Posts Tagged ‘Trust’

Steve Jobs Inspires Us Still

November 15, 2013
Janie in 2009

Janie in 2009

Well, we haven’t dropped by to update you of late, and we don’t want to update you yet lol. But we DO want to inspire you!  And we can’t think of a better way to do that than to send you to a video of Steve Jobs addressing some graduates from Stanton University, USA back in the ‘noughties’.

We, by the way, are ushering in the ‘naughties’ – sounds the same, feels a bit naughtier, lmao.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gO6cFMRqXqU

Dancing in His Grave

October 24, 2013

Dad’s safest where he is just now…

I wrote this entry, originally, in November 2012 last year, shortly after my father died. Of course, as you will see, it’s a ‘parochial’ piece, pertaining to specifics within my own life and family in the extended sense.

Looking back on this, as I approach the first anniversary of my father’s mortal death (don’t think there’s supposed to be another kind, but I felt like my father’s body survived his spirit by several months, really – he’d lost the will to live earlier in the year when he ‘failed’ yet another ‘tribunal’ held at St Andrew’s Hospital), it strikes almost an orchestral chord with me. This time last year I was a mental health patient (and had been one since 1997), I was ‘incapacitated’ beyond all expectations of sustainable recovery and I was alone, without a partner to share my life with. A year on I am an ex-patient; I am constructing the underpinnings of a successful business; and I am delighted to report that I have been reunited with the partner who appeared in my life, for the first time, back in 2006.

This entry should be read to the song ‘What a Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong.

My lovely Dad must be dancing in his grave. It’s what he did on top of the soil so presumably he’ll be doing it even more now. He won’t be feeling too hot or too cold, he won’t be feeling too happy or too sad, he won’t be feeling too amused or too enraged – he’ll be as serene as ever he could have felt in this life. That’s a good thought, a good feeling – he’s past pain and past pleasure – a state of utter peace.

Those of us with breath in our lungs and blood running through our veins can’t genuinely imagine this state. After all, our very capacity to experience ourselves as living is dependent on this constant state of flux between various potentially opposite extremes. I can’t offer to throw light onto the matter either, because I don’t remember anything until I was about two so I’m blind and deaf to the eternity I was in before I was conceived and presumably that’s the same space he’s returned to now.

Of course in another sense he hasn’t because a fair few people remember him and hold him in their minds eye and fewer still, in their heart. I hold him in both, and let’s face it, I hold him in the length of my arms and legs, my addictive love of music and my sense of humour. Oh – and in my insistence on personalising anything and everything that comes within my sphere.

I want to check with St Andrews if there are any audio or video recordings of my dad performing to his peers and carers. It would hardly assist me to show the world what a gifted man my father was but it would warm my heart to see anything to keep him alive to me.

For the time being I have his order of service card, young soulful photo at the front, heart warming image of his birthday party in July on the back. To me he’ll never die.

Father of Mine

Father of Mine (Photo credit: Just Us 3)

Which is why I’ve only sobbed about his concrete death a few times so far. I feel like he’s still with me somehow, so most of the time I feel he’s actually closer to hand than he’d been for some years.

Oh what a lovely outlet this is. To speak what’s in my heart in an environment stripped of people who intrude to corrupt it.

The corruption is coming from matters of estate. If you have ever been named in a ‘last will and testament’ or have ever read a novel by Jane Austen you’ll immediately know what I mean. At death the vultures appear and hover – where the body disappears they gather to feed on the living grieving.

Makes you shudder doesn’t it? I’d experienced it in Austen’s novels, and I’d seen it over a meal in Dover when my grandfather died when I was eighteen years old. At the time my Uncle Ivor tried to soothe me by sympathising with my feelings while assuring me that I would feel differently when I got older. But Jane Austen’s novels are about large estates, my grandfather was a millionaire over twenty years ago – it doesn’t make the hovering or the lip slapping or the blood dripping claws any nicer but at least you can see why the booty looks so appealing and unmissable to vultures. – Oh – and I am older now, and I haven’t changed my feelings one iota. Nice try Uncle Ivor (now also in the ether) – I love you for doing your best xx.

