Lamron (Part 3)

Continuing as Lamron describes some of his "life themes." Thus far he has talked about, slow reflexes, and feeling lost.



Misunderstood

Have you ever been in a foreign country surrounded by people speaking a language you did not understand? Now think of the obstacles you must clear to eat, find shelter, and work. How do you socialize or learn about current events? It would be difficult to keep u with the day of the week. You are the different one. The crowd usually ignores you, but it may laugh at you. If the crowd fears you then you are in danger of being removed and jailed. You do not have to commit a crime to be jailed - believe me. You need only be different and unable to communicate.



Unaware of Cause and Effect

I do not know if people realize the level of comfort they enjoy simply because they understand cause and effect. I am speaking on an interpersonal level. I can work a DVD player, make coffee in the morning, and change the oil in a car. Mechanically and as far as things are concerned, I understand cause and effect. With people and relationships it is completely different.



I do not blame others for this. I am simply writing to describe my experience and attempt an explanation. What I notice is an impatience and a fear. A fear of me. Sometimes I feel that I am a repulsion as though I had a disease that would infect others. I sense this. I feel it in the way they pretend not to see me. I feel it in their stare. Knowing and feeling these things makes me more up tight and more of a repulsion. I do not get the time to express myself. If I get frustrated and raise my voice I risk having the police arrest me for disturbing the peace or even physical violence from someone protecting someone from me.



Whatever it is about me that people sense and shrink from is as obvious as white lint on black velvet. I do not blend in. I avoid people. More often than not I am misunderstood. More often than not I do not understand. It is easier to avoid contact and this creates more problems. My "catch 22" is I need people to help me, but going to them often gets me hurt.



Fear

About age six or seven I was with my family visiting a mill in Arkansas. On this particular river there was a waterfall just past the mill. I was with my brother and sister and a cousin or two. I remember being very close to the river and seeing the current moving rapidly. The noise of the water was deafening and to be heard, you had to shout. Even then, if someone was only a few feet away they would not hear you. I was following the others and having a hard time keeping up. They were quicker than me and the terrain was rough. There were lots of jagged rocks and obstacles. The trail narrowed and followed a rocky cliff that jutted straight up and towered overhead. Trees and vegetation were all around us. The trail, as I remember, narrowed and slanted slightly toward the river and the churning, white, swirling water. The rock face of the cliff on my right offered no holds for security. I was a few steps down the trail when i froze. To go on was too scary and I was too scared to turn around and go back. I knew I would slip and fall into the boiling, foaming water. I yelled for the others, but they were beyond the range of my voice. I just stood there crying.



The other children must have noticed I was not with them and my cousin came back for me. His voice was so comforting, "take my hand, I'll lead you across, it will be alright." I did, he did, and it was. Just like that my fear was gone.



I relate this story to explain the kind of fear and the intensity I have experienced throughout my life. It is not difficult for you to understand how a child could fear drowning in a raging river and even relate to the feeling with a similar experience of your own. It is more difficult for you to know that this is precisely the intensity of fear I may be feeling in a room that seems calm to you. You are not aware of any fear producing stimulus. That is because it comes from within myself. Know that the kind of fear that freezes a little boy can do the same to a man, because I am as helpless sometimes as the boy. I am paralyzed with fear. I am unable to keep up with the others and I am waiting and hoping for someone to take my hand and lead me to safety.



(More tomorrow as Lamron describes what it is like "hearing voices.")



Until the next time

John Strain

Lamron (Part 2)

My name is Lamron. I was born on March 15, 1957. Julius Caesar was warned to "beware the ides of March" - at least he was warned.



My purpose in writing is to tell a story that is not often told. I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, major-depression, bipolar disorder, and others. That is enough of a descriptor for some people. Once the word schizophrenia is used, I become neatly filed away. They know me. they know about me. They know what will happen to me.



I want to be more than that. I am more than a diagnosis. I am more than a series of medical records in psychiatric institutions. I may be stereotyped, but I am a man with dreams and feelings. I struggle to live and to find happiness. There are many more like me. I want you to see the person not the schizophrenic. I was born like you. I have a family like you. The things you want, I want. When I'm cut I bleed. When I am ridiculed or insulted it hurts me. I feel what you feel. Like you I desire respect. To be seen as an equal.



Please try to understand my words. Try to feel the feelings I describe. If you do that and if you successfully hear me - I believe we will both grow.



