The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,100 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 18 trips to carry that many people.
Self-medication as Wikipedia states “is a term used to describe the use of drugs (including alcohol) or other self-soothing forms of behavior to treat untreated and often undiagnosed mental distress, stress and anxiety.”
At the mental health facility where I work part time, clients who suffer from various mental health issues abuse their antidepressant medications. As the abuse turns to recreational use, the dosage needed to dull the emotional or physical pain exceeds the psychiatrist’s recommendation. Of course, the term self-medication applies to anyone who abuses prescription meds in order to self soothe. Seroquel, Zoloft, Cymbalta, Wellbutrin, Prozac- whatever-the euphoric high these meds can produce is worth the abuse.
Self-medication does not exclude alcohol or pain killers. The bingers, everydayers, the necessary one drink a day to the one bottle a dayers, the wine or beer consumers to the hard-core whiskey and ryers, gin and tequila without the lime on the siders-alcohol is accessible and cheaper than antidepressant meds. Of course there’s, Vicodin, Codeine, Percocet, Hydrocodone, 10mg, 50mg, 500mg or one tablet or two and taken sometimes with an alcoholic chaser and so readily prescribed when sustaining an injury or as post surgical candy.
Okay. Self-medication is bad.
Is it?
What about self-soothing?
There are those who indulge in self-soothing forms of behaviour without the use of psychotropic drugs. Such as, the super athletes’ addiction to endorphins and the caffeine junky who consumes six cups of coffee a day so their internal body cruise control can fly quickly through time. In addition, let us not forget the foodie who grabs snacks of the most comforting kind during all commercial breaks while chasing it down with Coke a Cola (the carbonated sugar drink not the white powder) because a relationship fizzled (just like the Coke). Or, the female chocoholic who downs a 12 piece assorted box of Godiva’s in fifteen minutes because of PMS. Caffeine, endorphins, sugar-the acceptable kinds of comfort foods or exercise, all, legal, accessible and coveted.
There is harm in overindulgence of the self-soothing kind. Obesity, physical ailments and injuries, diabetes, high blood pressure may arise from too much self-soothing while abuse, self-loathing ,self-medication can come from too little.
Too much of a bad thing is not good and too much of a good thing is bad. The goal of self-medication and self-soothing is to numb the pain, which makes everything that will be, okay. Appearances are misleading with the pain, the stress, the anxiety, the paranoia-yes this can go on-of everyday life which at times are unbearable to handle but can exist comfortably under grey clouds of distortion infused by the vice (s) of our choice.
So, what’s your vice?
On a second visit to Greenwood Cemetary in Brooklyn NY, the theme of “What was left behind…” was apparent.
Visited the World Trade Center Memorial Site today and was overwhelmed with the objects left behind. I was a child when the towers were built from the ground up and lived to see them destroyed from the sky down.
I work part time at a homeless women’s’ mental health shelter. It is not the most desirable job but it helps to pay the bills, offers insurance (if it ever kicks in) and allows me to assist a population often neglected and discarded in society. The shelter is a new beginning for most of the clients for many come off the streets, jail and abusive environments. The shelter along with health and mental health services provided, offer the clients a chance at rebuilding their lives. Counseling and treating their mental health issues allows the clients to regain control and responsibilities of their lives. The ultimate goal of the shelter is to provide these women permanent housing and the tools to exist in society with a mental illness.
Some of the obstacles the clients deal with:
Unprotected sex
HIV/AIDS/HEP B
Medical complications-Diabetes,
Hypertension, Anemia
Loneliness
Isolation
Schizophrenia
Bipolar
Depression
Obesity
Hygiene
Socialization
Combativeness
Loss of children and family
Homelessness
I have grown less tolerant of complainers since working in this environment and most especially, complainers consumed with complaining ignoring fortune and gratitude in their lives. The complainers are not grateful for what they have during economic crisis and in comparison to what the clients at this shelter have.
Complainers complain.
I hate my job.
You have a job and have medical insurance.
I do not make enough money.
You have a job, have medical insurance and went to the Met last Monday
night to see an opera.
The job stresses me out.
You have a job, have medical insurance, went to the Met to see an opera
last Monday night and got a pedi/mani on Friday as consolation to the stressed
out work week.
I am broke.
You make 50,000 a year, live in your own apartment, have a job, have medical
insurance, went to the Met last Monday night to see an opera and got a
pedi/mani on Friday as consolation to the stressed out work week.
