I Actually Wrote This with a Pen…In a Journal.

This year I said I would get back to journaling, art journaling like I used to when I was 19…20…21…22…before I became a terrified single mom whose only existence revolved around one word: SURVIVE. So….I signed up for Chookooloonks “create.2013″ e-course and have been doing the prompts delivered to my inbox every morning, in addition to writing two pages of whatever’s sitting around in my brain. This is what I wrote last night after word vomiting my mania on Twitter. 

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Moving…everything is hurried, frenzied, congested like commuters getting off the subway train in a rush to make it to some meeting at some corporate job they hate feeling so restricted in. By everything I mean my thoughts, my words, emotions in conflict with each other; they slam into one another pressing themselves against the walls of my mind and against my tongue. The pressure that comes with attempting restraint always proves to be a force I can’t reckon with, and they come spilling out, tumbling over each other and onto the people I interact with daily:

My fiance

My friends

My Twitter feed

I would say the “friends” on Facebook too, but I officially broke it off with my dealer Zuckerberg a few weeks ago in attempt to kick my 4 1/2 year habit; a habit that went from being a job requirement to becoming my sounding board and my lifeline. It became the what I barely had in my “real” life-support, understanding, acceptance, help, community. But after 4 years and it’s no longer a lifeline and I need to extricate myself from it. Social media addiction is a real disease…or at least that’s what WebMd told me. It also told me this zit on my face is really a rare disease not even that House guy on TV has heard of and I’m going to die within a week. Thank God it’s not a real doctor…

The only people who aren’t affected are my kids. Sometimes they see Mommie less patient with a sharper tongue and a low tolerance, but what parent doesn’t have these moments, right? When it comes to restraining the symptoms of my illness I do my best to stuff them WAY. DOWN. into the deeper parts of me and quickly sit on top of them as you would a trunk or luggage case overpacked and bulging against its zippers. I try to take the less destructive parts of it and use them to my-our-advantage. I allow it to explode just enough so it amplifies the best parts of me that enable me to love and nurture my boys to my fullest capacity, doing things that my very BOY boys like to do:

Yell…

Run around the house giggling and laughing until I’m begging air to please come back into my lungs…

Jump on the couch…

Watch cartoons….

Eat peanut butter and jelly and PopTarts and have breakfast for dinner…

Trains….

Lego Star Wars and Kung Fu Panda on Xbox….

Shooting my imaginary hot pink laser gun at the red berries on the trees we pass by every day on our walk back from school…

Singing and dancing on the sidewalk caring less about the cars driving past us and more about taking the time to create a memory I hope they hold on to when life doesn’t treat them so nice and they need to be reminded that they are loved beyond measure and matter to someone….to ME.

Was that a run on sentence? Not sure because grammar rules go out the window when your thoughts spill out of you faster than you can type, leaving you with no choice but to chase after them….panting….yelling “WAIT-slow down, you’re going too fast, I can’t maintain this speed.”

Do they listen? No….never. Not in this state. Even if I manage to keep it together on the outside so no one can see the chaos dancing gleefully behind my eyes, my thoughts always find a way to betray me and find their voice in the words I speak….

I don’t know what the point of all this is, my writing it down. What I do know is that it’s jumbled and erratic, nonsensical even. Hello, welcome to a mind hijacked by mania. I guess I should be technical and say “hypomania” but if you ask me, mania is mania and when you’re experiencing it, you don’t feel a textbook distinction. You feel your grasp on your mind and energy weakening and your willpower caving to mania’s seductive allure. You can’t see that it’s deceiving. You don’t realize it distorts your vision and perception of yourself and the world around you. It’s “fun” I guess at first, but always leads to agitation, uneasiness, restlessness, and paranoia eventually…at least for me. In the midst of its chaos I can always hear a small part of me whispering “this is temporary-it will end, so prepare yourself.” It does, it does indeed end, but not until you’ve (I’ve?) lost control of your (my?) mind and it’s racing at a dangerous speed the human brain isn’t designed to handle and it sends you (me, definitely)flying off a cliff…..soaring…then free falling to the ground below, a ground that is unforgiving and jars you (again, ME) back to reality. It’s painful really, like smacking your (my) face into asphalt.

Ok, maybe that was a dramatic description but I don’t find it to be an exaggeration….

Do any of the metaphors I used in an attempt to paint a picture of my manic thoughts make sense? I’m guessing not…I’m not as good at describing and tying thoughts together in a cohesive way like I used to be….you know when I prided myself on proper grammar and “technical” writing. But this isn’t a research paper I’m turning in for a grade, so it doesn’t really matter does it? So go f—yourself grammar police. Go nitpick someone else’s sentence structure.

I can’t sleep. I need to, but of course my inability to control my compulsions during these episodes has me checking Twitter on my phone every 45 seconds and letting my crazy come out in 140 character sprints. I always regret this later, feeling ashamed of letting people see this side of me. I’ve tried staying away, but you know, OCD goes hand in hand with my mania and I suck at saying no. At restraint. Obviously. I try to use Twitter as a means to distract me from what I’m experiencing…but I always end of being swept away in the excitement and euphoria, especially when something great happens (like getting my engagement ring and wedding band! Yep, that happened tonight. The sales lady cried when he put it on my finger. So did we in the van later on the way home.), and I let them speak for me. Then I come down from the high just enough to realize I was Socialite Sally-you know the person at the party who’s had too much to drink and can’t shut up?-and I feel foolish for making an ass out of myself.  When I go back to college I’m going to ditch social work and just major in being bipolar and minor in embarrassment.

