Posted on by Anelemc

Women on the verge…

For the past eight months, I have been fortunate to work at a part-time job with limited benefits. I say fortunate because of the lack of job availability or options. Thanks to a church member’s recommendation, I was able to secure the job.

Unemployment was an albatross for a long time. My earnings went from a high-five figured salary to zero, to another five-figure salary but this time way down the numeric line. Bookkeeper, Administrator, Special Ed teacher, are titles of the past garnered from a Master’s from a prestigious university and a Master of Science from a not so prestigious college. My current title is, “File Clerk”.

I now work as a file clerk in a homeless women’s’ shelter.

I now work as a file clerk in a mental health homeless women’s’ shelter.

I now work as a file clerk in a mental health homeless women’s’ shelter surrounded by housing projects in a not so desirable part of town.

The search for full-time work with a different title continues, as the part-time work brings in a steady source of income. Some money is definitely better than no money.

The shelter.

The women at the shelter are a mix of ages, races and multitudes of mental health diagnosis-from depression to psychotic. Clients (the women) have endured domestic violence, sexual abuse, incarceration, abandonment, etc., compounded by untreated mental illness. This combination has left many unable to function within society.

The shelter culture, as my director states, is reminiscent of high school cliques. Jocks, nerds, beauty queens, popular, class clowns, stoners are present in the cafeteria only on an adult female level. There are those with seniority (years at the shelter) who are matrons, sought of the welcome committee who console those newly admitted to the shelter.

Yes, a client is admitted, usually from a referring agency, no walk-ins. Once admitted, a bed and room are assigned. The shelter provides three full meals, shower facilities, laundry as well as toiletries. Free medical checkups, psychiatric services and counseling are also provided and a requirement towards securing housing. Check out from the rooms is 10:00am and check in/sign in begins at 5pm. Some clients spend the entire day sitting in the cafeteria, which, also functions as a recreation room. The clients engage in card games, music, conversations, socializing, fights, verbal and some physical, takes place on a daily basis.

The goal of the shelter is to place the clients in permanent shared or single dwelling housing within special housing facilities. The shelter is a stepping-stone for the clients. A place to pause, get back on track, take personal responsibility and gain understanding of their mental illness which leads to self-care.

I spend twenty-one hours a week in this shelter working amongst the clients who visit the clinic for medical, psychiatric and counseling appointments.  I listen to their plights, offer encouragement and direct them through proper channels to obtain services. Remaining distant and aloof is not an option. It is impossible not to care no matter how difficult a client is or can be.

Posted on by Anelemc

Foods we once ate…and in some cases continue to do so

Oh, food the family ate, back in the day before the pyramid guide and nutrition hysteria.

Here’s a sample of what was:

Curried Lamb-made with the cheap curry found in A&P

Curried chicken with Perdue Chicken before chickens were put on a so-called healthy grain diet

Curried beef-I guess at this point curry put on just about anything

Carolina white rice smothered in Heinz ketchup or was it Heinz ketchup with a dash of rice?

Devil’s Underwood spread on Wonder bread

Chef Boyardee-spaghetti and meatballs or ravioliEgg salad-saturated in mayo- the Hellman’s kind

Uneeda biscuit crushed and placed in a bowl with milk added

Beer with pep milk and sugar- I found this combination quite strange-maybe it’s a Jamaican thing

Olive loaf and spiced ham on Wonder bread, lathered in mayo-the Hellman’s kind

 

Oxtails in gravy with Lima beans

Pigs feet with white beans in sauce

Scotch bonnet peppers pickled in vinegar

Bread pudding

Fried cakes (Johnny cakes) with ketchup

Whole wheat bread lathered with mayonnaise, American cheese and tomatoes

White bread toasted, buttered and sprinkled with sugar

Raisin bread, lathered with mayo-the Hellman’s kind, American cheese and tomatoes

Canned sardines in tomatoes sauce with a side of Carolina white rice

Canned sardines in oil on top of Saltine crackers

Liver, fried and smothered with onions

Cow foot (YUCK!)

SPAM slices, fried with eggs over easy

What foods did you or your family eat?

Posted on by Anelemc

Pot of Fire

At the age of twenty-five, I consumed my first one pound, twenty dollar lobster, steamed, cracked opened by my own hand, succulent pieces dipped in butter at a now defunct restaurant called Broadway Bay.

What’s the big deal and why did it take so long to eat a lobster?

Trauma.

A lobster, a pot of boiling water with a pinch of salt and a child equals trauma.

I was nine years old and lived in my childhood home in Brooklyn, New York. I was also a latch key kid and spent many hours after a tortuous day at catholic school, alone in the house, waiting for mom, my mom or a sibling to come home from work and school.

Being a latch key kid had its advantages.