This can continue but it stops here.
My lil brother’s name is William and he is twenty-five years younger than I. He lives in San Francisco, sharing a one-bedroom apartment with
two others and has supported himself since his late teens. He aspires to and is well on his way towards reaching the high tier level of fashion photography.
Together we share the same father only, so technically our sibling tie falls under the title of “half”. Half brother or half sister, or ‘agnate’ as Wiki states. Whatever the label, or the politically correct response to those who inquire, my ‘half brother’ is simply, my lil brother.
I cannot and will not distinguish a half from a whole just as I cannot and will not distinguish between a half-filled glass or its’ opposite. We have an emotional bond, some of the same DNA and a host of other psychological thingies not worth mentioning.
On a recent visit to NYC to explore, meet his network and shoot three days of fashion/beauty photography with models and a crew, I realized this twenty-two year old had allot to teach his much older sis. His positivity towards life and his refusal not to drown in the ‘if only’ is infectious.
My lil brother’s visit taught me:
*Self isolation and self medication is not a good thing
*Routines can be stagnant with no opportunity for growth
*Having one’s own place is a blessing and a luxury
*Remain in motion-sometimes going backwards generates the
inertia needed to move forward
*Laugh, smile and explore
*Making do with what you have at the present may be the only
good option
*Food in moderation is good-mass consumption is
not
*In order to partake in the hobbies you love you have to work to make the money to do so
*Fresh bagels, smoked salmon, cream cheese and an assortment of gourmet olives are an exquisite treat when shared with loved ones
*Walk fast to your destination; walk fast from your destination
*Our father had a strong work ethic that we inherited
*One Bloody Mary during Sunday brunch is quite satisfying
*Family high drama is laughable but remember to brush the remnants off one’s shoulder after its half hour shelf life has expired
*It is okay to hug and say I love you
There are many types of dog breeds and sizes (owners as well) in Park Slope. One can observe how the two species cohabitate and relate to one another from daily walks throughout the neighbourhood, (Not the ‘hood’but the neighbourhood).
The relationships between the two are complex, dependent and co-dependent, smothering and domineering to name a few, but there are certainly types that stand out throughout Park Slope:
The wrong dog for an athletic owner
Roller-skating with a Yorkie stuffed in a black bag, its head peeking out through a top opening while hung across the back in 90-degree weather. Abuse. Get a pit bull or a greyhound that can keep up with the roller blading and leave the Yorkie at home!
The lazy, multi-tasking, irresponsible owner
The “Oh, I have to pick up milk for my coffee” or the “I have to get my coffee now” or whatever I have to pick up owner, who will take the dog for a walk and on the way home tie it a tree, hydrant, gate, pole, while stopping at a convenience store or supermarket. Left to the elements with no protection and subjected to a possible kidnapping, the dog is defenseless. Would these owners leave their
kids tied to a pole? Neglect. Bring the dog home, than do your errands!
The foodie, whose stomach leads while their poor dog must follow
The restaurant patron sitting in a booth, near the window, in air conditioning while their dog is tied to a nearby hydrant, in the sun, as they dine on fine cuisine. Stupid. Drop the dog off at home then go out to the restaurant.
The Fashionista/Fashionisto
The owner whose dog is a fashion accessory will have the designer pocketbook and dog that fits into it likely chosen from the headlines in which a celebrity has the breed styling in their Louis Vuitton tote. These dogs are subjected to a method of travel that is questionable and lacking in exercise or doggy socialization. Dumb. What then happens to this year’s designer pooch when next year fashion tabloid dog rolls in? Moreover, heavens forbid the cost of that new designer tote!
The ‘I DON’T SCOOP WHEN MY DOG POOPS’ owner
You know who you are, pretending to be on a cell call, deep in conversation, while your dog does its business on the sidewalk. Of course, the
conversation is so engrossing and consumes all your attention that as the business gets done and the rear end rises from the squat position, you are on your way, oblivious to what was left behind. SHAME ON YOU!
Congregators and Strollers
The congregators and the strollers are two of the common types of dog/owner relationships seen at Prospect Park. During these special off leash hours, dogs have run of the entire park (no gated enclosures)everyday, starting as early as 5am and ending at 9am and again at 9pm and ending at 1am. For most, the decision to own a dog becomes a reality after spending time there.