Do I have anything else to say? My hand hurts. I should really scrawl my words more on paper than across a computer screen. I’ve missed this, the feel of paper, the smell of ink as it emanates from its tip, forever encapsulating my words on the page in front of me. I guess posting my words digitally is permanent too, but it doesn’t feel the same, it’s not as….personal? Is that the word? Not sure, but  that’s as close as I’m going to get at this point.

My heart feels like it’s about to burst. This clonazepam hasn’t kicked in yet. It usually does. Maybe I’m building a tolerance to it. Which sucks because that means eventually, maybe next week, maybe 10 years from now I’ll have to be on a bigger dose and it’ll stop working.

I should post this, even though I said I’m going to take a break from the blog. I still intend to….I just keep finding things I want to share. I have to force myself to wait and just write them down elsewhere because I do indeed need a break to focus on other things….like actually writing on paper.

I’m going to post this…because I feel obligated to, that whole transparency thing. People should know this is what it’s like, at least what it’s like for me, being bipolar, being manic. More importantly if I share it there then maybe someone who needs to remember that they aren’t alone will come across it, find themselves in my words, and be able to feel less hopeless…because they aren’t alone…

So that’s it then. That’s all I’ve got. 5 pages of erratic nonsense.

I’ll take it…it’s my life after all.

I’m Getting Married! Help Me Celebrate, Would Ya?

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My ring! Thank you Zales!

Guess who’s getting married y’all?

ME.

To Bertski.

If you’ve been a reader here for at least the past year, or know me personally, you know how huge this is considering how much he and I have been through the past three and a half years.  If you had walked up to me exactly a year ago today and told me that I’d be planning a wedding to the man I was separated from at the time, I would’ve shaken my head and walked away not believing any of it. We were so broken a year ago…barely able to speak to each other, both of our hearts raw from the emotional turmoil of a rocky relationship and dealing with my mental illness. I remember how I sat across from him and fought back tears and words that begged to be spoken as we ate dinner with the boys last New Year’s eve in Philly. I remember sitting in my car afterward, staring at myself in the rearview mirror at a red light, and seeing nothing but pain and loneliness in my eyes…it actually felt as though a knife was cutting through me and all I could think about was how I needed to let go of what was, and enter 2012 with open arms, forcing myself to embrace whatever it brought my way. “Let go…move forward,” were the words I used to describe my plans for the year when my therapist asked. “Well, I think that’s a good approach-you can’t embrace anything new if you’re still holding on to what was….and you can’t move toward anything if you’re focused on what’s behind you,” she replied.

I should call her and tell her how right and necessary her reply to me was at the time. As painful as they were to live out, her words helped me face the heartbreak I had been trying to ignore and parse my way through it, cleaning out all of the junk I’d let pile up in my heart in the process. It hurt like HELL, you hear me? HELL.

But I got through it. I let go. I forgave him. I embraced being his friend, and learned to love him unconditionally…..10 months later, here we are, living as a family in Austin….and getting married in March-the same month we decided to give our relationship one last try back in 2012.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around all that’s happened, and as I sit here thinking about it all, I just feel so much gratitude for the life we’re living at this moment-it’s a far cry from the devastation we had spent the last three years trying to just survive and recover from.

(deep breath)

8 weeks from now, we’ll be standing in an outdoor chapel, in front of those who have always supported us whether we were together or not, and vow to spend the rest of our lives with each other.

EIGHT WEEKS.

Needless to say I’m in full-blown wedding planning mode. (check out my pinterest wedding board!) Even though we’re keeping it a small and simple affair, there are still about a hundred “to-do” items and I’ve spent the last two weeks making reservations, emailing invites, talking to  dress designers, looking at rings….it’s been a whirlwind, but I’m doing my best to not be overwhelmed and enjoy this process because it’s exciting and I want to be present for every part of it.

Both Bertski and I keep saying how much we want that day and the coming weeks to be time of celebration, and every time I think of this, as corny as it sounds, my heart just swells with a joy I haven’t allowed myself to feel in a very, very long time.

So I’m spending the first 3 months of this year celebrating. Dancing, laughing, smiling…I’m giving myself fully to the freedom that’s found in it, and I’d love for you to join me!

How? Well, it’s simple, really. Our friends and family (and some of  YOU) have asked us about wedding gifts and such, so we created a gift registry….

BUT….

What we would really love, far more than an appliance, box of wine glasses, or the Big Bang Theory 400 question Trivia Game, is for people to help us celebrate our marriage by helping us give back. We feel like we’ve been given a tremendous gift, and yes, have been blessed beyond what we imagined these past months, so we’ve made it our goal this year to pay it forward in various ways.

This is where you come in….We have a list of charities and nonprofits that work to address issues that are personal to us or have affected us in some way. They are:

  • Cathedral Kitchen in Camden, NJ
  • Charity Water
  • Nothing but Nets

and the last one….the last one is Postpartum Progress, which many of you know pretty much saved my life after I had Alex, in more ways than one. It directed me to therapy and the treatment I needed, gave me a community of support I didn’t have, and introduced me to women who have become my best friends over the last two years. I honestly would not be here, Bertski and I would not be together if I hadn’t found Katherine Stone and the work she does with Postpartum Progress.

Would you consider making a donation to one of the above charities, especially to Postpartum Progress? It would mean so much to me and would help me give back all that I’ve been given as a result of Katherine’s dedication to making maternal mental health a priority….as well as help Bertski and I support organizations we feel are working hard to address hunger and disease prevention both here in the U.S. and abroad.

I know you probably think I’m crazy or tacky for doing this, but if you do make a donation of any kind, PLEASE email me and let me know. (dudley dot adriane at gmail dot com) I’d love to send you a card or something thanking you for celebrating with me, with us!

So…yeah. I’m getting married. I’M SO EXCITED! Be excited with me!

