentally ill. It is alarming to think we can improve society by increasing the segregation of the mentally ill.

We have a senator whose daughter was murdered. I am saddened by this but it is unfortunate the politicians whose lives are touched by mental illness are not as vocal. Let’s not forget the many moans of anguish amongst the shrieks of atrocity.

Any two bit politician can make a law that affects hundreds to appease millions but it takes a man to make a just decision.

Christ, You Can’t Wrap Remembrance Day ?

Posted on November 9, 2012 by brettbatten

I just drove through downtown London and noticed the Christmas decorations are all up. It warms the heart to see wreaths and bows on the 9^th of November.

I couldn’t help but compare our infatuation with “Christmas” and our remembrance of soldiers and others who have sacrificed. We have decorations up 8 weeks before His birthday so we can deposit His spirit in the bank. Maybe we should commercialize Remembrance Day so it gets a fair shake. Sacrifice is sacrifice. Maybe we should hoist blinking Poppies in September and have Remembrance bargains at Toys ‘R’ Us… but that would be crass.

What is the difference between a 16 year old lad laying down his life for mine on earth and Christ laying His down? There must have been a few relatively sinless soldiers. Maybe freedom has a different place in my heart because it was absent for a time. I’m grateful the twerp with the funny moustache didn’t succeed in telling us what colour our skin and eyes should be or what religion we should follow.

I would consider it a bad day if I had to drag my electric chair up a hill so they could fasten me into it. Wallowing in a trench for months isn’t a holiday either. Knowing for sure you’re going to be nailed to a cross would be stressful but weeks on end with bullets whizzing by your head with the same intention isn’t exactly comforting. What might either be like?

For parts of Canada we are given a statutory holiday in February. Here in Ontario it is “Family Day”. On the 11^th day at the 11^th hour many are only allowed to stop for one minute. Maybe it’s for the best since many would squander a Remembrance Day holiday. The mall has better parking than the Cenotaph and we would only succeed in dishonouring those who sacrificed.

Maybe 60 seconds is all we can stand. If we actually spent an hour thinking about what has been done for us in either case we would weep. It might be sacrilegious but for me sacrificing your life for someone else on earth means you’re a saviour. Lest I forget it!

Santa Claus

Posted on September 27, 2012 by brettbatten

It’s less than 90 days until Christmas. I was thinking about Santa Claus. I remember believing completely in Santa Claus. One particular Christmas I actually saw his beard peeking beyond the door jamb of my shared bedroom. I was too stunned to wake my brothers and laid in some sort of mesmerized trance. I wanted to jump from my bed and say hello but I was perplexed as to what a good boy should do. Was it best to lay still and take in the magic of the moment or should I scream and involve everyone in the house?

Most would argue that it was the overactive and possibly sugared mind of a child but I saw what I saw. We sometimes discount what a person experiences or believes. Most of us are entrenched in a personal reality but your outward view is only more realistic to you because of what your experiences have coated your perceptions with.

My mind may have been filled with the magic and myth of Santa Claus but does that make what I saw unreal? When we stop believing in magic it can only disappear. We are all entertained by illusionists. Knowing there is more to the story does not cause the illusion to seem less real.

There may be no Santa Claus but I beg to differ. Santa Claus went out on the frozen pool at my brothers leaving footprints, sleigh tracks and hoof prints for my nieces. For that Christmas Santa left some magic which I dare say did not disappear with warm temperatures.

It is unlikely the same illusion would survive in my niece’s minds today but that is their perception. The interpreter is always part of the magic.

Fingers and Toes

Posted on September 13, 2012 by brettbatten

I was returning some favours today so I noticed some things outside of my daily habits. I noticed how sweat catches any breeze and the sun can only be danced about. I noticed my community and what we look like from two stories up. I noticed muscles and actions I was unaccustomed to. Not long into my shingling I even noticed synergy.

I was two stories up working for a friend with a physical disability who does more than most. He had a hired man whose name for anonymity is Roger. Roger stands 6 foot three with a mustache and pony tail. Nearing or above 270 pounds his shadow is larger than mine. His belly is bigger than his biceps but his forearms are larger than many within labour. His hands are huge. I didn’t take off my shoe but I swear his fingers were as big as my rather large toe. I stared at them every chance I had.