Life Themes

Some of the themes or dominant feelings I routinely experience are feeling lost, feeling not understood or able to understand, the frustration of not understanding cause and effect interpersonally, and feeling afraid. I have also included a few thoughts about hearing voices and some of my ideas about love and kindness. Love and kindness is something I want, but seem unable to provide myself.



These themes and ideas will emerge and reemerge as I tell my story. To describe these things, I have tried to use stories the reader can understand and with which he/she can relate.



Slow Reflex

One way to describe my life is like a slow reflex. You know the game kids play when two people stand facing each other. Hands are outstretched. One person has their palms facing up while the other person has their palms facing down. The one with the palms up waits for the palms down player to rest their hand in theirs. There is a brief moment of stillness. The palms down player tries to swat the hand of the other player before it can be withdrawn. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. That is because both players have close to equal reflexes. In life I think I mostly lose because my reflexes, my ability to think and reason and decide are not equal. Only later when the damage is done or the opportunity is lost, do I figure out what happened. Instead of being able to learn, it builds my fear and suspicion. I withdraw. I lose faith in myself. I trust others less until there is nothing in me that resembles trust.



Lost

When I was eleven years old I was on a Boy Scout camp out. It was October or November and all the leaves were off the trees. The weather was mild for Kansas. This particular afternoon I was going to complete a portion of my Second Class Scout rank. It was simply called "lost." I was blind folded and carried by two or three other scouts into the woods. After being carried a short distance they grew tired and told me to walk. We walked for a while stopping every now and then for them to spin me around. This was necessary to make sure I was good and lost. Finally, I was instructed to sit on a log and count to one-hundred slowly. My fellow scouts ran back to the campsite to await my return. My job was to find my way back. If I found my way back, I would be one step closer to being a Second Class Scout.



When I counted to one-hundred I removed my blindfold and looked around. It was a windy day and the sudden gusts moving through the trees sounded ominous. It was the warmest part of the day. I can still remember the smell of the woods. The smell of dry leaves and loam. The sun was shining brightly in the cloudless sky.



I began walking in one direction, but nothing looked familiar. I could not make out any distinct trails. I walked through, at times, knee deep leaves stepping over logs and tripping over rocks. I decided to change directions so I walked in a different direction, but with the same results. Up until that point I enjoyed the exercise, but welling up inside me was fear and the realization that I was indeed lost and no one was around to help me.



I changed directions again and again. I called out to my friends only to have my words muted by the noise of the wind. I felt panic and started to run. I tripped over a tree root and fell onto a soft carpet of leaves. I began to cry. I was lost, alone, and very afraid.



I began walking again. This time I found some semblance of a trail. I followed it until I began to see something that was not woods. There were tents and a bus. I had found a different scout troop. As I walked into the camp the kids were making noises but not speaking words. It was eerie and surreal. I spoke to one of the scouts. "I'm lost," I said, "can you help me?" The scout just looked at me as though he could not understand me. He reached out and tugged at my arm and motioned for me to follow him. I followed him past a line of boys who did not talk. We came up behind a man in a green scout uniform wearing a straw cowboy hat. He was kneeling down tending to a fire. My escort touched him on the back and the man stood and turned toward us. He was wearing dark rimmed glasses and he was very tan. I assumed he was the scout master so I told him the same thing, "I am lost." He looked at me the way my escort did and my confusion was mixing with my fear to form a whole new feeling.



The man walked away hurriedly and returned quickly. He handed me a tablet and a pencil. He motioned for me to write. I wrote the words, "I am lost." He wrote back, "what troop are you in?" "Troop 185," I wrote. He made some hand signs to some of the boys, then he took me by the hand and we began walking.



Walking out of the camp I read the side of their bus. Olathe School for the Deaf. We walked probably half a mile or so down a gravel road. I was feeling better now. Someone was helping me. We saw some people walking toward us and they began shouting. It was my friends with our adult leaders. They had been looking for me. It was so good to see them. The deaf scout master shook the hand of our scout master and walked back to his camp. My ordeal was over. I never told them how afraid I was or about my panic or about the tears.



This story is a metaphor for lapsing into psychosis. You begin fine even enjoying your surroundings. Then a subtle feeling of uncertainty grows to fear and eventually blooms into panic. You are alone in your predicament, but you keep on. Finally, you make, contact with someone who does not quite understand what is happening to you, but they take you to someone who can help. You are relieved but embarrassed so you keep the feelings and the account inside. Others think you are OK. They will never know the depths and intensity of fear you felt.