To learn more about any of the charities/nonprofits listed above, and make a donation, please visit these links:

Postpartum Progress: http://postpartumprogress.org/donate-postpartum-depression-2/ (you can also read the blog here: http://www.postpartumprogress.com/)

Cathedral Kitchen: http://cathedralkitchen.org/

Charity Water: http://www.charitywater.org/

Nothing but Nets: http://nothingbutnets.net/

This Christmas…It’s a Special One For Us Indeed

The holidays are always hard for me to get through for varying reasons, as I know they are for a lot of people, particularly those of us who live with mental illness.

The one thing that I’ve been focused on amidst all the frenzy of the holiday season and my own erratic moods is simply being grateful that life for the boys and I is not what it was this time last year. Bertski and I weren’t together and it was our first time navigating the tricky process of splitting the holidays with Alex. I hated it. It was lonely…I felt awful that I had contributed to my boys not being able to spend the holidays together, with both of their parents. Christmas was especially difficult for me, and also for Brennan. He kept asking when Alex was coming back, why Alex and Bertski were in Philly and not with us, and I kept fighting back tears and despairing thoughts. I felt hollow, emotionally cold, my mind was dark, and I just wanted it all to be over with. I was angry…bitterness had started to settle in my heart.

This Christmas, however, things are COMPLETELY different. If you’ve been reading along these past months, you know this. Instead of trying to navigate the ups and downs of co-parenting while forging lives independent of each other, Bertski and I are finally finding our way down a path that allows us to be parents AND a couple, building and living a family centric lifestyle-a first for both of us.

This Christmas I also find myself being grateful to say goodbye to life as a single mother and preparing myself to experience the holidays in the years to come as a wife. I don’t regret having to learn the ins and outs of parenting and how to balance the responsibility of it on both of my shoulders. The past 5 1/2 years have taught me a significant amount about myself…about life. It changed me into a new person, someone capable of doing things I didn’t think I’d be able to handle on my own.  I’m grateful for the life I lived as a single parent, but I’m also ready to say goodbye to it. I’m ready to move forward with someone not only willing to share the responsibility of parenting, but also willing to build a life with me. That’s huge for me. I’m used to people walking out of my life and removing me from theirs in one way or another, for varying reasons. I don’t always blame them, but it’s always left me feeling abandoned and unworthy of so many things-like having a family and a partner. To have someone see the value and worth I see in myself and decide to embrace and cherish it, cherish me, is the one gift I’ve begged for since I was a child and never received-until now.

When Bertski asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I told him I wanted nothing and it was the honest truth.  There is nothing material he would’ve purchased at a store that would’ve meant more to me than the gift of love I’ve found in our family and in my friends this year-my heart is too full to hold in anything else.

I hope that if you find yourself feeling lonely or down for whatever reason today you will be able to at least find one thing you can fix your mind on to get you through today and even into the new year just a few days away.  I hope that no matter what you find yourself struggling with in life today, that at least in one way, no matter how small or trivial it may seem, you are better than you were last year. Take some time to reflect on what that one thing make this day a special one for you, one that allows grace and gratitude to abide in your heart…it’s working for me :)

Merry Christmas y’all. Now…enjoy the brilliant weirdness that is Cee-Lo Green’s Magic Moment. Seriously.

My Initial Response to The NRA’s “Database for the Mentally Ill” Request

“How many more copycats are waiting in the wings for their moment of fame from a national media machine that rewards them with wall-to-wall attention and a sense of identity that they crave, while provoking others to try to make their mark,” LaPierre said. “A dozen more killers, a hundred more? How can we possibly even guess how many, given our nation’s refusal to create an active national database of the mentally ill?”-Wayne LaPierre, NRA lobbyist

The NRA sickens me. Truly. They just gave a completely tone-deaf and disrespectful response to what occurred a week ago today. They believe arming school officials and having armed guards at school will prevent such tragedies. I don’t agree with this perspective at all for varying reasons, but I know there are those of you who do. I don’t want to debate that with you today. I simply want to address the question asked at the end of the above statement.

I’m a mother of two boys.

I’m a USAF disabled veteran and former police officer.

I’ve survived Postpartum Depression and Anxiety.

I currently live with mental illnesses called rapid cycling Bipolar Disorder type II and OCD.

 I take medication for these illness. 4 of them. Every day. Every.Single.Day.

I go to therapy. I see a psychiatrist.

There are days I struggle to keep it all together and not let the fact that I have some chemical imbalances stop me from living life.

There are days when I want to give up.

I have been hospitalized-not because I was a threat to those around me but because I was a threat to myself.

I am not a violent person, although I have been traumatized by and have experienced violence first hand.

I am not a threat to society.

I have no desire to own a weapon, and never have despite my knowledge of how to use, clean, and take them apart, and being properly trained and qualified on several of them-ranging from the M9 pistol I carried on my hip every shift to the M203 grenade launchers, M249′s, and M4′s I was trained to use in combat during deployments.

I do not belong in a database because I have a mental illness.

My mental illness does not mean I am a violent person.

I am a compliant, law-abiding citizen who still manages to function just like everyone else despite the effects my illness has on me.

My friends who also have mental illnesses? They don’t belong in a database either.

They are just like me: men and women, mothers and fathers living with a painful “invisible” illness but still living their lives, working, raising their children, loving, helping others, and being productive members of society.

If our mental health records should be put into a database, then every person who applies for a weapons permit or who purchases a weapon, should submit to a comprehensive mental health evaluation, comprehensive background check similar to what’s required to obtain a security clearance, and a weapons safety course. You can’t say I should be registered in a mental illness database but not even mention that a more rigorous and comprehensive screening of those applying for weapons permits and buying guns is needs to be monitored as well.