Since I was the grunt we both found ourselves in the midst of labour and conversation. I saw enough of his laugh and intelligence to want more. He was quiet but I tried to talk to him through the silences labour brought. We started talking about old bars in the city and surrounding region. Roger mentioned that in his hometown and at least one other establishment in the city there was either a side for Natives or another section entirely. I was shocked. “How old are you?” I then pleaded for the decade. It was the early seventies. I was sure racial barriers were long less than that. I was glad to have helped Roger for I held nothing but grief in my heart for him. What might it have been like to grow up on the wrong side of humanity?

Roger accepted much less pay than any job near this size might command. His wages were closer to the decade he was segregated. I think we expect people who have been wronged to stand up and protest. What if it is the person wronged who should be approached? If you do not believe Native Canadians are worthy of your respect it does not mean they should not be apologized to. I worked hard for the hired man. If it was a weight on a scale I did more. I only hope my back was stronger when I knew his pain.

Roger is proud in a way that involves no chest but plenty of heart. In discussing one of the premiere builders in the city he couldn’t understand that they do ten jobs and laugh at their customers while he does so many more for so much less.

We celebrate success but there are some who measure it differently. Is Roger less than builder Dan with his truck and trailer or is he more as he bikes from job to job?

Puddles

Posted on September 9, 2012 by brettbatten

I used to be naive about many things in life. I thought love was something I had to earn and search for. I would often concentrate my efforts on mirages. From a distance things seemed lush and I gravitated to the idea of quenching my thirst. I could be standing in a puddle but what I saw in the distance was where I thought happiness resided. Sometimes love finds us when we don’t even know we are looking. Other times it seems buried deep in the sand and we are without a shovel. We think we know the spot it is buried and flail away with both hands to uncover it. At times I have thought that the kind which is buried is more valuable because I have to work for it.

We often guard our secret gardens because none of us lives without the memory of some heartache. The usual result is atrophy. We rarely admit anyone for fear they will trample what is the core of who we are. As a result we have no one to help us care for our garden. Some things wither and others grow uncontrollably but the real loss is not having someone to witness its beauty. Our garden is useless unless we allow others to walk within it.

In some ways life is like being on a train. We don’t always choose who our fellow travelers are and it can be a relief to see some disembark. Others have the same destination; they can be family and friends or acquaintances and loves. At each station there are some who transfer with a different destination in mind. Seldom are we alone in the boxcar and many of us are fortunate to have many accompany us on our journey. I sometimes find myself looking at the stations we pull into and wondering if it wouldn’t be better to disembark. What do these people know that I do not? Is their path possibly the one I should be on? Where I find myself is always where I am supposed to be. It can be a place of suffering or of ecstasy. Without the one the other loses its meaning.

The importance of our gardens and our travels is that we share them. We can choose some of the individuals that accompany us but others are not meant to be a choice. They are a gift. We do not shop for our own gifts, they are simply meant to be graciously accepted. Sometimes we have no clue as to the worth of a gift. Sometimes we find little value in something so freely given. Sometimes it is difficult to recognize that we have been given more than we would have the audacity to ask for.

When the coat is thrown down in the puddle for us to walk on it does not mean the coat is worthless. It means the wearer finds more value in the steps you take than you possibly do.

I Learned

Posted on September 3, 2012 by brettbatten

It’s Labour Day and one of the trees in my yard is changing colour. I don’t find this to be alarming but it is the starting pistol to future labour. I usually rake up 20 bags of leaves. By the end of this process I often question the cost and benefit ratio of shade.

Children will be returning to school tomorrow. They will have tans and tales. I don’t envy the teachers who are tasked with reeling in the freedom of summer. I was the recipient of years of formal education but there were many things I learned only through absence.

I learned that collecting pop bottles equals candy.

I learned that the public pool is louder than any playground.

I learned that siblings can be best friends.

I learned that the gravel pit is always open for swimming.

I learned that vegetables are more fun to watch grow than they are to eat.

I learned that playing the second movie at the Drive-In Theater is pointless to a 10 year old.

I learned that picking rocks is hard work.

I learned that bailing hay is harder work.

I learned that water is a magnet to flesh.

I learned that the can of beans on a hiking trip fares better than peanut butter sandwiches.

I learned that corn on the cob marks the twilight of summer.

I learned that proximity leads to friendship.

I learned that squirt guns are easier to empty than to fill.

I learned that it is best to be the first one off the Teeter Totter.

I learned that thunderstorms sound worse than they are.

I learned that flashlights are made for reading comics.

I learned that a tent makes a fine sauna at high noon.

I learned that trees are as fun to climb as they are to sit under.

I learned that Boomerangs land on rooftops as often as they come back.