(More tomorrow)



Until the next time

John Strain

Lamron

Resting firmly in the category of unfinished projects, is a book idea I have dubbed "Lamron." Have you ever had a moment in your life when you had a realization so clear it was almost as if a voice was speaking to you? One day, I had such an experience while parousing the self-help books at our favorite book store in the French Quarter: Book Star. I often browsed the self help titles hoping to find something I could use in group therapy. At the time, I was conducting three group therapy sessions a day. The internet was not a resource then, instead, I had to find material in newspapers, magazines, and bookstores. After a while, the self help books became repetitive. I could tell by looking at the table of contents what the author's methods and conclusions would be. As Solomon said in the Book of Ecclesiastes, "There is nothing new under the sun." The best books contained material I could copy to use as a handout in one of the groups. Having a hendout reduced my prep time for groups. I would simply pass out the material in the group and we would read and discuss it.



So there we were, one Saturday at Book Star. John was fipping through books in the children's book section, Barbara was reading soft porn magazines in the adult section. Not really. I was in the self help books hoping to find the mother load of group therapy material in some book to cut down on my homework - when it happened, the "almost voice" I mentioned above. It said, "you shouldn't be looking for a book, you should be writing one." I smiled to myself, half taking it serious and half marveling at a new manifestation of my grandiosity. I told Barbara about my thought and she chuckled too, but encouraged me, "you should write a book." I did not start writing then, but the thought stayed lodged in my mind.



At the time, I was in my early 30's. I was busy with my career, school, and my young son. I was drinking in the experiences of married life and parenthood, but I was not writing them down or working on a book. From time to time, I wrote a piece to purge some thoughts rattling around in my head. Once or twice I began book ideas or even started writing, but nothing ever stuck. The closest I have come to a book is "Lamron." I have written about ten pages which serve as an introduction, but I wrote that four years ago.



Well, I am dusting off those ten pages and thinking about adding to them. Today, I will share the idea of Lamron with you and post a portion of the book. Tomorrow, I will post a bit more.



LAMRON



INTRODUCTION

Lamron believed he was normal - almost everyone else knew he was the opposite. This is a story about Lamron's struggle to exist. This is a story of his search for peace and happiness - what most people would call the American Dream.



Lamron began his life the way many do. He was born into a typical family. His opportunities and experiences were the same, more or less, as were his contemporaries. Things around him were the same but Lamron was different.



It was not so noticeable when Lamron was young. As he grew it could not be concealed. The differences were striking. His behavior, his thoughts, and his appearance caused some to fear, others to laugh, and most to stare.



Lamron did not accomplish things and he achieved no measure of success as most would reckon it. He had no possessions. He had no wife or children. He could not maintain a job or live independently.



People tried to help him, but Lamron seemed to resist the help. He did not take the advice or change for long. His life was a circle of incarceration, of abuse, of brief moments of hope, of disappointment, of depression, and always loneliness. He felt disconnected, cutoff, discounted, lonely. The kind of loneliness that increases when surrounded by people with whom you cannot relate.



Usually when one emerges from psychosis they are at a loss to describe the experience in a way others can understand. It all stays locked inside with no language to bridge the gap. Like trying to describe color to someone who is blind or to describe sound to someone who is deaf, the common thread is missing and words fall short. Lamron was different in this respect. He was a Rosetta Stone of sorts. He had the ability to use our words to show us his world.



The doctors could not explain how or why he had this ability. None of his medical tests or psychological tests or medications or therapies were out of the ordinary. He was just able to di it - to make people understand.



This is his story. (To be continued)



What of the name Lamron? it is "normal" spelled backwards.



Until the next time

John Strain

Not Worrying Anymore

On December 29 I wrote a post entitled "Worry." I had some concern about my job for a number of reasons. Support rolled in from the blog community and it felt weird. My first impulse was to answer each comment with, "oh it's nothing really, I'll be OK." I resisted that urge though and accepted the kind thoughts and support. On another level, I was touched and strengthened to know, people who had never met me, were showing genuine concern for me. I took down your names and if I wind up losing my job, I can contact you for emergency funds, OK? Just kidding, but I would do it for you.



It was good for me to be the one receiving help for a change. I am usually the one saying the things I was getting in the comment box. Blame it on manhood, but I do not like being the one needing help. I know now if I were depressed, I would not want to take antidepressants. They are OK for other people, but I don't need them. I can handle it, it's not that bad. I need to work on that.



As for the reasons I was worrying, they are not so ominous. Business has picked up and I think things will be fine at least for the short term.