It shouldn’t take less than 20 minutes to walk in to WalMart and walk out with a gun, I don’t care what you’re using it for.

Also? No one should be allowed to own or put together an assault rifle or semiautomatic weapon. I don’t understand why such a deadly weapon should be in the hands of the man who lives next door to me.

Yes, you have the right to bear arms, but maybe the kind of arms you’re entitled to bear should be re-evaluated. Yes, you have the right to protect yourself in case of a threat or danger…but we all saw how that played out with the Trayvon Martin incident, didn’t we? Maybe we start redefining what a threat is and what self-defense actually looks like. Maybe we start asking ourselves some hard questions and making some compromises. Not saying I’m right. Not saying the solutions or answers to this are simple. Just thinking out loud here.

You have the right to bear arms, but guess what? I have rights too. I have the right to have access to mental health services and resources that aren’t underfunded and understaffed; services and resources that have qualified professionals working for them who treat us with the respect and dignity we deserve just as much as “normal” people.

You have your rights. What about mine? And the other 1 in 5 people who live with some form of mental illness in this country? You have a right to arm yourself…we have our rights to privacy…and to the same life you do.

Those who live with mental illness are not all dangerous. We don’t all need to be tagged and stored in some database. If you REALLY think we do, then I say you should be too. Because while you may not have a mental illness you could be just as capable of violence. ANYONE with access to a gun can quickly and easily become a criminal-yes, even “responsible good guy gun owners.”

I am mentally ill. I am not violent. I don’t belong in your database. Stop stigmatizing me and those just like me. Stop using us to redirect criticism and calls to action by saying we are the problem. We are not your scapegoat.

I guess the old cliché is true: “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” No you can’t. Not when their greed disguised as advocating for”rights” is stronger than their desire to admit they could stand to learn a few things.

Go fuck yourself, NRA and hold another press conference when you have something more substantial to say.

Racial Profiling: It Happened To Me Today

Finally. I was at the school. I made my way to my usual spot on the concrete bench right outside the door Brennan runs out of every day yelling “Mommie!” “Hey Alex!”; his smile so big just below his glasses it always reminds me of what I looked like when I was his age. Quirky, eager to learn, boundless energy, big glasses-we’re pretty much twins he and I.

I looked over at Alex sleeping in the stroller and partially covered his face with his thick Thomas the Train blanket in an effort to shield him the cold wind blowing around us.

I turned off the Prince music blaring through my headphones, took them off, and placed then in the bottom of the stroller. I glanced at my phone noting the time-2:27. Close to the usual time I arrive every day.

I turned around and leaned my body back against the brick wall, taking in long deep breaths to recover from walking and pushing the stroller up the monster of a hill that leads to Brennan’s school at the top. I reached down to grab a juice box from the bottom of the stroller and heard boots scuffing the ground near me. I looked up and right into the eyes of a police officer, the same one I passed as I headed to my usual spot by the door. Considering recent events I didn’t have to wonder why he was sitting on his motorcycle watching the kids on the playground-he was there, just in case. “Extra security measures,” the email from the school had said. “We take the safety of our students and children very seriously,” the principal stressed in that email.

“Hi ma’am. Can I ask you why you’re sitting here?”

Huh?

“I’m waiting for my son.”

“You actually have a son who goes here?”

“Yes. Why do ask?”

“What grade is he in?”

“Kindergarten,” I said, wondering where this was going. Maybe this is one of those “extra security measures” the school mentioned. I used to be an Air Force cop-I know what it’s like to have to ask people questions when there’s a security threat.

“What’s his name?”

“Brennan. Brennan Mills.”

“And what’s your name?”

“A’Driane,” I said, noticing other parents walking by-the same parents I see every day-and catching their glances as they passed. “A’Driane Dudley.”

“You have ID on you?”

I reached down and grabbed my wallet out of the bottom of the stroller and handed over my ID.

“This says you’re from New Jersey-”

“Yea I know, I moved here back in August and that’s my old driver’s license-it’s expired and I don’t drive. I walk here every day to pick up my son.”

“Ok.” Hands my ID back to me. “This your son too?” he asked, tossing his head in the direction of the stroller. “Anything other than your purse underneath there?”

“Yes. His name is Alex. No. Nothing but juice boxes to drink on our walk home. I’m sorry, but can I ask what’s going on? Is there a memo I missed? Am I supposed to wait somewhere else now, until my son gets out? This is where I usually wait for him-his classroom is right there,” I said pointing to Brennan’s classroom that could be seen clearly through the locked doors. “They are dismissed through this door every day so that’s why I wait for him here,” I said, noticing that another parent had shown up on the patio area, waiting, like I was for her kindergartener.

“Well, ma’am we’re just checking out any and all suspicious activity we see around the school property, and approaching people-making sure they’re supposed to be here.”

Suspicious. I looked over at the mom standing at the base of the patio and felt my face grow hot, becoming very aware of what I was wearing: yoga pants, Bertski’s hooded Vans long sleeved shirt, my headwrap. No…no. This isn’t happening. Is it? There’s no way this is what I’m thinking it is. He’s going to approach other parents after me who are showing up too. This is just a security measure….isn’t it?

“Well alright ma’am. Thanks for your cooperation. Have a good day.” He turned to the other mom standing there, smiled, nodded his head, and said, “Hi-it’s a cold one, today, isn’t it?” More pleasantries exchanged. No ID checking. No interrogation. No asking what was in the Gucci purse hanging from her shoulder. Their laughter grated on my nerves and I stood up, angry as I watched him walk back to his motorcycle and start talking to the other officers in the suburban next to him.

