A Petition to NYT requesting an opportunity for Robert Whitaker to respond to Dr. Peter Kramer

This is so unlike me. Last week, the New York Times published a piece by Dr. Peter Kramer, on antidepressants.  Dr. Kramer is famous for writing two best sellers, "Listening to Prozac" and "On Depression", two books which I must say are in my own personal library.

Today, the Old Gray Lady published a piece with people agreeing or disagreeing with the post by Dr. Kramer here.  One of the people they published, was Marcia Angell, a lecturer at Harvard Medical School and former editor in chief of The New England Journal of Medicine. She has also written a book "The Truth About Drug Companies" which I have in print and in audio, and very highly recommend.  The Times also published reviews from Warren Procci, the current President of the American Psychanalytic Association and a professor at the the David Geffen School of Medicine. But where was a comment from Robert Whitaker, author of "Anatomy of an Epidemic", and the "Mad In America", column in Psychology Today? 

If you don't see my quandry, my friend Susan Kingsley-Smith, a talented blogger and radio personality, did, and started a petition for Mr. Whitaker to air his two cents in the Times. 

Her petition goes like this....

Dear Editors of the New York Times:

We are writing to request that the New York Times provide an opportunity for a public response to Dr. Peter Kramer's opinion piece, "In Defense of Antidepressants," published on July 9, 2011. Dr. Kramer's opinion appeared on the front page of the Sunday Review, and has been widely circulated since. It was the New York Times' most emailed article of that day.

Dr. Kramer's article was a response to Marcia Angell's review of three books that have called into question the efficacy of psychiatric drugs, one of which was Robert Whitaker's book Anatomy of an Epidemic, which won the 2010 Investigative Reporters and Editors Association Award for Best Investigative Journalism. Another was The Emperor's New Drugs, by Irving Kirsch. The substance of Angell's reviews was exposing the distortion of facts by academic psychiatrists and pharmaceutical companies who have portrayed antidepressants and other psychiatric drugs as effective and safe, when much countervailing evidence exists to show that they are in fact, over the long term, ineffective and harmful.

We believe Dr. Kramer's article is another such distortion. He misinterpreted well-conceived and executed studies authored by Irving Kirsch and Robert DeRubeis, asserting that these supported the effectiveness of antidepressants, and that these drugs have earned a deserved, evidence-based place in the treatment of mental illness. Yet the very studies he referenced, when carefully parsed, do not in fact support those assertions at all, and he neglected to reference numerous other studies that would refute his assertions.

In the interest of balanced journalism, we respectfully request that the New York Times provide the opportunity for a rebuttal from one or more of the authors criticized or misinterpreted by Dr. Kramer. Whitaker has written a measured rebuttal of Dr. Kramer's piece, currently available at this link onPsychology Today. Kirsch and DeRubeis should also be allowed to voice their own interpretations of their studies. We believe it is important that the New York Times give adequate space for its readers to consider alternative and evidence-based viewpoints on antidepressants, as this is such an important, pervasive, and at times confusing issue. We must at a minimum hold up a standard of accurate representation of the facts so that consumers can make choices based on correct information.

Sincerely,

Dr. Mark Foster, DO, ClearMinds, Inc

Susan Kingsley-Smith
Amy Smith

I am passing on her petition. If anyone reading this is would like Mr. Whitaker to put his response in the the New York Times, please sign. If not, it's ok. We are trying to get 1,000 signatures. My opinion is in the fairness of journalism let Robert Whitaker speak.  

Instructions on the petition are below, and a  very short video of Robert Whitaker.

Thank you. 

Change.org|Start an Online Petition »

On Depression-it's not sloth

Every morning I make a cup of coffee and look at the window, and see neighbors walking to the bus stop to commute into the city, or getting into their cars to drive to work. I miss work. I miss feeling productive. I miss feeling like a real person. I miss interacting with people, and being able to have a wardrobe to wear to work, and an excuse to put on makeup every morning. Not working has made me live in a wardrobe of jeans and t-shirts, I have stopped wearing makeup, and it's been years since I have had a professional manicure. 

It may be laziness, I live admist several retired women, most widows. They manage every day to wear nice clothes, have their hair done, even if they are going to the supermarket or the local McDonald's. Maybe it's from another generation, when women in the 50s wore dresses to do house keeping. My mother is the same way, will not leave her house without lipstick. She is aghast that I can do that, leave my apartment to do errands without lipgloss and blush. Leave in a faux turtle neck because I don't want anyone to see the stitches in my neck from the dialysis. 