So let me say thank you once again for your concern. I wanted to let you know things are fine and you had a part in sustaining me.



Until the next time

John Strain

Tolerating the BS

Have you ever considered how much BS we read or hear each day? Everywhere you look and listen, BS rains down. There is corporate BS, legal BS, media BS, racial BS, sports BS, religious BS, institutional BS, political BS, and advertising BS. This is not an exhaustive list. I am sure there are many more BS categories.



I cannot speak for other countries, but I believe the average American is exposed to so much BS we become tolerant of it. When did lying become OK? I was not a very good sneak as a child. I tried to get away with things, but my mother had eyes in back of her head along with maternal radar and intuition. So if you pair her qualities with my poor eyesight, I did not stand a chance. I learned I could never win. I always got caught. Lying was futile. If I lied, mom could produce more rebuttal proof than Dan Rather on 60 Minutes. Fortunately for me, lying did not pay off and today I am still lousy at it. If I try to lie, my face turns red and I do not fool anyone.



In today's climate though, I could get away with lying. Living in Louisiana exposes you to corrupt politicians. One of our state senators was caught on video receiving money from former Governor Edwin Edwards who is now serving time. Somehow, he got off. Video proof of a crime is not given more weight than the criminal's denial. Middle Eastern countries may be harsh when they cut the tongue out of a liar, but we go to the other extreme by rewarding them. BSers get book deals today and make the talk show circuit. Consider the New York Times reporter who fabricated the news stories. His BS had been tolerated and he was promoted until he eventually severely tarnished the reputation of that paper. His firing only came after the public became aware of the BS. The NYT fired him to save face. The reporter has a book deal.



When political correctness gained influence, so did BS / lying. The PC movement prizes words over reality. Somehow a quadriplegic is better off if he is called physically challenged than if he is called crippled. I grew up with the adage, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me." I still believe that phrase. Somewhere along the line it got changed. The new adage goes something like this, "words are devastating and people must use only words which do not offend me." The PC folks have adopted this philosophy which is a set up for unhappiness. One thing I know about personal philosophies is this: The best ones do not give power to other people.



Bad example: Me + (someone else doing something) = Happiness

Better example: Me + (nothing except God) = Enough



I am responsible for myself and to other people. There are limits with my responsibility to others. I cannot be so responsible to them I lose myself. My expression of thought and someone else's Offend O Meter may at times conflict. Who then must change? My thought is neither must change. I can have and express my thoughts and they can be offended. We can agree to disagree.



More BS.



It amazes me people fall prey to the commercials about weight loss. Psychic hotlines are more BS. Here is a way to check if a psychic is real. If they ask for your name, they are not a psychic.



More BS



It is interesting how the public responds to liars. OJ got off and the country was divided along racial lines. The race card was played successfully. Bill Clinton lied time after time and the country was divided along party lines. The importance of character was debated. Pete Rose is still banned from baseball because he gambled and lied about it. Jesse Jackson has been shaking down major corporations for years. Al Sharpton coached a girl to lie, claiming she was the victim of a racially motivated crime and he is a legitimate presidential candidate.



More BS.



The S&L scandal in the 80's resulted in the thieves of billions of dollars getting lashed with wet noodles. Enron and the more current corporate scandals are still being played out, but if history is any indication - the conspirators will go free.



There will always be BS. My brother got a lesson at a carnival once. He was lured to a "sure thing" to win great prizes by some carnie. He spent $7 on a rigged game and all he had to show for it was a teddy bear that squeaked when its belly was squeezed and a balloon on a stick that whistled as it deflated. He bought $7 worth of BS. That $7 was a fortune in those days and I bet George still grieves that loss.



We choose how much BS we tolerate. We have the power to put down the magazine or newspaper. We can change channels or turn off the TV. We choose whether to act on an offer that sounds too good to be true. We decide to tell the truth or lie ourselves. Like most things, it comes down to hundreds of choices we make each day.



I have rambled I know. This is a hodge podge of thoughts loosely related. Oh, BS, I am trying to make excuses for something poorly written and poorly organized. See, BS is so subtle we do it unintentionally. What I have tried to say is the truth is given up too easily. We sacrifice the truth for politics, race, personal financial gain, and a host of other reasons. Personal offense has become more important and more mobilizing than the truth. Personal character is excused if it suits our politics. We are the ones who suffer from the lies and BS - we are all partially responsible. I hope, at least, I gave you something to think about.



Until the next time

John Strain