The congregators will form packs on the vast lawn with coffee in tow and conversation of nothingness flowing while their dogs run around in packs. The owners absorbed in the conversations and coffees often neglect their dogs. The dogs in turn, big and small and sometimes puppies, engage in dominance struggles, which usually leads to a small dog under the attack of the domineering dog mob. Meanwhile the owner, whose attention awakens to their dog’s scream, is of no use, because their dog was running with the pack and is far off.
The strollers will walk the length of the park, giving themselves and their dogs time to sniff and mark (the dog not the human, although some dogs may mark a human,) play and run at their leisure, while avoiding the dog packs. The bond between owner and dog strengthens and while training is reinforced and rewarded.
The ‘my dog is my child’ owner
A category I know too well for I am that dog owner. Toby and Pi Patel are treated as children and that is not an understatement-just ask mom, my mom, and she will confirm it.
I do not have kids nor chose to. As I have mentioned before,“I chose dogs”. My dogs, the boys.
The boys eat kibble with vegetables, cottage cheese, eggs and carrots. They have a home cooked meal of brown rice, beans and assorted
organic meats for dinner. While both have winter sweaters, booties and raincoats, Pi Patel has pajamas. And, yes, both are Mulberry’s NY Press Show models for 2011. 
Toby and Pi Patel do not go to groomers. For them groomers represent pain, fluorescent lighting and metal cages. The stress and separation (not on their part but mine) was not worth the $140.00 cost with a finishing cologne spray. Not having money due to unemployment was the initial excuse and after countless tries with clippers, super sharp scissors, doggie treats, bribery, I now comfortably groom them better (at least in my opinion).
My dogs, pampered, even had their own room in our former apartment. I make no excuse or apologize for the way I treat my dogs for whatthey offer me in return outweighs any criticisms or looks (Yes, they get looks of wonder when wearing their winter booties).
For some, the title of ‘owner and dog’ is exactly what itis. I am the owner, you are the dog, and therefore you revolve around me. For
others, a dog is a companion, with needs of its own that we as responsible owners take care of. Unconditional love in return for security, comfort, exercise and food-where else can you find a better deal?
Personal appearances are often misleading. Take for instance a person who prefers to dress in Salvation Army clothing while another is layered head to feet in Couture. Another person may drive a fully decked out slightly used 2010 BMW Z 4, while another drives a 1997 Honda Civic Hatchback.
Judgments and assumptions.
The ‘Salvation Army’ dresser is a cheap billionaire who prefers to have money locked away in investments while the ‘Couture’ dresser is one day from an appointment with the bankruptcy lawyer. The used BMW financed at 12% glistened seductively in the showroom and now the owner owes three back payments while the Honda is long paid off, vamped with the latest accessories and still in possession of the original owner.
Those who feel entitled because of their perceived notions of elitism quickly cast judgments and assign assumptions to unknowing victim(s) and yes I admit I have been on the assigning end. The irony is that the unknowing victim is very much aware of what is taking place because of the way the ‘entitles’ treat them and yes I have also been on the receiving end as well and frankly, it sucks.
I am overweight and struggle with navigating my body throughout my immediate surroundings. I was once skinny, society acceptable
skinny, at a weight of 115lbs. I also fitted into Ann Taylor Loft clothing and at times wanted the size 2 label to 
hang outside the jeans instead of on the inside. Now I waddle down the street, sucking my stomach in and pretending the image I see in storefront windows is the size two instead of an eight.
If you saw me, would you stop to think before passing judgment or would you assume I’m just another fat black person who can’t stay away from the Kentucky Fried Chicken? My weight gain is a combination of emotional backlash as well as physical –a hypo thyroid gone wild is not a girl’s best friend.
And now, to add more salt…My work clothes no longer fit. The pleated slacks, A- lined jackets, silk blouses and richly dyed shirts do not close about the waist. Do I buy new work clothes on a part-time salary? NOT. I walk four miles to work just to save subway fare! Okay, now you’re thinking, with all that walking the clothes should fit. NOT. The caloric makeup up of my lunches far exceed the calories expended walking.
As a monetary society that believes in “Bigger is Better”, the “Bigger” just as easily works with the “Expensive is Better” rhetoric. Couture clothing, flashy cars, Indian hair weaves, and Botox, not to mention boob jobs and my all time fav, the “Lifestyle Lift” all help to up the ratings in the judgment and assumptions category. You are what you eat or rather you are what you wear.
