Wet Cement

Wet Cement

It smells like rain.  I used to not know what the smell of rain was, but now that I’m Called, I know: It’s wet cement.  Wet cement makes me know that at least I’ll be a little bit warmer tonight.  Wet cement gets rid of that biting chilled-to-the-bone feeling.  Being chilled to the bone makes me furious – furious that I have nowhere to sleep – furious that I have no life – furious that I had Potential and was supposed to have an Important life but am now living a Bag Lady’s life. 

Years later, after my life on the streets, I used to become furious inside supermarkets.  I had no idea why I so loathed going shopping for food.  Finally, it came to me when I described myself as chilled to the bone.  Of course. 

Wet cement surrounds me as I pace up and down Eddy Street in San Francisco.  This is the place they call the Tenderloin.  It’s full of people like me – the Invisible People.  The Invisible People are the ones most of us walk by and look right through.  We look through them because it’s too upsetting.  We are helpless and don’t know what to do.  How does someone get like that?  How does someone start collecting useless items and putting them all into a shopping cart and pushing it around?  How does someone stomach the stench of themselves?  How does someone have the un-self-consciousness to talk to themselves and yell at themselves in plain view - in front of others?  How does someone spiral that far down?

The Tenderloin collects us and we gather here because at least we are not alone in being Invisible.  Here, there are pay-by-the-night hotels and crack houses and Sex-Getting houses.  There are no trees.  The pavement has cracks in it and nothing tries to grow.  There are no flowers trying to grow in between the cracks of the cement.  They don’t even try.  There are abandoned buildings and check-cashing stores and bail bond stores and liquor stores and they all have bars on them.  They are surrounded by black wrought-iron bars and the purveyors of the liquor and Sex-Getting are locked into their lives.

I must belong here now.  I know this because I collect things and I don’t know why.  I steal things from places and I don’t know why.  Sometimes the Voices tell me to do it and they tell me that I’ll need these things in the future when I go on my Pilgrimage.  I don’t know where the Pilgrimage will lead me but the Voices say they’ll tell me when the time is right. 

Sometimes the Voices are nicer than others.  I like it when they talk about me being a Chosen One and that I’ll have an important Purpose in this world and that they’ll tell me where and when to go on my Pilgrimage.  But other times the Voices tell me that I’m evil and that I’m fat and ugly and stupid and crazy and that my parents didn’t mean for me to come out like this.  They meant for me to come out like a good person who goes to UCLA and graduates and makes something of herself.  I am a Huge Disappointment to this world.  And to them.  They can’t even be around me.  The Voices tell me not to be around them because it is too painful for them to see the monster who came out of them.

I know I am not evil right now, because the Voices are quieter and are not telling me so.  But even at UCLA I knew I was evil.  I knew that I did things I shouldn’t do and I did them anyway.  I knew that normal people did not have the feelings that I had and I knew that I was an Impostor.  I was fooling everyone.  I was not supposed to be at UCLA and I was not supposed to be in Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority and I was not supposed to get good grades and I was not supposed to be an Economics major.  But I was.  And I graduated.  I fooled all of them.  But the Voices get confused sometimes, because if I was not supposed to be at UCLA and I was not supposed to be one of the Invisible Ones, what was I supposed to be? 

That is where the Voices fail me.  I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.  But I am not supposed to be a Bag Lady yet that’s what I am.  And that’s how people see me, and they are horrified by me.  Sometimes I find myself in the Financial District with the Briefcase People and they are absolutely terrified of me.  They try to look through me and are very good at pretending I am Invisible, but I can see the fear in their eyes.  I can see the loathing.  It’s almost as if looking at me would make them susceptible to my brand of disease – that my lot in life is contagious.  Fear and Loathing in Lost Wages.

It’s getting darker and I know I’ll have to walk all night.  I’ll have to keep ambling because it is not safe to sleep at night.  And it is too hard in the Wet Cement to fall asleep.  I had a blanket and I don’t know where it went and I’ll have to steal another one from Sears.  Sears is the best place to steal things because they are not snobby like other stores and they don’t watch me as closely.  I can’t even go into other stores.  I have to break into apartments or pay-by-the-night hotels to get something to wear before I can go into the stores.   

It’s a complicated errand – trying to get clothes.  I’ve gone to jail for the Clothes-Gathering Errand before and then I end up in the hospital.  The hospital is a Soul Smasher.  There is no way to keep your Soul’s Voice audible in the hospital because of the Thorazine and the Haldol.  They smash the Soul’s Voice and it is on Mute the whole time you are in the hospital.  Jail smashes the Soul’s Voice as well but it is in a more subtle way.  The Soul’s Voice is too dangerous to listen to in jail.  It tries to give you hope when there is no Hope.