My Dad’s estate, after costs, will probably be worth £115,000-120,000, Maximum.

Yet, so far, three people have applied to my Dad’s solicitor to find out the contents of his will in advance of his funeral, have sat together and have left several abusive voice mails on my mobile phone and one has informed me that I am personally responsible for some terrible recent misfortune in their family, all on the grounds that I turned out to be named in my father’s will. Most of the abusive phone calls were made at around 11 O’clock at night on the day of my father’s funeral. A funeral to which these people failed to appear on the grounds that they feared they had not been named in my father’s will and needed to have hard evidence about the matter before deciding whether or not to attend.

Have we left earth and headed for terra-ghastly or what? I don’t know. I only know this: ‘there ain’t nout so strange as folk’.

Feel free to comment dear readers – I’m genuinely perplexed.

Empty Soul Smile: Vultures

Empty Soul Smile: Vultures

To vultures if hovering over my blog – my words are backed by evidence so please leave me alone now.

My Dad spent a lot of his life persuaded by the 18-20th Century obsession with Love as a reference to ‘romantic’ attachment. He was fully capable of loving beyond this – he loved his little dogs; he loved music with a passion; he loved photography and colour, pattern and arrangement; he loved ‘the high life’; he loved conversation; he loved fine food; he loved good people; he loved laughing; he loved cups of tea; he loved glasses of wine, sometimes bottles of the stuff. I could go on. My Dad was a loving guy.

My Dad also loved his children, his acquired (by marriage) children and his natural, ie blood, children. This last was a passion of love that showed in letters he wrote to my mother many years ago but which he was discrete about in his day to day existence. He largely accommodated his second wife’s wishes in where to live and what to do, and he did this for a range of reasons, not least that he loved her very much.

There was a strain in him that somehow connected money and possessions with love. I believe that isn’t uncommon although I tend to think that it’s a good idea at times to stand back, notice that the one doesn’t equate with the other, and then take actions in relation to money that make sense and actions in relation to love that make sense – and somehow or another the relationship between the two can stand in a form of conceptual and defensible harmony if not equability.

I think that this paragraph is relevant to my father’s last will and testament. It reflected the passion of his love and it reflected his customary tendency to equate money with feeling. Had he been like me he would have adjusted his will to bring a ‘better’ balance to a wider approach of his loving. But he was not me. He was more impassioned than I am, less ‘dispassionate’ than I’m inclined to be.

Who knows, however, that he didn’t also know in his very bones about this difference in our natures and entrust me – and/or my sister and I, with the responsibility to ensure that peace shall reign in our lifetime? 😉

If the vultures will just shut the f**k up for a while, behind my back as well as by diversionary routes, and turn back into human beings – I shall have some peace in which to think!!!!

English: Back View of Jane Austen, Watercolor

English: Back View of Jane Austen, Watercolor (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How Janie is experienced….

October 18, 2013

Please fill in our ‘Polldaddy’ survey re Bipolar/Manic Depression and Anxiety/Depression levels of experience. There will be prizes for the  respondent who provides contact details, completes the survey questionnaire and offers the best idea for a short, catchy slogan to be attached to the relaunched identity of MissionMiraculus and Miss Miracle’s MIC

….by her loved ones…

Zainy Jainey Take a Chill Pill!

Zainy Jainey Take a Chill Pill!ound all their alarm bells.

It’s a bipolar relevant matter. My bf (boyfriend) and bf (best friend), my elder daughter and, to be fair, no one else who has expressed concern, have jointly and separately provided a wake-up call for me during the last three weeks. It hasn’t been that I have performed the constant nightmare role in their lives but that I was slipping into something that reminds them of trips to the nuthouse and this has been quite sufficient to unnerve them.

There are, of course, reasons for this instability. Last night I opened up my floodgates of grief re my Dad’s departure for unknown territory a year ago and this has been grounding for both me and my sister and, moving forwards, for those in my world who I love and who love me.