Years ago, when I first started working in an office environment, a fellow co-worker told me, "Always get extra dressed up when you feel depressed". I tried that,wearing a nicer blouse and skirt, maybe some jewelry that day,  and it did work.  And by looking nice, I felt nice, and the depression eased. 

Maybe it's the same thing. Wear nicer clothes, make up to the supermarket, and you will feel better. But why? It's not like I am going to see anyone. The only men I see in the supermarket are in their sixties, or the teens that work as cashiers, and baggers. Then the depression starts talking "It's too much effort. Why bother?"

It's this kind of thinking that makes one go three weeks between washing hair. Sylvia Plath once got called out on this, and she replied brilliantly, "why? It will just get dirty again".

I tried. I went out yesterday to the Apple store to collect my computer, just back from California and fitted with a few new parts. I put on a clean white shirt with embroidery I found at the bottom of a drawer that I didn't know I had. I had on black pants, and flip flops with beadwork. And I put on some blush, eye shadow and lip gloss. 

The store was packed, and I had to ask a sales guy for a stool to sit while I waited for my computer. By the time I got it, checked it to make sure it was OK and paid for it, I was mentally exhausted. Walking the entire mall to get back to my car left me physically tired. I got home and crashed. Slept for about 20 hours, which was strange. Woke up disoriented, not sure what day it was, and just felt sick- sick in my stomach, sick in my heart.

Opening a can of Fancy Feast for the cat, I thought about my life, as I dumped the food into a clean bowl, washed out the tin and put it with the recycling pile. My life isn't working the way I thought it would be. But who's life works out the way we imagine it at sixteen?

I would have never imagined I would be crippled by ill health. And depression. And to top it all off, agoraphobia. It's not what I want.

I want my health back. I'm eating healthy and exercising in the apartment but I need to go to the gym every day. Doing exercises at home is not the same. I want to be around people-but I'm afraid. They scare me. I prefer dogs and cats. I have to get over this.

Today I received a phone call from a State agency- they want to hook me up with a social worker. I panicked and said, rather diplomatically, they should be helping someone who really needs it, especially now with all the budget cuts.

"But you need it", said the woman on the phone.

She's right I need it. I need something. I'm afraid to ask for help. I have to get over this.

I live across the street from an awesome Chinese restaurant. It's all take out, you can't eat in. They make the most wonderful Won-Ton soup, and I've always treated myself to a quart of it a week. At 2.45 it's a bargain. The owners know me and like me, they always through in a fortune cookie or two on the house.

On my way home from the Apple store, I stopped there and bought a quart, which was to be dinner that night. I put it in the fridge when I got home, but had to have the cookie immediately.

The fortune went like this:"Those who help, help".

I put it on the keyboard, and shut the laptop, forgetting all about it, until this morning. There it was in on the computer keyboard, lying where I had put it. "Those who help, help".
I had just gotten off the phone with the woman from the State who wants to arrange help for me getting mobile. Help me I'm not use to getting help. I've always been independent, or tried to be.

"Those who help, help". 

Help. I need help. Asking for help can't be too bad, after all "help" is a title of a great song by the Beatles.

Eureka. She is going to help me. By doing so I will help her!

"Those who help, help".

I'm going to ask for help for the first time in a very long time. I think I can do it now.

New Antidepressant Induced Chronic Depression Has a Name: Tardive Dysphoria

I love Gianna Kali. She really nailed it in today's post about now antidepressant-induced chronic depression has a name:Tardive Dysphoria. If you don't read Gianna, she is one of my favorite bloggers and one of the first five people that helped and influenced me when I was the new blogger on the block. I highly recommend her, she should be in everyone's RSS feeds.

From Gianna's post.

Robert Whitaker continues to be on the ball. His latest article on psychology today is about the phenomena of chronic depression being caused by anti-depressant use. This is good documented evidence for those who still want to believe drugs are always the answer. Most of us were not ever told about these sorts of risks.