The Food-Gathering Errand is another complicated one.  It used to be easier.  I used to go to Zim’s and get food there and they didn’t notice when I left.  But then they caught me last time and the lady with the green eye shadow recognizes me so I have to go when she’s not there.

* * * *

November, 2002:

I went to the city last night.  I saw a homeless woman and gave her some money.  It’s hard for me not to give them money since everyone around me is pretending they are Invisible.  Most of my friends don’t know I used to be Invisible.  They are like the Briefcase People and think that paying attention to a street person will make them catch the disease.  Interestingly, adolescents are less fearful of the disease.  When my students found out I used to be Invisible, they were not afraid of me.  They were not afraid they would catch the disease.  In fact, sometimes I think it would be handy if they were a bit afraid of me.  Then they would do what I want.  Deep down, though, I loathe people who I am afraid of.  I hate them.  Anyone who tries to make me afraid of them and wield their authority over me makes me sick.  That is the dilemma I am now in.  I don’t know how to be an authority figure because authority figures make me sick.  And I care about my students and I don’t want to make them sick.

But it’s so odd to think that people everywhere used to be afraid of me – that they used to cross to the other side of the street to get away from me.  And now, I can’t even get a few sixteen-year-olds to stop talking.  I’m thinking that teaching is probably not the right job for me.  I don’t have a problem being tough with adults and speaking up for myself.  But with adolescents – I feel like they are in the Intersection of Confusion and I don’t want to flip them into the Rebellious Side on account of something I do.  I feel scared for them.  I feel like making them angry could be bad for their health.  It was bad for mine.  And it took me about two decades to recover from adolescence.  So what am I doing working with adolescents?  I thought that the fact that I have empathy for them – that I wouldn’t be on a Power Trip  - would be helpful for them.  I thought it would be easier for them and that it would make them more comfortable in my classroom if they were not afraid of me and if they knew I cared about them. 

But I don’t think it’s working.  Adolescents respond to punishment and I don’t feel comfortable giving punishment because it reminds me too much of the hospital people and the law enforcement people and the Briefcase People.  Why do some people feel they have the right to punish other people?  I don’t understand.  I can’t do it.  That is why I probably shouldn’t have kids.  I would feel so guilty punishing them that I would let them do whatever they wanted and they would turn into monsters.  So if giving punishment to people is something I am unable to do, and if adolescents respond to punishment, what the hell am I doing trying to be a high school teacher? 

That is why I need to finish this book.  I will be more useful to adolescents if they can read a book about someone who went down to the depths and came back up.  I am not useful to them if I am trying to give them an appreciation for literature but am trapped in the public school system which has taught them only to respond to punishment.  Giving them encouragement doesn’t seem to get them to behave.  But I refuse to stop giving them encouragement because I like them.  I like how they are honest and funny and spontaneous and emotional and real.  I like that they are real.  So many adults have forgotten how to be real.  They are playing the role of the Briefcase People, or they are playing the role of Authoritative Adult, and I don’t want to be like that. 

I have a fundamental problem with punishment.  I don’t feel like I have the right to punish someone.  And it’s not a self-esteem problem.  I don’t feel anyone has the right to punish me.  If I have a fundamental problem with punishment, how am I supposed to keep an orderly classroom?  I thought that if I made it clear to them that I like them and that I respect them, that they would return that respect and that I could have a class where I could teach them to love literature.  I want to teach them that they can change their whole point of view and open up their world by reading.  They already know that watching movies can change their point of view, but they don’t feel that way about books.  And they don’t know how cathartic writing can be.  I thought I could teach that, yet I don’t feel I’m teaching them anything. 

I want them to like writing and to like reading and I want to teach them how to be better at it.  But if I’m always battling the lack-of-punishment battle, how can I teach them anything?  How can I share with them that reading opens up your world and that writing opens up other people’s worlds - that writing can help people understand other people. Writing can help us understand ourselves.  Until I wrote about my feelings about teaching, I’d decided I was just a lousy teacher.  Now I know that my fundamental problem with punishment and with being an authority figure is the issue. 

I haven’t necessarily decided what to do about the issue because I haven’t made the decision that punishment is effective.  I become infuriated at anyone who tries to punish me.  It doesn’t happen to me the way it used to, because I’m not stealing and living on the streets, but the emotion is so strong.  When an employer tries to wield power over me, I’m gone.  I can’t stand it.  When a boyfriend tries to wield power over me, it’s over.  I’m outta’ there.  This prevents me from becoming a victim, which is good, but it also prevents me from being a good teacher, doesn’t it?  Kids can’t concentrate when it’s too noisy in the classroom, and I don’t have the stomach to punish them for it.  And who says kids are meant to be quiet?  It’s so absurd.  Do we want a bunch of scared, rule-followers coming out of our schools?  Are those the people who become innovative and who invent new products and new ways of doing things?