It’s all about ‘early warning signs’ of course – but unless you have an accurate map based on an accurate understanding of causes and pathways then the ‘EWS’ work will be entirely futile. As it has been over and again during years gone by.

This time the medication routine is nailed into the strategy (not necessarily forever but certainly til we get to safe ground) and I am continuing to listen to trusted others.

I am also mindful of anxiety levels around me and mindful to examine the flow of fear that moves across the networks of my friends and families in relation to my social conduct and expressive behaviour.

Just as laughter is poised on the interface of pleasure and pain, so hypomania is poised on the interface of psychic-emotional pain and pleasure – it is that critical point of meeting where fear in the form of anxiety enters the system as adrenalin and begins to flood the body. The body doesn’t have a clear ‘knowledge’ of the meaning of this tidal wave and it moves obediently in accordance with the instructions of the conscious and subconscious mind.

To come to rest the body needs to discharge this adrenalin in a manner that does not merely excite further outflows from the adrenals.

Consequently the ill-advised approaches are:- 1. enter a state of conflict or anger; 2. To be controlled by the adrenalin fuelled state as distinct from remaining mindful of the fact of this flooded condition; 3. To allow the adrenalin flow to go unimpeded.

Due to the pleasurable experience of high adrenalin flow in the body providing that it is linked with excitement rather than fear, the experiencer can be or become inclined to indulge in the flow and to resist external attempts to bring it under control.

Due to the body state – flooded with adrenalin – the very worst move by friends, relatives or mental health services would be to attempt to intervene abruptly and from ‘above’ to bring this condition to a halt. In the vast majority of cases this would be experienced as threatening and frightening by the possessor of the condition and the overwhelmingly likely reaction/response will be resistance. THE RESISTANCE WILL BE IN PROPORTION TO THE FORCE BROUGHT TO THE CONDITION.

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Remember always: adrenalin, at an evolutionary level, is the body’s device for commanding extraordinary levels of emergency mental, emotional and physical energy. The ‘sufferer’ will be in an ‘enhanced state of consciousness’ and an ’emergency-alert body state’.

Where the discharge of the adrenalin is directed toward creative or academic pursuits the results may be surprising in their levels of achievement. Where the discharge is directed toward sporting expressions, similarly, the achievements may be untypical of what would be predictable by the person in their ‘normal’ state. Sport is an excellent vehicle for discharging adrenalin since it clears the body of those poisonous chemicals associated with adrenalin which will collect in the body and harm it whenever it is simply left to fester undischarged.

This of course, is a level of understanding that remains light years away in any NHS psychiatric hospital. It is also why MissionMiraculus has a strategic interest in creating a service that will compete with the NHS for such patients and holds high hopes that it’s bench marked and staticised and published results of the first 2 years of business in this regard will demonstrate that its ‘shared humanness’ ethos and its translated from theory treatment plans outstrip the NHS success stories hands down.

Which is why, if you take an interest in bi-polar/manic depression and/or depression & anxiety, you should link across to Facebook MissionMiraculus page right now and ‘like’ our page there. While you’re at it track the life of Arrabbella Faith on Facebook and sign up to see the ‘Laughing for a Change’. Its Headline act is the well known ‘Barbara Nice’ – well known in Birmingham and the West Midlands. Less well known are a group of ‘new and developing comic artists’ amongst which will be Arrabbella. Only £5 a ticket from the Box Office at the Birmingham Rep and on a Sunday night beginning at 7pm – so it won’t be a late one.