Three recently published papers, along with a report by a Minnesota group on health outcomes in that state, provide new reason to mull over this question: Do antidepressants worsen the long-term course of depression? As I wrote in Anatomy of an Epidemic, I believe there is convincing evidence that the drugs do just that. These latest papers add to that evidence base. (the whole article)

Whitaker’s been saying this for a while and collected such information in the past.
This post from a year ago also speaks to this issue: Before excessive drug treatments NIMH declared depression “on the whole” a diagnosis with best prognosis for recovery: not so anymore.
Whitaker’s two seminal works on psychiatry:

• Anatomy of an Epidemic: Magic Bullets, Psychiatric Drugs, and the Astonishing Rise of Mental Illness in America
• Mad in America: Bad Science, Bad Medicine, and the Enduring Mistreatment of the Mentally Ill

And lots more of Whitaker’s work on this blog here.

Thanks Gianna. I personally met Robert Whitaker two weeks ago at Psych Out, and all I can say this man is kind, as well as erudite and a very good public speaker. His books, "Anatomy of an Epidemic" and "Mad in America" should be on everyone's book shelf and read in the schools just like other non fiction books that changed the way America thinks like "The Jungle" and "And the Band Played on". "Anatomy" will be released in paperback on August 2 and is available for pre order on Amazon.

Remembering Clarence

I'm a Jersey girl. I've lived in NJ since I was 8 months old. With the exception of other year of my life, I have lived in the Garden State my entire life. As much as  I hate it here, I love it here. If you take the area around exit 13- and 13A of the turnpike  (Newark, Elizabeth, think the opening montage from "The Sopranos") out of the equation, it's really a beautiful state.

New Jersey has given the world some great musicians. My parents generation had Sinatra. The generation between had Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. My generation had Bruce Springsteen, and then later Bon Jovi. Today the big group is My Chemical Romance. But in my heart and head, it's all about Bruce and the E Street band. And the best saxophonist to come from NJ had to be Clarence Clemons.

Clarence passed away a week ago,  at the age of 69, and to many of us who grew up listening to the Boss, hearing him play in the Stone Pony and the later in the Meadowlands- the loss hit hard. The man was a genius on the sax. He made it look easy. I tried to play sax in high school. It's not an easy instrument to play. If you look at his biography on Wikipedia, you can see all the bands, way to numerous to print here he played with. All the TV shows he made guest appearances on, including 'The Simpsons'.

Clarence wasn't born in NewJersey and didn't die there. But he was an integral part of the E Street band, in my eyes he was part of the New Jersey music legacy. He's really going to be missed.

Below is my favorite Springsteen songs- you can hear Clarence on the sax. The photo is from Wikipedia.
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Clarence can be heard at 1 minute 31 seconds in all his glory.

My favorite Springsteen song:

Irish Lawyers Threaten Blogger Mom

In this world, I cannot think of too many things worse than a parent loosing a child. In the great scheme of life, children outlive parents. It doesn't always work that way, and most parents I have read about never get over the shock of loosing their children, no matter how old their child is.

Somehow it seems worse when the  child, a teenager or young adult, for what ever reason takes their own life. Even my own mother told me she doesn't know how one of my friends stayed alive when her son died. "I would have buried myself with him', she told me.

I understand the pain and sentiment even though I will never have children. You bring them into the world, you fight for them, you love them so much your heart swells with pride as you see  them grow up and become the people you hope you did a good job raising. You love your spouse, yes, but the love of a parent with their child- it's something different, something wonderful, and something I know while it's tangible for me to understand, you never really do understand it until you hold that baby in your arms for the first time.

So when I got a letter the other day about  Leonie Fennell my heart broke. This mother lost her son to suicide last year, a son that she describes on her own blog as

Shane was the nicest, kindest, funniest guy you could meet. He was loved by all his friends and family.. and adored by his younger  siblings . 
He took them out every weekend to the beach and eddie rockets. He babysat for us all the time and even minded them when we went to New York for a weekend. We put him down as guardian to his siblings, and never had to worry about what would happen to them.. because Shane was so reliable.
He had a huge passion for the homeless and often gave his dart fare away and walked home (Trinity to Dalkey). We regularly had christmas dinner late because we had to wait for Shane who was handing out dinners in Dublin.
He told people he didn’t want presents at his 21th ..to make use of the saint vincent de paul box instead as he had everything. 
He was known by his college lecturers as an craoi mhor (the big heart). He had lots of really good friends and always had a job. This is the Shane that we all knew and loved.
 He was working one night in the conradh (the Irish pub on Harcourt street) and this guy came in and tried to hit a girl. He was so upset that someone could hit a girl. We said “why didn’t you box him?” and Shane said that he didn’t do violence and he wasn’t going down to that guys level.  He wasn’t capable of hurting anyone or himself. 