Since it’s clear that I’m not going to start punishing to get my students to act more calmly, I’ll probably end up doing something else besides teaching.  I don’t know how writers make a living, but I think I’ll try it.  I think that Diary of A Bag Lady would be more helpful than my current Diary of An Impostor Teacher.  I have to finish this book.  For the kids.

Not A Banner Year...

I’ve had better years.  Yesterday, I ran into a former student at the Sheriff’s Work Program.  For those of you who are productive members of society and have not committed many felonies, the Sheriff’s Work Program is a clever government ploy whereby citizens pay to work – and  stay out of jail.  This year, after having received a review from my principal stating that I should be a Mentor Teacher - -that I had a tremendous rapport with my high school students and that I was a gifted teacher - - I did some time.  I then decided I didn’t feel like doing any more so I paid to work.  It’s a special privilege. 

This year, I also lost one of my favorite people in the world.  I went to Los Altos High School and UCLA with him.  He committed suicide and I was too suicidal to attend his Memorial Service.  Our favorite saying was “[c]onsistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”   He’d definitely approve of my inconsistent behavior… (Does that mean I have a large mind?) I was planning on attending the Police concert with him.  He had really expensive box seats at Shoreline Amphitheatre right by my place.  We saw the Ghost in the Machine Tour in the eighties; the Police was our favorite band. 

I love Scottie.  He was hilarious and irreverent and brilliant and creative and gifted at so many things.  He was an insane drummer.  Oh, we have lost such an angel.

Doctors' Poison

I wandered the halls of Saint Francis Memorial Psychiatric Hospital to see what the drugs were doing to me.  They kept testing different ones on me and I’d been here for three months now.  It’s April 2005.  Some would give me convulsions.  Some would give me lockjaw.  Some gave me ticks.  Some would make me walk with my feet really far apart and some made me walk without moving my arms at all.  Some made me drool.  The doctors didn’t know that I knew.  They just figured I was another Schizo-Affective Disorder walking the halls and I would end up on SSI … another victim - my assets drained by the county.  Another statistic.

They didn’t know I knew.

But I know the drill.  I know it’s Doctor’s Poison and I know that they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.  It’s an inexact science and they don’t know.  Psychiatry and psychology are such bullshit that I had to teach it one time in high school and I remember just dreading it – thinking, I’m so sorry, you guys,  just do the best you can, because this is all bullshit.  And my diagnosis keeps changing.  In 1987 it was schizophrenia; then it was schizoaffective disorder; then manic-depressive disorder, then bi-polar disorder, now it’s back to schizo-affective disorder.  I told my friend I was schizophrenic again and she said, “I’m proud of ya’!” We’re friends largely because of our similar twisted sense of humor.