I watched them and waited. Waited for them to walk to another patio down the sidewalk where there were parents gathering and make their presence known, ask questions. They didn’t. No one else was questioned.

Before I could hide the anger and embarrassment washing over my face, I heard the school doors opening and turned to see kindergarteners pouring out into the patio, their chatter loud, excited as they were escorted by older students to their parents waiting in the car line.

I fought back tears as I searched for his face and big smile. There he was. The only brown face in the sea of children, making his way toward me, with his usual greeting, “Mommie!” “Hey Alex!” and grabbing me around the waist. I grabbed his hand, released the brakes on the stroller, and walked as quickly as we could away from the school. From the police. Towards the road that would take us back home, where I wasn’t so “suspicious” looking.

I understand that what happened in Sandy Hook has everyone on high alert. I understand increased security at schools. But what I don’t understand is profiling a woman because her skin color and attire don’t look like they “fit” in a certain environment; one where others are white and their attire-whether it’s workout gear, corporate wear, or designer outfits-never arouses “suspicion.” I don’t understand why I was the only parent questioned during that time. I saw none being questioned when I arrived and none being approached after I was.

I’ve tried not to let the fact that Brennan is the only black kid in kindergarten at this school worry me. There are other minority families with children who attend, but our kids are a very small percentage of the overall white population at the school.

I’ve tried not to give into the “I’m a black woman in an affluent white neighborhood and I need to present myself in such a way that my race doesn’t matter. I’m a parent just like everyone else.” I made a conscious choice to believe that despite my concerns, no one would see our blended family any different than the others that are apart of the school community. For the most part, I believe that the majority of the other parents don’t give any thought to our races or what kind of clothes we’re wearing.

But there have been a few times when I’ve gotten “the look.” It’s usually from women but I’ve gotten it from a few men as well. The fake smile they throw my way when I look them directly in their eyes and say hello….or the silence that lets me know they are uncomfortable. I know what these things mean because I’ve experienced them most of my teenage and adult life. I’m not stupid. Not by any means. I don’t look for something that isn’t there. I don’t go around looking for an opportunity to pull out the race card.

No. I don’t do that. But when racism makes its presence known I know how to recognize it for what it is, no matter how subtle or indirect, and call a spade a spade.

What happened to me today was something that left me feeling violated. It was demeaning and it once again drove home the reality of what my sons will have to face and my responsibility to teach them how to handle themselves when it tries to undermine their value and right to be viewed just like everyone else-human beings. Young men who see differences in others and not let fear or prejudice dictate how they treat others.

Today I was racially profiled. Just like thousands of other American citizens with brown skin, long beards, turbans, and who wear hoodies. People who “look suspicious.” It shouldn’t happen. But unfortunately every day and especially after a horrific tragedy rocks our nation, we go back to these kinds of behaviors and call them “security measures.”

It’s not right. Things like this make me lose hope that my boys will live in a society that’s freer from the grip of racism than we currently are today.

I hope I’m wrong. Right now though? I see we still have a much longer way to go.

Let’s Wake Up From Our Inoculation & Get Real About Violence & Race in America

I didn’t find out about the shootings in Newtown until early Friday afternoon. I don’t spend my mornings watching the news and had spent all of Friday morning playing with Alex and writing my previous post.

When Alex went down for a nap, I settled in on the couch and pulled up Twitter, looking forward to catching up with my friends & posted links.  That’s when I found out. Tweet after tweet expressed shock, terror, anger, and talk about mental illness, gun control…As my mind scrambled to try to figure out what had happened, Bertski started yelling and cussing, his voice angry and choked up with emotion. I ran to the room and found him staring at his computer screen, his face a mix of anger and disbelief. Following his gaze, my eyes met the headline on CNN’s front page. I stared at it, unable to process what I was reading. When I did I quietly went back to the couch and started reading what was coming in about the shooting.

20 children dead. Kindergarteners. First graders. Teachers hiding their students and sacrificing their lives to save those of their students. Assault rifle. A hundred rounds of ammunition. My whole body started shaking, my heart sank, tears blurred my vision. Pain, shock, and disbelief gripped me and rendered me unable to speak. I turned to Twitter to try to express my grief, only to realize that it was too much, too triggering, to overwhelming, the arguing and hateful comments too disgusting. I turned everything off and tried to focus on cleaning my house while processing the grief slowly consuming me.

What happened in Connecticut has shaken me to my core. I’m disgusted, enraged, and mourning the loss of life and desperately wishing the families affected could experience comfort and peace in the midst of their grief.  I’m horrified that such young children were subjected to such terrifying, cold-blooded violence, and feel both grateful and guilty that Brennan had a fun-filled, SAFE day at kindergarten, while the children in Newtown did not and will never have the chance to again or become the people they were destined to be…..

Over the last few days, I’ve read hundreds of tweets and a large amount of posts by people expressing much the same emotions I myself have been feeling. I’ve found solidarity and join in with those expressing outrage and asking as my friend Stephanie did: “If not now, then when?” When will we care more about the lives of our children, and human life as a whole over our “right” to own an assault rifle, or an arsenal of weapons in our homes…even if they are for hunting or so-called “protection?” When will we look at the context of the time period and intent of our forefathers when they originally wrote the second amendment and realize, that the context in which our society now lives is drastically different from the one back in the 1700′s? When we will look at updating an outdated perspective?

I’ve also seen people discussing mental illness, both the need for better mental health care and access to it, as well as the need to “protect” ourselves from such “dangerous and unstable” individuals. “Put them away where they belong, they aren’t fit to function in our society.” I’ve seen the media and others instantly assume that mental illness was to blame for the killer’s actions, even BEFORE we knew he really did have some mental problems we now know were never addressed. I’ve seen heated arguments about gun control, rights, and people demanding we FINALLY do something to make it so these kinds of events are less likely to occur.