I learned that it’s always worth the extra money to have your soft serve dipped in chocolate.

I learned that farmers’ tans are only funny on others.

I learned that my friend’s sister was more interesting than he was.

I learned that Popsicles shouldn’t be left unattended.

I learned that Speedos are an age appropriate fashion.

I learned that swimming in chlorine is as effective as any bath.

I learned that lawn darts hurt.

I learned that geography lessons hold little meaning on a bicycle.

I learned that root beer and ice cream are best served as one beverage.

I learned that more girls show up at the arena to roller skate than to play hockey.

I learned that the best plan is to not have one.

“Worthy of the pay….”

Posted on August 15, 2012 by brettbatten

This posting is some more of my psychotic thinking. For entertainment purposes only.

“I only want to help. I mean no harm so someone simply let me know what to scribble on my sign.

You give us political views and publish budgets and agendas and offer them as gifts. You elect to keep much of what you do a secret. We only want to know what it is you devise behind closed doors. A child does not leave their artwork in a drawer; we gladly display the work we are proud of. An employee does not hide in a box the fruit of their toil; they want their employer to know what they have done to be worthy of the pay. You are employed as my representative; it is I who employ you, why do you hide your efforts from me?

Freedom of Information should not be and Act, it should be a Right! When we learn of your blunders without you telling us first, what are we to think? You cling to innocence but what seeps from your mouth is always more lies!

We need to think why the government and how the government voted that governmental business was something to be uncovered. Where is it written that our elected should carry out OUR affairs and business in secrecy? The enemy will always have secrets; all I ask is should our government also? If it is to the essence of by the people and for the people, why are the people not given eyes to see what it is you do for them?

I can carry the flag from my car window and even pin it to my chest but it is only you that wraps it about your body as armor. Why are you protected by the flag but not me? If I can serve and even die for my country you have no right to lie to my country.

You pound into our heads “more jobs” all the while not doing yours!

I am a flea on the ass of government!!!”

Eye of the Beholder

Posted on August 6, 2012 by brettbatten

I am at the family cottage sitting on the picnic table at the edge of the pond. It’s not much of a pond at present. It is low in water and made murky by its clay bottom. My dog is taking dips and stirring up the goldfish only aware of her pleasure. I am otherwise alone here listening to music. I am rich.

I have seen uglier times. Perhaps that is why I have such an appreciation for these moments. I could wish for more but peace is not having things but appreciating things. I can recall peering through bars and a heavy metal screen a pencil would not fit through. I was witness to sunsets that although obscured, I remember still. Colour penetrates much. I have been witness to many great sunsets here on Lake Huron but the ones that penetrated the jail seem more memorable. I wonder if my fellow inmates saw what I saw. I believe the gift of the sunset is Grace but the ability to recognize its beauty is also Grace. Is the meal extraordinary or our present sense of taste? Is it what resides in us that allows us to interpret beauty and be moved?

Two people can taste a fruit but neither will experience the same sweetness. Perspective and interpretation can be gifts. I am at times grateful for people and experiences in my life but I forget to be thankful for perspective. I am richer when I can acknowledge the fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder; beauty does not exist unless it is beheld.

Olympics

Posted on July 31, 2012 by brettbatten

With the Olympics upon us I have been thinking about competition. Is it part of being human; something innate or has it been cultivated? Some would argue that co-operation is the main reason we did not die on the savanna. If this is true, at what point did it become advantageous to be competitive if it has? We may have never made it to the moon were it not for competition with the Russians but how has the moon helped humankind? Simply put, is the world a better place when the Chinese throw a javelin 18 inches further than the Americans?

Competition does bring us together. We gather in arenas, fields and gymnasiums to participate in competition or witness it. Though we gather we also separate from each other. The parents from one division sit apart from those of another. Our children associate with others in white, yellow or black. Is it any wonder we see and draw lines when our skin is different as well?

We once shared with other tribes and they us. Neither knew when the need would strike. In an age when countries cry out for relief from oppression and hunger, we gather and watch elite athletes riding horses over fences. I’m not saying we should butcher the horse and feed the hungry but if it was my horse and you were my starving neighbour what does it say about me if I don’t?

No doubt competition arose in times of abundance as it continues today. Hunters honed their skills which were entertaining and invaluable during the hunt. If this is where competition was born why did our ignorant ancestors have enough sense to see everyone was fed? Would the hunter have the esteem of the tribe if they shot at targets while the village sat starving?