Diary of A Bag Lady: Diary of A Bag Lady

Diary of A Bag Lady: Diary of A Bag Lady

The Flattening

The Flattening Sept. 1987 It’s happening again. No, please, God, don’t let this be happening again. “Let go of me!” These orderlies are grabbing me and they’re hurting me. What are they so afraid of? What is so frightening about me? Why are they hurting me? “Miss, you are clearly agitated. We need to – ” “You need to what? Do you not see how damaging this is to my Soul? Do you not comprehend that it is you who are Lost Ones? Do you not see?” They’re hurting me and I’m kicking and they won’t let me go. Why do they keep doing this to me? And here come the restraints. Those make me crazy, and they would make any sane person crazy. My Soul is dying. “Stop it! Would you just stop hurting me? I’m not a criminal! God, what is wrong with you people? Why must you treat me like I’m the Devil? What are you so afraid of? Why is there such fear on your faces? Cannot you see that my Envelope has been opened and now my Soul is spilling out? And opening someone’s mail is a federal offense! Can you not see that by opening the Envelope my Spirit is swirling? It doesn’t know where to go!” “Ma’am, we need to get you into the hospital and then we can give you something to calm you down. You are not thinking clearly.” Thinking clearly. Thinking clearly? Who can think clearly when you’re being grabbed and wrestled and pinned down and tied up in restraints? What are they thinking – are they thinking clearly to treat another Soul this way? Why must it always be turned upside down? Why must the hospitals and the doctors tell me what thinking clearly is? I know what is clear. I know that my Soul is undergoing a Spiritual Emergency, and that it is damaging for my Soul to be treated this way. It is damaging to me and it is damaging to them because they are certainly not going to feel they deserve the Karma that is building. They are just “following orders,” but somehow they are going to undergo torture like I am undergoing, whether it happens in this life or another. And they will know not that they are paying for this that they have done unto me. And perhaps that is it. Perhaps I am simply paying off a Karmic Debt. Perhaps I was a vicious ruler in another life and I tortured people and now I have to pay off this Debt and I am going to have to go from one mental institution to the next for the rest of my life to pay off the Debt. Oh God. Please let this be the last one. I’ve already been to at least two dozen psych wards. Can I be done with the Debt? Oh, God. What if this is it? What if this is my Destiny and this life is simply a huge Payment? What if I keep going back and back and back to these places and I keep getting tortured and orderlies keep wrestling with me and doctors keep shooting me up with drugs and they all keep telling me I’m just agitated and that this is for my own good… “Oh, God! Oh, help! Just help - Just come Down Here and do something.” “Hold still, ma’am! Stop it! You need something to calm you down.” “Here - pull those down and give it to her there.” And now they might as well be raping me. They’re pulling my pants down and I can’t do anything about it and I told them not to pull my pants down. And now they are sending poison into me. Here they come. The drugs. Now all my Real thoughts are going to be swallowed and my mind will enter The Flattening. My Soul will get lost once again beneath the Flattening. It’s starting. I can feel my jaw locking and my stomach convulsing because that is what happens when the Doctor’s Poison goes into my open Envelope. Who tore open my Envelope and let my Sprit swirl? Dixie Land “Miss, you need to take your meds. Here you go.” Here I am, back in Dixie Land. The world where they tie your brain in knots by giving you Doctor’s Poison in little dixie cups. My Soul. Where is my Soul? Where is my Spirit? They cannot live in Dixie Land! I must escape Dixie Land! Where is the nearest escape? I have done this before and I’ll do it again. I am not going to let my envelope get crumpled and ripped and returned to Sender. My Soul is going to fix the envelope. It is going to fix it from the inside out. It is going to put Cosmic Krazy glue into the gulches. The Cosmic Krazy Glue will win when the Doctor’s Poison is swirling in my veins. It will make little rips in my veins for the Poison to leak out and then be transmitted into the Receptacle of Doctor’s Poison which in turn will be eliminated into the toilet. I need to remember water. The water will be the vehicle by which the Doctor’s Poison is transmitted into the Receptacle. “Nurse! I need some more water! Can I please have lots and lots of water?” This room is white and there is nothing in it except this cot I am on with the four leather straps holding my wrists and ankles. There are holes in each tile of the ceiling and I have counted these before so I know the number to be a consistent 235. There are always 235 holes in the ceiling tiles of mental institutions. That is the law. There is the knowledge that these places are really conceived by the Almost-Devil and instead of being really obvious and making everything 666 which would give it away, the AlmostDevil is more crafty. There is not Devil per se because the angels Lucifer and Michael and did the Experiment of Time because God told them to. They didn’t intend to do anything evil, but when the people of the Earth School Experiment began to believe and worship Time, Lucifer and Michael tried to fix it. But there was that moment when one thing came before and one thing came after that they couldn’t unmake. We therefore worship time, and the end of Time will be a beauteous thing because it won’t be the end of Earth School; it will be the end of the Illusion of Time. So Lucifer and Michael have been helping the people of the Experiment experience everything for the Highest Good, even though there is pain. Earth School doesn’t tell its students that. We have to remember. But when we do remember, we know that the AlmostDevil is just Us. We’re the people of the Experiment who create Heaven on Earth or Hell on Earth. And that’s what they are. There’s no literal fire down below. That’s a crock of shit. It’s so obvious. The fire is below the surface of each Soul and it is up to us to fight the Fire and tame it and wield its power for the force of Good. So the AlmostDevil has materialized in the form of whomever decides they have other’s Best Interest in mind. Because this is an Illusion. To tell someone