So I want to take the time today to address two very important things that I think need to be thought about and acknowledged in the aftermath of this latest tragedy to rock and horrify our nation. I waffled back and forth with whether or not to say these things and make them part of the conversations we’re having with each other and the questions we’re asking, the arguments we’re making. After some thought-provoking and civil conversations with friends who urged me to share my thoughts, I’ve decided to just go ahead and say somethings that I know are not going to be well-received, seriously thought about, and given validation. As I discuss the following points I beg you to not forget that I am in NO WAY diminishing or intending to trivialize what occurred in Connecticut, Wisconsin or Colorado. Bear in mind that I am just as horrified, enraged and heartbroken as you are. But please open your mind up and seriously ponder what I have to say.

First: I hate the way each time something like this happens and captures national attention, the immediate conclusion people jump to is ” this is SUCH a heinous act of barbaric violence that only someone who’s mentally ill could commit such a crime.” Do I believe that there are some mentally ill people who become violent? Yes, definitely. However I believe that it’s a small percentage and know that the majority of those living with mental illness are not violent towards others and have no intent to be. I have a mental illness and while I’ve tried to harm MYSELF I’ve NEVER thought of actually committing a violent act against another human being. So when I hear people instantly associate senseless acts of violence with mental illness, it infuriates me, because I know that doing so only perpetuates the stigma surrounding mental illness, and compromises the efforts to make mental health and the resources it so desperately needs, a priority in this country.  It damages & undermines the empathy and understanding of mental illness that thousands of people are trying to advocate for in this country as well. For more thoughts on this, please read this letter from a mother whose son has a mental illness: “I am Adam Lanza’s Mother.”

What I do believe more is that there are some very sick bastards out there with no conscience, who for whatever reasons they deem important, senselessly embark on killing sprees-either for fun, some kind of glory, revenge, or to send some kind of message they can’t communicate in another form or fashion. I think instantly labeling such people as mentally ill, especially before it’s even been verified, is not only sensationalistic in regards to the media, but also dangerous because it gives these killers a subtle immunity if you will from the justice system and public opinion. It gives these killers the opportunity to capitalize off of the insanity defense and increases the chances they will be institutionalized in an understaffed or funded mental health facility instead of in jail or on death row where they belong in my opinion.  So, I firmly believe we need to be very careful about automatically associating mental illness with violence.

Second: This is going to be very hard for the majority of you to swallow and I’ll be honest and let you know it’s as equally difficult for me to say, because I know that when you force people to confront harsh realities outside of the bubbles they live in, their first reaction is a visceral one; they instantly get defensive and reject what’s being presented because really listening to and acknowledging what’s challenging their belief and world view requires asking themselves some rather uncomfortable and tough questions. I know, because I’ve experienced it myself, several times, especially within the past year and a half.  I also know what I’m going to say will be met with a ” this is NOT about race, race doesn’t play a part in these tragedies, and you can’t compare this to what has just happened.” But I’m here to say that whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, race DOES play a role when it comes to violence and how we respond to it in this country.  Socioeconomics also plays a role, but they really just intersect and sometimes overlap each other so I’m making these points understanding this fact.

Let me be honest and say that as senseless and horrific as what happened in Newtown is,  and as heartbroken as I am over the loss of life, I’m also very aware that this kind of violence occurs EVERY day in minority & poverty-stricken communities and receives very little, if any, attention either on a state or national level.  When senseless violence rocks these communities, no one in the media EVER instantly considers mental illness as a contributing factor, or as an explanation as to why someone decided to go on a killing spree. There are no “we need to ACT NOW and demand our elected officials to make access to weapons more difficult. This is UNACCEPTABLE!” expressions of outrage-at least not on a national level.

I also know that if there is any outcry or demands for change from citizens in these communities those cries for justice and real change are often ignored, stifled, and stalled by politicians who care more about advancing their own “more important” agendas than getting their hands dirty and dealing with the complicated and messy reality of life in urban areas.

You’re going to hate me for saying this but do I believe the reasons for the lack of attention and demand for change are steeped in racial bias? Yes, you’re damn right I do. I know it is, because I’ve witnessed and have family members who have lived it, pushed and argued for change, for help, and been ignored or beaten down by a system designed to stay broken instead of fix the problems. Now I know and have spoken over the years to lots of white friends, co-workers, classmates, etc who adamantly and even vehemently claim that what happens daily in the inner city is not on the same level as what happens in communities that don’t experience violence everyday. I’ve even had heard white people during class discussions on violence and race say that it’s not as serious of a problem because it’s “expected” to happen in urban communities, because “that’s just their way of life. That’s the ghetto. Those people choose to live that way instead of choosing to live the right way.”

My response to this bullshit (and yes, racist) argument? Tell it to the thousands of families that are slaughtered on a regular basis, in cold blood. Tell it to the thousands of school children who are shot and killed in school, walking home from school or while they are outside playing because one of their relatives had a “beef” with someone and that person decided the only way to handle being “disrespected” was to kill everyone attached to the person who supposedly wronged them.; to “send a message.” Tell it to the families of those who are killed on street corners and the front steps of their homes…to the parents of children whose throats have been slashed and bodies thrown away in a dumpster.