It will, however, be a fun one.  Please fill in the poll questionnaire and take note of the contact details for this site, below. The 1st, 10th, 25th, and 100th person to fill in the questionnaire will win a gift from the Company ‘Miss Miracle’s MIC’ upon providing your email address or mobile telephone number and name. Candidates for a prize should nominate their preference for a gift leaning into the following fields of preference: a book; a gift leaning to nature; a gift from the domain of ‘art and culture’; ‘surprise me’.  The 1st and 1000th respondent will receive a special invitation to the first formal meeting of MissionMiraculus re-launched, a three-course meal with its core team members and the chance to take the stage on the day if they so wish.  The RRP of the gifts are range from £50 to £500 in today’s values. They are forecast to rise in value over the next five years to an exponential degree, ie way out of proportion to the UK annual inflation rate. These gifts, therefore, are recommended for investment purposes as well as for pleasure.

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Why: Thank You!! Unexpected Gift :-)

December 13, 2012
Even the Smallest Signal of Life - Is Life

Even the Smallest Signal of Life – Is Life

Suddenly today, after couple of weeks lull, there was a little flood of visitors to this site.

Thank you so much. I’ve never worked out why sometimes literally thousands of people potter over to see what I’m thinking and other times I find just one lonely soul checking in.

Well – that’s not quite true. Sometime ago I noticed that the more danger I put myself in, the more controversial my actions, the more intemperate my emotions – the more popular my blog became.

Ultimately, though, that almost appeared to be some appetite for a ‘true life suspense thriller’ in which I was always the loser lol, so – on balance I decided to take my risk taking ‘off air’ so to speak.

And invest my very soul in the task suggested to me by a book I bought a few years ago. ‘Pronoia’ it was called. I.e., the opposite of ‘paranoia’..

Paranoia comes easily to me. I am easily taken up by fear driven scenarios. In relation to which my defence is often anger – well, at least, if I want to defend myself against my worst fears, anger becomes my first defence. My second is paralysis. I believe that this would translate as the ‘flight’ variant of the ‘fight’ response to danger.

My first response to danger in my life was ‘flight’. When my mother began to shout at me I stood like a moron before her, shaking, and sometimes with an expression on my face that she took to be a ‘smirk’ but which was, internally, my involuntary expression of terror. She would then ‘lose the plot’ and begin slapping me, pretty hard. I would offer no defence apart from beginning to cry and then to sob. Eventually the sobbing would stop and she would continue to remonstrate with me as my sobs became more and more uncontrollable until I began to hyper-ventilate (a term I learned much, much later at Leeds University).

At this point she would calm right down and inform me that I had now shown sufficient remorse for my wrong doing.

I never had a clue what my ‘wrong doing’ had been. I seem to recall that on one occasion it had been laughing and joking at the dinner table when a school friend had come for tea and I was nine or ten. It’s the only occasion I remember with that degree of clarity.

I expect my poor beleaguered mother felt desperately guilty about my hyper-ventilation episodes (at times almost daily). I wasn’t a very naughty little girl – just plain stupid I suppose, because I never caught up with her issues. I just knew that she routinely lost her temper, shouted, started slapping and then got left with this hyper-ventilating little wreck.

She was an ill-educated young woman, an immigrant from afar, with a husband working round the clock to keep us all. She saw him between 2am and 11 am – most of the time they were asleep – not very supportive, when you’re exhausted, young and anxious. With language challenges.

….Where were we… Oh yes – paranoia – vs PRONOIA.

Yes, pronoia is much the better option I find. Goodbye Fear. Hello Hope. Goodbye regrets. Hello Anticipation. Goodbye Yesterday & Tomorrow. Hello Today.

Today I learn that it is OK to mourn losses I haven’t yet come to terms with.
to
1. I haven’t come to terms with the loss of my unborn baby from 1994. I lost a baby in 1989 and because everyone knew about it, I was allowed to grieve, I was allowed to talk about it, I was allowed the time I needed to come to terms with it.

Luckily for me, two beautiful daughters followed this loss, and there is no doubt that they have more than compensated for the loss of my first baby. The child died within me quite ‘naturally’ and miscarried within 7 or 8 weeks of conception and I found it possible to ‘fit in’ with the convention of perceiving natural ‘miscarriage’ as a ‘sign of nature’ that the baby is not ‘meant to be’.