you’re doing something mean or spiteful “because it’s for your own good” is an Illusion, and it is not for the Greatest Good. It is the AlmostDevil. It is what makes Capital Punishment. It is what makes War, especially War in the name of God. It is what makes Persecution, and White Supremacy, and Prisons, and Juvenile Detention Centers, and Crucifixion. It is what makes Doctor’s Poison ... for your own good… “Ms…. Gripe-o? The doctor would like to see you. I will have some nurses come and take you to his office.” “You mean, you will have some friendly folks come untie me? How lovely. Yes, that would be lovely. I’d love to chat with the doctor.” For my own good. ShrinkRap This office is in such stark contrast to the seclusion room that I’m on sensory overload. There is a big mahogany desk with a swivel chair. There is an expensive desk set – the paper-holder matches the pencil-holder and they look like real marble. There is a marble paperweight which makes me think of Jerry Seinfeld and I laugh. (“Where are these people working that they have such great gusts of wind and need weights to hold down their papers”) “This is a lovely office, Doctor. It’s almost as nice as the suite I stayed in last night. Same motif. Marble. Mahogany… ” “Let’s see. Your chart says…” These doctors are all the same. No sense of humor. It’s like they can’t even fathom that a nut-case might say something witty so they pretend they don’t even hear. He’s fumbling around, flipping through the papers on his clipboard. He has no idea who I am. He’s around forty, I’d say, and he has a mustache and beard and probably grew a mustache in the seventies thinking it was really cool, and then he probably grew a beard a little later when he was doing his residency and he wanted to look like Grizzly Adams. He probably wanted to be Grizzly Adams and do a bunch of mountain-man things but is too uncoordinated so he just kept his beard and fantasized that he was a manly man. He probably hasn’t had sex in 2 ½ years and is impotent. He’s probably been married twice, once to his high school sweetheart who got bored as shit and left him. Then he married a residency groupie, some student who worshipped him, and she got bored as shit and left him too. He probably masturbates to JC Penny’s catalogues and blames his impotency on Deseril. Which is actually pretty accurate since it takes about three days to achieve orgasm on Deseril. So here we are, I can psychoanalyze the shit out of him in three seconds and he is still flipping through my chart like a dumbass and can’t even see that I’m a person over here. He’s so much more interested in that chart. That fucking chart. That chart can be your demise. If some orderly is in a bad mood – if you remind him of his ex-girlfriend who cheated on him – he can seriously fuck up your life by saying you displayed certain kinds of behavior. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It’s his word against yours. And you’re a nutcase, so who’s going to believe you? According to what that chart says, they can inject inordinate amounts of Doctor’s Poison into you. They can tie you up in restraints and put you in seclusion for however long they feel like it. It’s all up to the chart. It’s their Bible. And it’s not unlike the fundamentalist interpretation. No room for negotiation. No concept of metaphor or parable. It’s written: It’s Law. “So, doctor, what did you find? Can you cure me?” “Uh, Miss, miss Deborah Gr” “It’s Diana. Diana Grippo. You can look at me. I’m actually breathing over here. I could probably tell you what’s going on. I know you’re attached to my chart, but – ” “It says in your chart that you’ve been agitated. It says that when they brought you in, you were shouting obscenities and were generally uncooperative – ” “Doctor, let me ask you something: If you had three large men attacking you and you weren’t sure why, and then they began tying you up and shooting you up with drugs, would your first reaction be to cooperate?” “What I hear you saying is – ” “ ‘What I hear you saying’? What I hear you saying! Did you actually say that? You are such a cliché. I can’t even believe you just said that. Shrinkrap. Did they teach you that in shrink school? How can you possibly think I am going to respect your intelligence when you speak to me in Shrinkrap? How can you possibly expect me to listen to anything you have to say?” “I hear some agitation in your voice – ” “Can’t you think of another fucking word? I’m so sick of you people saying I’m agitated. Of course I’m agitated. You don’t even give a fuck what’s going on with me. All you care about is that chart and the insurance money. You’ve got a great gig going here. You don’t even have to feed nutcases like me, because what can I do? Who will believe me when I tell them I was treated like shit? Who will be on my side? How will I even figure out a way to tell anybody? How will I even be able to get through the red tape to be able to do anything like file a complaint? It’s so beyond reprehensible. It’s for my own good…” “Well, yes, Deborah –” “It’s Diana, you moron.” “It is for your own good. You were displaying psychotic behavior and we needed to make sure you weren’t a danger to –” “Oh, like you really give a fuck if I’m a danger to myself or others. First of all, how dangerous am I? Look at me? How much fucking damage could I do to three orderlies attacking me? And I was not a danger to myself. I was having a spritual experience before you assholes came along and administered The Flattening.” “The flattening?” “Yes, Haldol. Thorazine. Whatever. All of it flattens the emotions and swallows the Soul’s voice. You have no idea what I’m talking about but I am not delusional. I am perfectly clear. I am clear and sane and mad. I am so mad. I can’t even tell you what little respect I have for you and the other doctors who work in places like this. You don’t know jack. You don’t know about the Soul.” “It says here in your chart that…” I can’t stay here with this stupidfuck one second longer. I am out of here. I get up and begin to walk out – perfectly calmly – and he pushes the button. I hear people running from down the hall and they are getting closer. My three friends are now standing in front of me, blocking the doorway. Here they are, these bouncers, standing before me, and there’s the other one with the needle, and they’re all ready to put me back in the restraints, back in seclusion, just because the doctor is a stupidfuck. Oh God. Please come down here. “LET GO OF ME!”