Perfect examples of cities with this level of everyday crime are Chicago, Philadelphia, and Camden, NJ, a city that can’t afford to pay their police force so they’ve laid them off.  The crime and violence in Camden is so vile, that the city council has given up and reached out to the state and federal government for help. Are they getting it? Not enough to solve the crisis happening there.  In Philadelphia where my mom is a school administrator in charge of dealing with students who have violated the district’s “zero tolerance” policy, kindergarten-second grade students are constantly being brought into her office because a knife or gun was found in their book bag. One six-year-old girl told my mother she took the pistol from where her mother stored it because she wanted something to defend herself if something happened while she walked to and from school. She was terrified of that daily journey. 4 days later, after being in my mother’s office, she was found dead in an alley down the street from her home with her backpack still on. Was there an outcry then? A demand for stricter gun control laws and a more threatening police presence? No. Why? Because it’s an everyday occurrence. It’s “expected” so “there’s not a whole lot that can be done to fix it.” Too much politics, too much bureaucracy, not enough REAL action or solutions being implemented. Murders in inner cities happen because that’s what “we” do. It’s normal. So we just “deal” with it as a way of life.

So what’s my point?

  • That when things like what happened in Newtown occur, the immediate response and assumption by the media and public is 1) if the killer is white, he probably acted so violently because he’s mentally ill, and didn’t get the adequate mental health care that could’ve prevented his violent actions. When it’s a white man committing these kinds of horrifying crimes, the media and police work overtime to snuff out and explain his motives for doing so. If he has an illness, then that almost gives people some kind of…I don’t know what the right word is, but it gives them something to partially explain away his behavior. “Of COURSE he did this because he’s mentally ill and unstable.” Me personally, my first response is that he must be some kind of vengeful son a bitch who decided for whatever sick & twisted reason that his relatives and the KINDERGARTENERS he didn’t even know deserved to feel his wrath.
  • There is never any national attention, sensationalism, outrage and calls for more restrictive gun control laws unless something this violent and senseless occurs in a predominantly white, suburban community where exposure to violence is not an everyday reality its citizens have to live with. It’s not “real” or worth addressing until it happens in their backyards and touches them, and then there is outrage, there are vigils, there are relief funds, there is mourning. And guess what? There damn well should be. Yes- we need to stop and mourn the lives of those innocent children who died way too young & were robbed of becoming who they were destined to be. Yes, we need to help their families recover and offer them whatever they need to make it through this. Yes, we need to honor those who gave their lives to save others. Yes, we need to help the children who witnessed this unbelievable horror who will forever be traumatized and most likely develop PTSD as a result. But we should be doing the same for those who endure this everyday in communities deemed as lost causes.  We need to be just as outraged, just as saddened, just as heartbroken, and just as vocal for the forgotten and broken down communities who don’t have enough voices to speak & fight for them-for their children. They are American citizens too and their kids are America’s children too.  The fact that we only cry out for some and not others disgusts me just as much as the violence in Wisconsin, Colorado and now Connecticut.

Also? In President Obama’s address to the nation on what happened in Newtown, he said we need to quit with the bullshit politics and get real about fixing this problem, “whether its at a temple in Wisconsin, a movie theater in Colorado, an elementary school in Connecticut, or a street corner in Chicago.” Guess what? That was the FIRST time in my ADULT life I have ever heard an elected official in high office put the violence that happens everyday in urban communities on the same level as the violence that occurs in predominantly white communities and say we it’s past time we deal with this shit.

We need to focus on mental health care in this country. We need to pressure our elected officials to change our gun control laws. But while we’re focused on addressing the immediate needs in the aftermath of what happened in Newtown, we need to think long-term and look within to have a much larger conversation on the racial, and socioeconomic issues that breed violence period. We need to confront ourselves and get real about getting to the real roots of these problems. We need to change the way we teach our children about differences and tolerance of those who are different from them. We need to level the playing field for everyone, no matter what race, creed or sexual orientation. Until we do, the governing systems and climate of our culture will continue to be unbalanced, riddled with double standards, and experience the heavily resistant movement toward the “post racial/post modern” society we mistakenly claim to already be.

****************UPDATE***********************

After I published this post yesterday, I came across an essay today expressing & expounding brilliantly on what I talked about here. It helped me feel proud for sharing my thoughts and it was gratifying to read someone else sharing similar thoughts. It was written by Tim Wise, a noted author & speaker on race relations and white privilege: “Race, Class, Violence, and Denial: Mass Murder and the Pathologies of Privilege.” I’ve been an avid reader of his writing and perspective for close to a year now-I highly recommend taking some time to read and reflect on what he presents in his other essays.

Who Needs Values When You Can Have a Cool $50 Million in Your Wallet?

Diabetes and heart disease are sexy!

Note: I know. I said I was taking a break. I still plan on taking one for at least the first few months of 2013, but I realized I do have a post or two that I want to share … Continue reading 

Hiatus…Maybe Even a Goodbye

I won’t be writing here or be on any form of social media for a few months. I’m not even sure I’ll come back here to write anymore.

I’m not going to delete the blog though. I will leave it up for others to find it and read. I just don’t know when or if I can give this space the energy and time it needs anymore.

Thank you for reading and for walking with me the past 2 years. I appreciate all of the comments and words of encouragement I’ve received here. I’m very grateful as well for the friendships that formed as a result of my writing & engagement in social media.

To my #ppdchat army and bloggy friends, thank you for caring and always being there in one way or another. I appreciate it and love you all more than I can ever really put into words. I value what you have invested into my life the past two years and will hold on to it for the rest if my life.

Whether I come back to this space or not is uncertain, but what IS certain is that I’m grateful for all of you reading my words and allowing me to share my thoughts and stories with you.

If you would like to email me, don’t hesitate to do so. My email is
dudley (dot) adriane (at) gmail (dot) com.

For those of you who have my number, don’t be a stranger. I’ll do my best not to be one either.

Goodbye….for now at least.