My second ‘miscarriage’ was no such simple matter, as you will know if you have read the entry immediately previous to this one. S/he didn’t leave my body naturally. S/he gave me no sign that s/he was dead until nurse told me this had been shown on a scan. Following the operation to remove the ‘debris of a pregnancy’ I found myself in an invisible capsule of enforced silence. Indeed – let’s go further and ‘tell it as it was’ : I was expected to emerge from a hospital bed in excellent spirits for a New Years Eve celebration.

Thanks for listening. No-one in my palpable life has any interest at all in knowing of my private griefs – some don’t know anything about it; some don’t realise I still have needs to express my thoughts and feelings about it; some don’t think it at all appropriate that I experience grief around this topic; some I wish to protect; … Funnily enough – this weirdly anonymous vehicle of fully ‘public’ communication has become a place of ‘sanctuary’ for me.

Yes – as usual I forget the season. I don’t actually: that’s what is so damned inconvenient about it. I remember the season all too well. This is the wrong mood and the wrong topic to be choosing for Christmas. ..I want to say ‘I didn’t choose it, it chose me..

And in the one clause I have my thinking matter… if I didn’t choose it and it chose me – I need to meditate on that.. I need to derive something positive out of this.. Something about ‘aborted beginnings’ and ‘auspicious births’…

Dancing in His Grave

November 11, 2012

Dad’s safest where he is just now…

This entry should be read to the song ‘What a Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong.

My lovely Dad must be dancing in his grave. It’s what he did on top of the soil so presumably he’ll be doing it even more now. He won’t be feeling too hot or too cold, he won’t be feeling too happy or too sad, he won’t be feeling too amused or too enraged – he’ll be as serene as ever he could have felt in this life. That’s a good thought, a good feeling – he’s past pain and past pleasure – a state of utter peace.

Those of us with breath in our lungs and blood running through our veins can’t genuinely imagine this state. After all, our very capacity to experience ourselves as living is dependent on this constant state of flux between various potentially opposite extremes. I can’t offer to throw light onto the matter either, because I don’t remember anything until I was about two so I’m blind and deaf to the eternity I was in before I was conceived and presumably that’s the same space he’s returned to now.

Of course in another sense he hasn’t because a fair few people remember him and hold him in their minds eye and in their heart. I hold him in both, and let’s face it, I hold him in the length of my arms and legs; my addictive love of music; my temptation to hedonism and my sense of humour. Oh – and in my insistence on personalising anything and everything that comes within my sphere. Oh – and one more thing he gave me – a ‘bloody good brain’. He had a very high opinion of his own, so when about a year ago he conceded that I’d inherited one of my own – well, I knew I’d ‘arrived’ 😉

I want to check with St Andrews if there are any audio or video recordings of my dad performing to his peers and carers. It would hardly assist me to show the world what a gifted man my father was but it would warm my heart to see anything to keep him alive to me.

For the time being I have his order of service card, young soulful photo at the front, heart warming image of his birthday party in July on the back. To me he’ll never die.

Which is why I’ve only sobbed about his concrete death a few times so far. I feel like he’s still with me somehow, so most of the time I feel he’s actually closer to hand than he’d been for some years. Particularly because during the last year for some reason I felt on and off that he was ‘coming back’ mentally, though of course physically he was getting frailer by the minute.

During my last seven hours with him, well, it was more special than I can say. I didn’t properly realise that he was approaching his last breath so rapidly, I thought I had a few months left with him. He, I think, had a different more accurate sense of matters. And so he was an unadulterated delight throughout and we smiled and laughed almost non stop for the whole time.

And there was a special moment when he looked into my eyes and said something that healed a thousand years of pain within me. What he said was ‘You look beautiful today Janie; I’ve never seen you look so beautiful’. It was a father’s flattery that you could discount but he and I knew just how profoundly it would get under my skin in a good way. I wasn’t ‘ugly duckling’ any more. And recently I’d stopped dying my hair dark and red so it was light and blonde like my sister’s, so I felt like he was looking into my eyes to see both of us. I hoped he was because I know how dearly he’d have treasured seeing both of us there. I’m sure he was.