The Seclusion Muffle

The Seclusion Muffle By Diana Grippo I am looking at the squidly man with tentacles coming out of his sleeves and ink-black hair. He is evil, and the dark hair is just the beginning. He is shrouded in evil, and I need to save him. Some of the dark people need saving and the light needs to stream in and scream in and redeem him. The voices have told me that I need to jump into the bushes when I see the headlights coming. Even though light is good, the headlights are minus good. If I keep walking when the darkness comes and I don’t stop, this is good for the shrouded people, because they know not of the light brigade. I am part of the light brigade and it’s unfortunate that others of the earth don’t understand that I am here to help. Next to the squidly man is a barren heap of flesh who is so far gone, it is doubtful even I can help him. They both have the same sweatshirt with the same three letters, and since I was at UCLA in the other life, I know which fraternity they are in. This is powerfake, and I know they are of the darkness even though the world has decided they are golden boys. The barren heap says to me, “Hey, blondie, what a cute little baglady you are.” He obviously has not clued in to the fact that I am here helping the chosen few, of which he is not one. Barren Heap spews, “How are you planning on getting any shopping done at three in the mornin, darlin’?” It is so evident he is a Lost One. “You are a Lost One, and that is damaging, but it is not up to me,” I inform him, but alas, this is beyond his comprehension, and he knows nothing but the crucifixion. He knows not of the resurrection. That is why he does what he does. The squidly man and the barren heap of flesh are joined by the un-rinsed one. He enters flogging. “Sweetie, you need some of what we got. C’mon! You guys, we’ll take her back to the house, but we should get a preview of coming attractions. Bring her over here.” Now Squidly and Barren Heap and Un-rinsed One are grabbing me and telling me to get in. “I don’t need to enter the transportation of the doomed. Doomed I am not.” “@#$%, she’s nuts, you guys! This is perfect.” He thinks I have reached the perfect state, which is complimentary, but not quite accurate, because I am still striving for the nirvana-mind and have not quite entered in. Now I am sitting in the transportation of the damned in between Barren Heap and Un-rinsed One. Squidly is driving. They are fascinated with the womanly sustenance-givers and are squeezing them thinking they can find sustenance there. But try as they might, there is none. I explain to them that they are not providing food now, that it is a function of a dependent that makes them give milk. They are howling and suckling and trying to still find food, and I am yelling at them that there is no needful one now, so they are dry, and that is not going to change any time soon. “Dude, look at that sign and see where we are. We’re pretty far out. I think this looks good.” They think they are going to achieve nirvana-mind but they know not that even I am still striving and have not reached. It takes not much scrutinization to realize this. “Put her in the back of the truck. Man, is it ever dark up here.” Now Un-rinsed One comes and flogs me, and though he knows not what he does, he is still a ghastly one. He will not thrive. His arms are pinning me to the bumpy metal on the bottom of the truck and his littlebrain is jamming into my thigh. The littlebrains can make men forget the resurrection and can keep them in the powerfake. They think they have power with their littlebrain, but don’t they know that we have the power? We don’t experience powerfake because without the obsession of littlebrain, we think with out hearts. Without me, his littlebrain would be shrivelized. He needs to know this so I tell him. Ow. Un-rinsed-ghastly-one is a violent-maker. I’ll need to just keep yelling at him to stop being a violent-maker and to open the gates. There will be a glimmer when he opens the gates. “You guys, you gotta’ come share the love. It’s nice and tight in here.” He knows not what evil lurks inside of him. I must just keep telling him. “Shut the @#$% up! Can’t you just be quiet for two seconds? -Dude, your turn.” “Ow! @#$%! The little bitch kicked me. Take her boots. Throw them in the cab. I can’t believe this crazy bitch.” His littlebrain is next and he thinks I should appreciate the fact that his littlebrain is bigger than Un-rinsed One’s littlebrain. I tell him they are both extremely little littlebrains. They do not have the intellect to accept this fact and Squidly slaps me harder than Un-rinsed One. I pity their powerfakes. All the wars in the name of littlebrains and powerfakes. All the hatred that permeates the powerfakes, and they question it not. I make sure to keep yelling about the powerfakes: “Don’t you understand that authentic power is exemplified not by violence and intimidation, which is a powerfake, but by compassion and empathy? You will awaken one day and realize your powerfakes are in vain. Your littlebrains will shrivelize and you will realize it is authentic power you yearn for.” “Oh, man, this chick will not shut up, and it’s really getting old. She’s psycho. I’m outta’ here.” And Barren Heap didn’t even have the guts to enter his littlebrain. I scared him. Ha! Fear not, light brigade. I am here still and their fists were not victorious. * * * * * I can’t believe they took my shoes. The darkness is winning, and my insides are ruptured from their littlebrains, and I don’t have my shoes. How could the violentmakers have kept my boots? My boots were made for walkin’ and I will walk all over their souls. My soles will quiet their souls. It doesn’t take much scrutinization to realize that enlightenment enters through the soles and not the head. Or the brain. Why do all those tribal civilizations dance to become closer to the gods? They are not thinking to the gods. They are dancing to them. It is the soles that enlighten the souls. “Excuse me, Miss! You shouldn’t be walking along here.” Luckily, I have spotted the headlights in time and have anticipated the shroud of darkness accompanying them. I am safe and no longer seen. “Where’d you go? Miss? Do you need help?” I am detecting the absence of light from this being. “Oh, there you are, ma’am. Do you need some help?” How does he see me? I am safe and no longer seen. He is pretending he sees me. He is tricking me. I will not permit another littlebrain rupture inside me. Their evilseeds are sprouting in me right now. I will need to find a book on how to kill the evilseeds. “Ma’am, are you okay?” “Can’t you see? I have no shoes!!!! Obviously, I was doing what any normal person would do under the circumstances. I am walking on the yellow paint because it is softer on my soles, and softer on my soul, and the me that is me, is lost beneath my soul.” “You can’t be walking in the middle of the freeway, ma’am. Why don’t you