I was able to:

-play with matches (almost set the house on fire after setting a match to a perfume bottle)

-sneak outside and run amok with my friends (but back in the house for mom’s four o clock check in call)

– eat bags of chips and Kit Kats bought with the school’s weekly two dollar pledge envelope money (which seldom found its way into the teacher’s hand)

-rummage through my siblings private draws and read love letters (I was an imaginary participant in the RIF program sans the use of library books)

The list can go on but it stops here.

As soon as mom, yes, she is my mom, came home, I was velcroed to her side. I heard stories about her workday, some funny and some, well maybe a PG rating should have been implemented. After this, she would start dinner while changing into her house clothes as I did homework on the dining room table. This was our daily routine, until, she returned home one evening, with a large paper bag.

The brown paper bag went immediately into the kitchen as I trailed behind it. Mom withdrew a lobster and placed into the stainless steel sink.  The lobster was about three pounds, multi-coloured with dark hues of specks and its claws where a dark shade of ruddy pine green. As it stood in the sink mom turned on the faucet and ran tepid water on it.

Giddy with excitement over the gift I thought I received, I remained spellbound and did not inquire what I had done to deserve a new pet or where the tank was or the food to feed it. I splashed water around the poor thing while thinking of names to call it as I tried to figure out its sex.

Mom, yes my mom, meanwhile, started dinner. She placed a large pot of water on the stove and I figured, ‘oh spaghetti’. I did not think of what was to come for my young budding mind did not comprehend the scenario in front of me. Mom, who is from the Caribbean, is accustomed to petting the goat in the afternoon that would later become the invited, cooked and well seasoned guest on the dinner plates.  Bon Appétit-no problem!

The pot of water had turned into a rage of boiling bubbles that broke the surface with bursts of hot air.

I continued to play with my pet lobster.

Steam emitted from the surface of the pot.

I continued to play with my pet lobster now named Ricky.

In a gesture that took two seconds to execute, Ricky went from a caressing waterfall in the stainless steel sink to the rage and fury of boiling water gone wild in an aluminum pot. One clawed waved listlessly in the air and then it was over.

Sixteen years later, I sat in Broadway Bay with my bib and butter and eagerly dived in. Of course dating someone who loved lobster was the ultimate incentive and long after our ending, my lobster fetish began and endured. Until…Karma.

At the age of forty-something, I ate a piece of lobster during lunchtime at one of the dogs’ press shows. In less than twenty minutes, my scalp was on fire with the itchies. Thankfully, I had a Zrytec in my purse that was able to quell the allergic reaction. I was confused, ashamed, and stupefied. Twenty -two years of lobster consumption now reduced to avoidance. No more jaunts to the Caribbean with lobster for breakfast, lunch and dinner. No more Red Lobster in fits of desperation or for that matter, no more Fairway $7.99 lobster specials!! It was over, done, did, over.

What goes around comes around. I let Ricky meet his maker without protest or tears that would not have swayed mom, my mom’s , eye on the prize. She devoured him that night as I cried in my bedroom, oblivious to my heartache.

Posted on by Anelemc

Toby (Tobias)

Can dogs be a preferred substitute for children?

Yes, particularly when the person who makes this decision is a childless forty- something post menopausal woman.

I was ready for a schnauzer during the winter of 2003 and after an extensive research, located a newly opened dog shop in Brooklyn which carried one. The owner was a hyperactive, flamboyant Hispanic male who resembled the lead character from the Almodóvar movie, “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown…” He was that spastic! His nervous energy, tinged with negativity, for he complained endlessly, was infectious. My heart raced in his company and frankly I could not wait to get away from him but his financially strapped store on Flatbush Avenue had a schnauzer.

Toby was seven months old at the time, longhaired and energetic. When the owner brought him out from the back of store and placed him on the floor, he proceeded to pee and defecate on the display stands in front. A wild dog unleashed! No, not really. He was following the lead of his nose, not interested in my display of cooing and petting or the other end of the hand doing it-me. He was free at last and intended to make full use of his sensory ecstasy. The owner, with his hyperactivity, cornered Toby and placed him on top of a petting stand. Finally, I was able to pet this salt and pepper bundle of not groomed fur as he looked at me through the eyes of a gentle soul.

I did not leave with Toby.

The decision to have a dog was overwhelming.

A second opinion was in need. Was I making the right decision? Was this mini the right one? Was seven months of age still a puppy? I wanted to return the next day with a person whose opinion would cement the deal.

I returned, with mom, my mom.

Toby, again, brought from the back of the store proceeded to mimic his behaviour of yesterday. Mom, my mom said, “No. That dog is crazy. You’re not seriously thinking of bringing IT home? He’s ugly and fat!

Toby left the shop that day.