Oh what a lovely outlet this is. To speak what’s in my heart in an environment stripped of people who intrude to corrupt it.

Clear the air again with a rendition of Louis Armstrong and ‘What a Wonderful World’.

A Funny Thing Happened Yesterday

September 21, 2012

when  I opened my door to a caller by.

A stranger stood before me wearing a bright yellow safety waistcoat. A friendly man, broad smiles before long, slight hesitance before enquiring what I was doing with the two spare cars in my drive.

Opportunity sang in my ears leapt in my heart. The girls’ cash register began sounding out ‘kerching, ker ching’. I needed to keep reserve but this man appeared to be the answer to my prayers – to get shot of my kids cars effortlessly whilst finding some dosh for one of them in dire need of it.

He on the other hand seemed to feel he’d found a car for his own daughter following her successful driving test. Plus a little more perhaps, since his father knows a bit about cars apparently and so – who knows – by buying both vehicles they might just make a bit of profit as I saw my children out of a dilemma and cleared my front space.

Win:Win.

My favourite equation.

As it worked out I was so delighted by the hope and by the guy’s demeanour that I happily parted with the vehicles’ log books and car keys before he went, oh and my telephone number. In return I got a leaflet from the company he represented and his mobile number hurriedly scribbled along the side.

Come on. Admit it. You think I’m a stupid, over trusting moron. ‘Danger, Danger’ is sirening in your head on my behalf. Too late, the other part of you is thinking – she’s done it now, silly cow. Act in haste, repent at leisure.

Only guess what? You’re wrong. It was totally kaucher, whatever that means (but it’s a jewish related word isn’t it so I think, with a sideways glance across the family noses, I should use it). The man is who he says he is. There are no guarantees he’ll take the cars because he may go away and decide to offer me less than we agreed yesterday before he noticed the bash on the side of one of the cars.

I knew about it so my price is staying where it is. I know that in this ‘credit crunch’ market these two cars are worth more than they would have been ‘when times are good’. They’re small, they have low mileage and they do infinity to the gallon – what’s not to love?! As to the bashes – it’s all a question of marketing. Like odd socks – market them well enough and they’ll take off – customised markers, that kind of appeal.

My eccentric spin could lose me the loss of the cars, the opening of space in front of my house. But who knows – we could agree to agree and then we’ll remain win + win = WINNING

I didn’t mean to go into such detail.

I meant to share with you this experience because within  me I experienced it as a gift from god, a visiting angel, a serendipitous occurrence flowing from an ‘excess’ of faith

Faith Happens

Faith Happens (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What happens when faith becomes ‘excessive’? I suppose it  must transform, like water transforms – becoming, when excessively hot,  steam and then, apparently, nothing at all :- So faith,in reverse order, is  ‘invisible’ to begin with and  transforms,  into appearance by manifesting, appearing, solidifying the focii of faith, moving through faster and more easily by sustained faith, getting broken up and delayed or even reversed by attacks of doubt and undermined hope. And it isn’t the action of ‘I’ll focus my faith on that so I get it’; faith goes deeper and more joyfully than that – something some of these American so called New Age websites fail to understand.

Of course, where the processes of water as liquid, solid, semi liquid (steam) and full dispersal (return to constituent parts) are relatively simple and interpersonally measurable, the processes of faith are so complex that they defy all human measurement instruments – and rely on faith, circuitously to affirm them.

How infuriating is that for the scientifically minded? Simple scientism must simply reject faith (ie the power of belief and the presence of a pan-human, pan-life energy connecting everything) out of hand as superstitious nonsense.

Why not? After all – you can’t put a ruler to it. You can’t put a thermometer to it. You can’t weigh it. You can’t determine its age. You can’t detect its trajectory. You can’t see it, hear it, smell it, taste it, touch it at all. Any more than you can do any of these things with ‘love’, for example.

Anyhoo – I’ll write again soon and tell you more about my experiences of faith

Toodle Pip

Janie

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