I wont get into the dollars that go into each athlete and each medal but we are trading huge currency for trinkets and national pride. I may be solitary in my thoughts but I would find more pride in my country if it reached further into opposing nations and stood not on a podium but on the back of a truck tossing bags of rice. Couldn’t we keep the competitive spirit alive if we had elite athletes attempting to throw that bag of rice the furthest? We could set up hurdles between villages and if you find the idea of eating horse distasteful we could fly that same horse not to a stadium in England but to a country where it could pull a cart with something people actually need. Enjoy the Olympics and don’t forget to share a Coke.

In the spirit of competition I will be checking out the comments section for the most creative and original sport we can come up with for Third World Olympics.

Lock and Key

Posted on July 18, 2012 by brettbatten

I have a small collection of antique locks and skeleton keys. I actually owned them before I was under lock and key so I don’t think there is anything subliminal but possibly they were prophetic. I pulled them from the drawer they were in and made a display. As I look at them I realize each key has the same purpose but all are slightly different. Are humans the same? Obviously we are each different but what interests me is whether we have a common purpose.

At times I have been caught up in the material. I was successful; I owned my own business and properties. I was ahead of my peers though I probably felt emptier. Losing all this, I don’t in any significant way feel less than those I see driving luxury cars. Possibly I have enough esteem that I don’t need that of a jealous neighbour.

I am slightly out of shape. The closest I come to a six pack is at the Brewers Retail. My hair is thin to non-existent in spots but again I don’t feel less than the nicely shaped and hairy people I come across. Possibly I don’t get my esteem from the follicles in my head or the size of my biceps. Some would say I was better looking in my youth but I’m fairly certain if this was a purpose to existence none of us would age and we would all have identical hyper metabolisms. The physical and material matters in my life don’t overly matter.

I have had many relationships. I have been a father, a husband, a lover, a brother, an uncle, a student, a friend and none of these. To procreate is a strong urge in humans as are other relationships but without this ability or the stature of being at least a friend, a person does not shrivel. I did not crumble and I am ordinary in every way.

Travel, entertainment or even thrill seeking are certainly desirous but looking at significant historical figures who ventured only within their counties without ever bungee jumping we can assume that despite being great, what we do for fun may have nothing to do with our greatness.

Toil or occupation whether paid or not can provide meaning but unless it is in the name of something we are not much different from Oxen. A beast can pull a plow but only humans can cultivate anything important. The seeds we plant will only sprout with attention.

These are some of my arguments regarding purpose; personal or weak as they may be. What then is our purpose? Does it have to be something greater than ourselves? Is it different for each of us or are we like my keys? If I am a key is it myself that I must unlock? When I unlock myself what comes out? Do we keep the same things under lock and key? Could it be that although I am less than wealthy and less than hairy I am in fact in possession of the same treasure? Do we not all hold the key to compassion, love, generosity, and empathy? Some people seem to have more of these just as some have more money or good looks. Possibly these individuals have used their key to open what many of us fear we do not have enough of to share. These contents are a little like the recycle bin; they will only be picked up if you put them out there. Your empty aluminum cans will never be made into anything new if you bury them in your backyard. Compassion can never heal or touch someone who needs it if it is left in your chest; literally.

Every lock has a key. Obviously I can only speak for myself but I am coming to understand that my purpose is to unlock and share what can’t be seen, measured or appraised. To some these things have no value in any way but when shared with someone else they can be priceless. Interestingly, out of the dozens of skeleton keys I own, none of them fit the locks. I guess that is what makes life interesting. Since we are all different keys I may just happen on someone who opens a lock I own. It is often a mystery as to what a lock protects but historically it is something of value, all the other stuff is simply stuff.

Scars

Posted on July 11, 2012 by brettbatten

I have a large scar across the muscle above my knee. At one time it contained thirty stitches to hold it together. It was a trauma that I have a total recall of. I also have scars that are less physical. I was sewn together by a great many healers, some professional and some who had no clue they were helping me to heal. Here as well I have total recall.

Eventually you have to remove the bandage and live with the scar. We have to step back into our lives and walk on. A scar can be a reminder but it shouldn’t keep us from what we aspire to. To leave the bandage on longer than is necessary may in fact make things worse. The more we try to protect ourselves the less we experience. After my emergency I went to my family physician to have my sutures removed. He was uncomfortable with my wound and thought it best to leave them in. It was my experience that the longer a stitch is left, the harder it is to remove. I returned home and removed them myself. I was fairly confident I wouldn’t open up again or fall apart. We are more resilient than we sometimes allow ourselves to be.