just go ahead and get in the car, and tell me where you need to go.” He is showing the characteristics of a violent-maker. I will need to fight for my soul. It is time for the end of the powerfake. “Ow – ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to get in the car. Stop. Stop swinging your arms. I’m going to take you down to the station and maybe you can call somebody from there.” He knows not of the resurrection. He is another littlebrain that has come to spread his evilseed. I will not let him rupture me. No one is permitted. I control the gates. I am the gatekeeper. “You are not permitted. You have been scrutinized and I have detected the vestiges of danger lurking inside you and I will not permit your powerfakes – DON’T. YOU. TOUCH. ME. Don’tyoutouchmedon’tyoutouchmedon’tyoutouchme!” “Ma’am! Stop it! You need help. I’m going to take you down to the station and then we can maybe –” “Don’t you DARE take me to the Land of the Shuffling. I WILL not go. I will NOT go. I will not GO. Hell, no, we won’t go. Hell, no, we won’t go. Hell –” “… mentally unstable – yes, Sir, she – what? No, we haven’t arrested her for anything. She did? She is? All right, I’ll take her in and we can get her on a 72-hour or something.” “No 72-hour hold. No! I will not go to the Land of the Shuffling. The Land of the Suffering. The Thorazine Shuffle. The Haldol Scuffle. The Seclusion Muffle.” “Apparently, you’re in some trouble, ma’am. I talked with another officer who said that a few hours ago, you antagonized some people in a restaurant, ordered hundreds of dollars-worth of food, ate a bit, and then left. You were also said to be using sexually explicit language and were displaying promiscuous behavior. You – ” “Oh, shut the @#$% up. Explicit promiscuous explicit promiscuous. I guess that deserves the littlebrain ruptures. I guess it was Hannibal’s code and my insides are fertilizing the evil seeds as we speak because it is simply karmic. I see. So it sounds as if you agree with Squidly and Barren Heap of Flesh and the Un-rinsed One. I – ” “Ma’am, you are clearly confused. You need to cooperate. We’re on our way to the station, and from there, we’re going to take you to County General. There, you can rest, and – ” “Ha! Rest! Rest in restraints! Rest in restraints! Rest in restraints! Rest – ” “We’re here. Be quiet. Get out of the car.” * * * * * “Hello, officers, I am in trouble because I am explicit and promiscuous and ruptured and soleless. It is, alas, Hannibal’s code. I clearly deserve it. Now I am going to go rest in restraints. It is always very restful for me to have my wrists and ankles bound together. Just the thought of it makes me want to drift off into a peaceful reverie…” * * * * * There’s blood all over these sheets and I think I’m dying. “Nurse! Doctor! I’m dying! I’m bleeding! Please let me out of these!” I can’t believe how screwed they are. Why would they come? They left me here yelling and screaming, so what makes me think they’ll somehow have a flood of shiny, happy feelings and come in here? These leather straps around my wrists are digging into my flesh and my skin is all raw from trying to get out of them. I remember last time I did get out of them. I just have to pretend they’re really tight and painful before they’re actually that tight, and then I can wriggle out. I’ve gone AWOL a couple times actually. No better feeling than that. I remember climbing over the fence in one nut-house and just walking all night. Freedom. The straps on my ankles are ripping into my skin and I know I’ll be all bruised up again. It smells like pee in here. “Doctor! Come in here!” No response. “Someone needs to come into the seclusion room! Someone needs to come in here! Someone please come here! Someone help me! YOU STUPID @#$%! GET IN HERE!!!” Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. I can’t do this again. They can’t lock me up in here again. They can’t keep me here. They can’t put me on a 72-hour hold. They can’t. Why do they think they can mess with my destiny? My destiny is not to be locked in a psycho ward for the rest of my life, yet I keep coming back here, and it’s been two years, and how long is this going to last? They say IT’s drugs. I was two years sober when IT happened. I started hearing voices. They said I needed to leave the apartment. They said they had a job for me to do. God had a job for me to do. I sometimes see things and sometimes they’re there, and sometimes they’re not. I know there’s blood on my sheets though. I may be crazy but I’m not stupid. They’re not going to come in here. I can scream and cry and thrash and cuss all night and they’ll just leave me here. How do these people live with themselves… * * * * * “She’s out of it. She almost made it out of those restraints and then the Haldol must have kicked in. She’s sound asleep now.” “So, Dr., what appears to be the probem?” “Not a big deal. She appears to be menstruating.” * * * * * I’m sitting at my desk working on a whitepaper. I’m in PR at a Silicon Valley start-up. I see homeless people and talk with them at lunch. I’m interested to know how they got where they are. Because I got there accidentally. I didn’t decide one day that I was going to rebel against society and buck the system. I didn’t OD on drugs. I just got sick. Now that I’ve been “stable” on medication for a decade, I’ve decided I didn’t make it through several years of that life only to be a nine-to-sevener (no such thing as a nine-to-fiver in Silicon Valley.) I’d really like to do something to help. I think that we could improve so much if we decided to teach peace. It sounds Pollyanna, and we all like to say, “That’s the parents’ job,” but guess what? If the parents could do it, they would. Let’s admit that there are some overwhelmed parents who are on survival mode and are doing the best they can. They just don’t have the capacity to teach manners and ethics and kindness and compassion. If they could, they would. Let’s just decide it’s an important enough concept to actually teach in school. We know right from wrong. It’s a matter of whether we decide to act rightly or wrongly. Kids need to learn how to make decisions that will make them feel good about themselves. Helping others increases self-esteem, but we don’t teach that in school by encouraging competition. Compassion can change the world. All sorts of wonderful things are done by compassionate people, but we don’t teach that in school by glamorizing war and war heroes. I need to remind you that Squidly and Barren Heap and Un-rinsed One were “educated” fraternity boys. They were not street people. The people on the streets are often very kind. They're just sick. The ones who hurt me are the ones society accepts without question. That's a misconception that makes me very sad. Squidly and Barren Heap and Un-rinsed One are products of their environment. We are not teaching children one of the most important things they need to learn: kindness. # # # # #