So to all who judge and assume beware, for as you judge, so shall you be judged .
All humans have some form of damage.
Physical damage marks the body and usually has no bearing upon others except an occasional reaction if the damage is extreme. I doubt the scar on my foot left by the stitches received after stepping on a broken bottle could cause anguish to another, but you never know.
Spiritual and mental damage, are fractures lodged beneath the surface within the soul and brain. Both thrive incognito. While physical damage can be dealt with, ignored, surgically altered or covered up with clothing or make-up, the latter is not easily disguised. Counseling, acknowledgment, and professionally prescribed medication (once the trial and error stage is over) are some good treatments while denial, self -medication with drugs and/or alcohol are not. How one chooses to deal with the damage greatly affects those around them. Sometimes lack of health insurance plays a deciding factor.
Spiritual and mental damage.
Damage begets damage.
Imagine the damaged inflicted on the receiver of a person’s damaging words?
I was born, raised, moved away, moved back, moved away again but returned to live in my neigbourhood of the most gentrified kind.
The ‘hood’, as it was once known during my childhood, had an unsavory cultural characteristics of the almost ghetto kind, not yet there, but oh so close and that classification depended on whose perspective you cared to seriously consider-those who lived there and those who took one look and passed through quickly. But to me and my posse of friends the ‘hood’ was our world!
Winters were cold, idle and desolate while summers were muggy, alive and sizzling, riding the waves of the so-called “pulse of the city”. At night, I slept the sleep of dreams on my twin mattress because during the summer days, the ‘hood’ was an interactive playground and as a young participant, I was constantly moving and socializing!
The rents were cheap and the living was easy if you were part of the ‘hood’. Being part of the hood was to know the gangbangers by their real names, not their tags. Being part of the hood was having an extended family of misfit friends who played double-dutch, stoopball and red rover on demand. Being part of the hood was hanging on the stoops, sitting at the windowsills, yelling from rooftops and letting the water from an open hydrant stream into an open car window after you promised the driver you’d hold the water down as he drove through.
The ‘hood’ was comforting and predictable. Everyone knew everyone or some dark secret about him or her or them. We knew who would be on the rooftop at night trying to throw bottles on the heads of the women who flirted with her man on that day. Only later did we find out the woman on top of the roof throwing the bottles was not a woman.
We knew who to grub cigarettes off during Fourth of July in order to light our firecrackers-he was usually too stoned to noticed when we sneaked off with his pack. We loved Uncle Willie, a retired gentle person who lived in the block’s only wood frame home. He got the city to provide breakfast and lunches for the ‘hood’ kids and permits for street closings so we could run around like maniacs. We loved our neighbours who took an interest in us kids and in particular one couple who treated us to an excursion to Long Island for trick o’treating. We returned home with mounds of candy to last for a month.
Who would want to live here back in the days of: gang warfare, Molotov cocktails with police riots, drugs, racial mayhem, broken streetlights, abandon buildings, dilapidated playgrounds, Congo players drumming well past midnight and fake candy stores with bulletproof glass around the counter that sold weed. Not the garden ‘weed be gone’. Although you can have a garden of weed but I am not writing about the pest control kind of weed although weed can control some pests while unleashing others.
The more you put in, the more you got out. My friends were many and enemies did not exist. Familiarity can often bring contempt but the familiarity with my neighbours brought me protection. I was part of the ‘hood’, my family was not. Mom paid the bills, so when she said we had to move, we didn’t sell the house but moved to a new neighbourhood in Queens.
Almost thirty plus years have passed since my childhood days of living in the ‘hood’. The ‘hood’ resides in the past, referred to nostalgically at times glorified by the few originals left who are lucky to be in rent-controlled housing.
The neighbourhood formerly known as the ‘hood’ is now, of the most unfavourable kind, depending on whose viewpoint you hear-those who pass through shopping at numerous upscale shops and those overwhelmed by the flood of crying babies and dogs. The ‘hood’ has moved on up, with most of the old occupants displaced and the abandon buildings turned into upscale luxury housing, some with swimming pools and most with concierge service. Restaurants of every fare occupy every square inch of a block. Thai, American, Classic diner fare, Vegan, Japanese Fusion, Campo de Flora Pizza made with real olive oil and Chinese fast food with brown rice, organic peas and carrots. Order take out or saunter up to the outdoor seating and people watch, the new people in the neighbourhood.
Anélemc's Writing 
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