To say it was an easy transition would be an understatement. Toby’s hidden personality took time to emerge. He left a place where he was confined to the back of a store and possibly kept in a crate most of the time. When we arrived home and brought him out of the car, he was petrified of the outside and refused to move. The traffic noise and feeling the sidewalk on his paws caused him to freeze in place and shake. The owner of the pet store carried Toby to my car when we left the shop so his anxiety was not apparent until later. This also explained his bathroom use in the store-the poor soul never set foot on the sidewalk.

In time, Toby adjusted to the outside world. He began by walking halfway down the block then progressed to a full block walk and eventually crossing streets and continuing on the other side. His nose became accustomed to the marking scents left by other dogs and garbage pick-up days were most exciting and stimulating!  Our first visit to a doggy park brought out his “inner bully” and he refused to submit to bigger dogs, which led to some serious confrontations. In due time, Toby earned his place as the policy maker within the dog pack for he kept dogs in their proper places.

Toby grew into doggy adulthood, went through neutering after humping the leg of a relative and matured into a loving, playful, curious, ratter and backyard squirrel killer (it was accidental on my part-didn’t see the poor thing scourging on the ground before letting Toby out in the yard.

Obviously, another mini was later added to the household who added to the chaos, anarchy, unity and the continuing joy of living with two schnauzers.

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The Best Christmas Present Ever-One year later…

The Best Christmas Present Ever  from last year has evolved into the ‘gift that keeps on giving’.

Although I failed to see it due to my emotional state during last years’ presentation of the gift, a snowball effect of changes was a comin’!

Like a snowball, at the top of a hilltop making its descent towards the bottom. Along the way,  snow gathers to its shape and it transforms into a humongous ball of loosely packed snow. At the bottom, it smashes into the bank and puffs of discombobulated snow suddenly infiltrate the air! That explains the impact of the changes in my life and as each puff anchors itself to the ground so has the change within mi alma (my soul).

This precious gift has changed my personal and emotional outlook towards dealing with toxic people or “emotional vampires” as a Face book friend likes to describe them. The ‘gift that keeps on giving’ is responsible for my refusal to allow toxic people to control my emotions or dictate how I feel about myself.


On Christmas Eve, I attended a midnight mass at the Church celebrating the birth of the messiah. Darkness enveloped the church at the start of the mass as an acolyte walked through the pews lighting parishioners’ hand held candles. When the church was illuminated, the procession towards the altar of acolytes, LEM’s and the Rector began. I carried the baby Jesus (large figurine) held up high, to be placed in the manger when we reached the altar and quietly cited a “Don’t drop the baby…Don’t drop the baby” mantra as I took each step. Prior to the start of the procession the Rector gave me sound advice on walking with baby Jesus, “If you drop the baby, you’re going to hell”. (He was kidding of course, or was he?)

Sunday, Christmas day morning, my nephew who luckily missed the start of last year’s, The Best Christmas Present Ever, came for a visit. We exchanged gifts, ate eggs and nana, my mom’s fry cakes while downing freshly brewed Bustelo. It was a nice gathering and my nephew spending time his nana, my mom was thoughtful.

The rest of Christmas day was spent at the Rectory for brunch that consisted of eggs and biscuits, kielbasa, and other foodstuff as well as Bloody Marys, wine and cheese. The Rector did the cooking while the guests carried food from the kitchen and set the table. After the cooking and setting was completed we sat down to eat in an atmosphere filled with warmth and comfort.

It was pleasant and the conversation included opinions on opera, current events, with jokes and laughter and most importantly freedom of expression on my part. No ridicule or silencing of my words from anyone. Finally, relief and enjoyment with people who accepted me for who I am.

This year opened outlets of socialization and connections I did not see or seek before, because I truly believed holidays are spent with family members. Unfortunately, blood ties do not compel one to adhere to ties that bind. Sometimes family members are not the people to be around especially when emotional pain and abuse are the consequences.

The results of my decision to eliminate toxic family members from my life has transcended into understanding and dealing with toxic people in general. I have learned to accept people for who they are and what they bring to the table in regards to emotional and spiritual support and most importantly I am not disappointed when they fail to meet up to my expectations. If their toxicity is overwhelming, I will not deal with it. I move on.

This Christmas was the year of spirituality and sharing the holidays with those who share my faith. Our shared commonality of faith offered me support and encouragement and I am grateful for having that in my first Christmas alone.

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2011 in review

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.

Click here to see the complete report.

Posted on by Anelemc · 3 Comments

Self-medication or “What’s your vice?”

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?

Posted on by Anelemc

What was left behind…Greenwood Cemetary Brooklyn NY

On a second visit to Greenwood Cemetary in Brooklyn NY,  the theme of “What was left behind…” was apparent.

         

                                                                    

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What was left behind…

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.

Posted on by Anelemc · 2 Comments

Complainers

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.