Dance Party Friday: IT’S MY 30TH BIRTHDAY! Edition

Who’s that little Ms. Sassy Pants? Ignore my father’s ashy knee. It was the 80′s-ashy was like blue eyeliner & teased hair-it was “in.”

Tomorrow, December 1st, is my birthday. I will officially be 30 years old at 7:20pm. (I think. When I called my mom to verify this information, it was 11pm EST and she was asleep. So for now, let’s just go with this, mmkay?)

I’ve spent this whole week thinking about this post and what I want to say about turning 30. It means a lot to me for pretty significant reasons, the most important being the fact that I’VE BEEN ALIVE FOR 30 YEARS. Seriously. Between my father telling me everyday he was going to kill me from ages 12-17 (and trying to on numerous occasions), and my own suicide attempts, I consider it a blessing that I’m still here to celebrate such a major turning point in my life and that it’s the first birthday where I’m free from so much of the shit that’s plagued me since I was a child. I may still be repairing the damage my father and other family members caused, but I’m happy to say I’m not buried under or blocked by it anymore.

Imagine being trapped in a building that’s collapsed itself upon you and you have to fight, climb, and dig your way through the rubble to get out and get the help you need. That’s what the first 29 years of my life have felt like and I’ve spent them pushing every broken piece of concrete and other debris off of me. Some of the trauma and injuries I sustained through it all have only recently begun to heal within the last 3 years through therapy and a lot of honest self-reflection. Others, I’ve come to realize, are more nuanced and difficult to treat, requiring lifelong medical treatment and therapy to maintain stability and improved mental health.

But, nonetheless, I’ve broken through it all, and here I am, my eyes squinting from the brightest sunlight I’ve ever seen. In front of me is the rest of my life with it’s arms open wide waiting for an embrace. Lying within that embrace are my sons, the love of my life (he really is!), and friends I’ll be able to laugh and reminisce with when I’m all wrinkly and have a glorious grey afro; one I’ll trick my grandkids and great grandkids into combing for me because I want to spend time I have left with them…and because by then my hands won’t be able to rake a comb through said glorious grey afro and will need someone to do it for me. I’ll pay them for their labor don’t worry. I think kisses and sugary treats will be a proper payment for services.

Ok somehow I just went from talking about being 30 to being 95 and manipulating future generations that may or may not actually be alive. Ahem…where was I?

I survived the last 29 years but I’m really looking forward to actually LIVING the next 30. Exploring, building, growing, pursuing creative endeavors (lots of writing and painting!) giving back, helping others, mental stability…these are the things I’m ready to give my full attention to as I enter this next decade of my life.

I’ll finish sharing the rest of my thoughts on turning 30 over the weekend. (Don’t hold me to it though, I’ll be drinking pitchers of margaritas and partying till I pass out at 9pm all weekend, so I’ll try, but no promises, mmkay?)

Speaking of partying…I have a little gift for you. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this, and I’m a tad rusty, but since I plan on dancing my ass off on my birthday (even if it’s just in my underwear in my living room) I figured, why not invite you to join me? Have fun shuffling and please-DO laugh at my Napoleon Dynamite dance moves and at lack of coordination in this one-it’s hard at this age to drop it like it’s hot in skinny jeans. (I also blame procreation. For some reason your ability to twerk it like the club hoochies  and work it like Janet Jackson diminishes with each child you push out of you.) I used to be able to do stuff like this….

 

Now I just throw my body around erratically. I thought about not publishing this, but then I saw this video, and said shooooooooooot. If other people can destroy the Interwebs with their malarkey, a little huffing and puffing from me ain’t gonna hurt nobody, now is it?

Enjoy. Leave a comment if you actually got up and danced with me! (You should. It’s my birthday and guess what?! This post is under a thousand words. Totally worth celebrating! Now get off your sass and shake something dammit.)

Painting: Don’t Think. Just Feel

Today I sat down, brush in hand, colors spread put around me, and just stared at the canvas in front of me. I wanted to paint but my thoughts were too scattered to focus on a concept or any kind of intentionality. I closed my eyes and just sat there. Alex came and sat in my lap, and proudly began naming the colors he recognized.

I dipped a brush in red, his favorite color at the moment, and handed it to him. Without saying a word, he snatched the brush from me and got to work covering the canvas in frenzied streaks of red. When he was finished, he said “RED!” did a little hop, dropped the brush and ran to his room with a smile on his face.

I know at some point I would like to work on developing intentionality, so that I’m better at communicating what I’m trying to say through my paintings. For now though, I’m realizing that I’m content to just pick up a brush and attack the canvas much like Alex did. I might have one thought I focus on or I might have nothing but emotions, and I like that. I think some of my best pieces have come from when I’ve turned down the volume on my reasoning and listened instead only to the emotions that were waiting to be acknowledged & allowed to speak. I can’t always articulate what they are in words but on canvas, they pour out of me with each stroke; their voices speaking through each color and layer I apply.

If you were to ask me why I painted what I did today, I’d simply shrug & say I don’t know. It’s just what came out. They were directed purely by emotion, with no direct thoughts or intended meanings. They’re simplistic & maybe look amateurish, but I’m okay with that. I’ll get better with more practice and exploration.

The first one is untitled for now. I have to study it & “hear” what it’s saying before I name it.

The second one? Well, I’m not sure, but when Bertski looked at it, he said it kind of reminded him of the early 80′s and the New Wave music era…I laughed because I was born in ’82…and I’ll be 30 on Saturday…so maybe it represents that? Not sure but I thought it was a fun interpretation, considering how much I love music and the bright fashions from that time period.

So here they are. OH-in honor of said 30th birthday, I’m having a sale in my Etsy shop-all unreserved listings are 30% off now through Saturday. Stop by & have a look :)

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