Diary of A Bag Lady

Book Proposal Prep Notes Title: Diary of A Bag Lady By Diana Grippo 1) The Point: Mental illness is a spiritual emergency and should not be pathologized. Though medication is sometimes necessary, the current treatment is not healing. I illustrate a different way of looking at mental illness through an autobiographical format. The cycles of mania and depression I’ve experienced are quite dramatic and include psychosis, a term people throw around without really thinking about the definition: loss of touch with reality. Much of the book is humorous in tone, because laughter is healing and it’s what’s pulled me through. There really are some very funny things that can happen when you’re delusional. There are terrifying things that can happen as well. My purpose is to open people’s minds. I’m very concerned with adolescents in whom the onset of these spiritual crises are so often misunderstood and therefore minimized. Adolescence is when my emergence started. What used to be a mid-life crisis - where one questions one’s purpose in life - has moved to an adolescent crisis. We are evolving as a species, so this makes perfect sense. The questions asked by adolescents are no less compelling. 2) The Market: Adults and adolescents are my market. I name each chapter after a song and include the lyrics at the end of the chapter. In the lyrics of each song, the writers either question his or her sanity, or he or she provides answers as to what has brought meaning into his or her life. There are of course countless musicians whose sanity has been questioned, and substance abuse has often masked the root of the problem – a spiritual crisis. I of course have impeccable taste in music so everyone will want this book. (That statement is of course just one of the vestiges of my good old delusions of grandeur. How I miss them...) Really though: When I was teaching, I remember sharing “our music” with my students, and they loved it. I had so many creative juices flowing when I was manic that there’s a whole soundtrack to this book, and though it’s never been done, I’m going to accompany the book with a CD and people will buy the book just to get this superb and eclectic mix. Also, music is the language of the soul, and there’s no way I can explain how healing music has been for me, as it was often the only power that could quiet the voices. 3) My Promise: This book will have a positive impact in that it will bring compassion and empathy to the mentally ill and homeless. I know this because I’ve been using my writing that way from the beginning. Friends who know my story ask for my help in dealing with people with mental illness and their families. It helps. It helps to read about something that has such a stigma when there’s humor and hope involved. And that’s my story: My home was a shopping cart in the Tenderloin of San Francisco and Glide Memorial fed me. Now I’m in P.R. at a high tech firm and I have a very full and fun life. The expectations for the mentally ill are excruciatingly low. I want to change that.