For me, recovery is not a return to the way things were any more than my physical healing leaves me without a scar. The fabric of my life, like the flesh of my wound has changed. I am fortunate that my scar on my leg like the other scars I live with don’t interfere with the majority of my functioning but I have been altered.

Every scar tells a story but they do not have to be the whole story. Scars of the flesh are miraculous. Without thought or conscious effort the body reconstructs itself. Through Grace some of my other scars have healed as well. It can be time and distance or simply the decision to live with the scar. We don’t have to stand still to mend, in fact going through regular motions is often more helpful. I pick at the scabs of my life like we all do but some wounds heal only when we let them.

Cicadas

Posted on July 9, 2012 by brettbatten

With this heat wave the Cicadas have been screaming somewhere in my vicinity. They are an interesting insect. In some varieties the nymphs burrow into the ground for two to five years, some even seventeen years. They all come out like the Pied Piper was leading them somewhere. Their predators don’t have a life-cycle that coincides with theirs so they can survive to serenade you and me. I remember listening to them when I was in the hospital. My friend Ed informed me of their significance. Like insects our dark moments can be a prelude to a metamorphosis.

Off and on I spent a couple of decades in a darkness not of my own choosing. None of it seemed natural but possibly it was. I wasn’t joined by droves in similar circumstances. Had I been a Cicada I might have taken comfort in the fact that there were others buried with me. It often seemed to be just Ed and myself. I can’t argue that it was a prelude to something better.

Some of what I lost needed to be lost. When we are stripped of most of what we recognize, we are in fact given a gift. When we emerge we have the unique ability to make choices. As I was left with little I could choose once again what to fill my life with; I had the freedom to metamorphosize though many other freedoms were denied. I chose to surround myself with better people and undertake things that provided personal meaning. Hopefully my acts are less self-centered than they once were. I am more conscious than I ever was and attempt to occupy myself with endeavors that also benefit others. My bank account reflects this but money can sometimes be difficult to emerge from itself. Migrating from purchase to purchase can be like standing still. When you are beneath the “material” there is no view and subsequently little perspective.

I’m not sure I feel like something singing from a tree but I do not feel buried. To be embedded in turmoil and pain can seem like a curse in the moment. When I was able to emerge I cannot put into words how sweet even the air was. I was able to see and experience things I was unable to before. I remember my first trip into London after several years from home. The skyline was like New York, I was in awe and inspired. Obviously I wasn’t given much of a different view. Some of the people and places in my life were exactly the same as before I was submerged. In some strange fashion I did metamorphosize and in doing so I gained a perspective that was quite different. Some of my life is like getting a new television. The channels may be the same but the picture is a welcome improvement.

When you can’t see your children for over a decade every child you see reminds you of your loss. On some of my weekly passes I came into contact with a relative’s daughter who was the same age as mine. I had no idea what my daughter might even look like. In my sadness I was still able to share my life with this individual as I would have had she been my own daughter. Like the song says “if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” We often don’t get the opportunities we would choose but we are given opportunities.

I could easily stare at the Hole I emerged from. I could curse the sky for what I lost and endured but that would only cloud what I have gained. I would not have a song to offer if I considered what I now have as second rate. I wouldn’t have chosen some of the people who are in my life but now that the choice is mine again I would not trade a single one.

Spilled Milk

Posted on July 6, 2012 by brettbatten

Mental illness often entails loss. Obviously there is a loss of health which can entail a loss of functioning. We sometimes cannot do the things we did in the past. I have personally experienced other areas of loss. Mental illness can displace us from employment, family, friends and community. We often lose respect from others and even ourselves. We suffer from financial losses and loss of overall status. Even freedom can be lost.

I had pointed out to me that when a glass is emptied of a liquid it is subsequently filled with air and vice versa. I have found myself empty and void of many of the things that filled my life. My friend pointed out to me some of the things that rushed in as my life spilled out before my eyes. I have had professionals enter my life that have sustained and quenched me in ways I could only have hoped for. The family and friends who leaked from my life have been replaced by others who in no small way nourish and enrich my life. I have experienced love and met many individuals only as a result of my mental illness. They have joined me on a journey that despite its pain I would not abandon. My glass is not filled with what it once contained but it is surely full.

Maybe that’s what they mean by “don’t cry over spilled milk.”

Brett Batten

Author. Advocate. Educator

Tag Archives: family