Bob Fiddaman in his blog writes;

Irish lawyers, Brophy Solicitors, have sent a threatening letter to Leonie Fennell, the mother of Shane Clancy, who writes about her son's death and offers opinion as to why he died.

Shane was just 22 when he killed a young man before turning the knife on himself. The subsequent inquest found an open verdict, large traces of the SSRi antidepressant citalopram [Cipramil UK, Celexa US] were found in his system.

Irish psychiatrist Patricia Casey was present at the inquest representing and observing for Psychiatry Ireland and to ask questions if the need arose. Casey has come under fire from Fennell on a number of occasions, in particular her relationship with the pharmaceutical industry and fees, grants etc that she has received from them.

Casey was at Shane’s inquest and took issue with some aspects of it, according to Leonie, Casey has publicly stated that there is no evidence to suggest that antidepressants can cause suicide or homicide and she is also a member of psychiatry Ireland  and has worked in association with Lundbeck, the manufacturers of citalopram.

Fiddaman's article continues here. Other  great articles are from Stephany and from  D. Bunker, here,   I will let these pieces speak for themselves.

Just a quick Google of "Celexa, black box" brought up pages of sites stating Celexa has been given a black box rating- something the drug companies in the USA put on pharmaceuticals that can cause people to want to self harm. Here is something from one of the sites:

FDA Issues Proposed Revisions to Celexa Blackbox Warning
In 2009, based on new evidence of suicide and suicidal or dangerous behavior in adults taking antidepressants, the FDA proposed revising the blackbox warning to include the increased risk in patients up through the age of 24. The proposed Celexa warning outlines the age groups that are most at risk for suicide, suicidal thoughts and suicidal behavior according to short-term studies. Those groups most at risk include children, adolescents and young adults ages 24 and younger. The risk decreases beyond age 24. The proposed revision recommends close monitoring while patients are taking Celexa and for those in high risks groups, that the benefit from the drug be closely weighed against the possible risks. The proposed revision also notes that Celexa is not approved for use in pediatric patients. The FDA revision itself can be found online at the FDA website.

 Surely they put these kind of warnings on the same drugs across the pond? If they don't, perhaps it's time.

 I didn't know Shane, but from what his mother wrote about him, he sounds like he was a remarkable young man, and left this earth way before his time. I wish I had met him.
(Picture of Shane used with kind permission by his mother)

Speechless

I made it here but in a lot of pain. Bless you who showed up at Psych Out- the people who put it together and the ones who had the courage to speak.

And to Mr. Robert Whitaker,
who took time to talk to me without criticizing.

I gained convince to keep on going through hell and staying alive, and the courage to keep on living by the remarkable people I met today.

And Mr. Whitaker gave me the courage to keep writing, no matter how impossible it seems at the moment.

Thank you all.I am truly blessed

I'm still here

I'm still here. Between being so depressed I cannot get out of the bed, my Mac dying, and more problems with my health- I haven't been blogging. It's back to 18 hour days, asleep in tremedous pain. I am on meds for my kidneys, meds for my blood pressure, meds for my bladder, meds for pain. Meds for sleep. My kidneys aren't outputting like they should be and I sit on the toilet, tears in my eyes while I attempt to do something that should be as easy as breathing.

I got my old mac up and running, while my newish one is being fixed. Never have an iced coffee near a computer. Never. And miss my newer one, almost 2 years old now. My 8 year old one is slower than anything!

Cutting to the chase- I miss writing and got so much confort from those who took the time to coment. Seriously. Epecially Wonder Woman. I just don't want to get into a bitch fest on how much pain, we all have our crosses to bear, and there is a saying in AA , 'Get off the cross, someone else needs the wood'.

So I am going to do something that is going to be one of the hardest things I've ever done. I am going into the city tomorow for Psych Out. It's going to be a nightmare getting into the city- i live commuting distance so it's just a short bus ride but I can bearly walk. I cannot take my walker with me. And I am abashed to let others see how damaged my health is now since the kidney episode in November. I haven't even let my two best girl friends in real life see me.  I look a score older than my age. Oh G-d, what happened to me?

It's going to be a huge leap of faith to go, to have people see what I really look like. To trust them to help me walk. To let them lean on me. I'm scared. In my mind, I look like a date for Joseph Merrick. But I want to go. I want to meet Robert Whittaker and hear him talk. I want to meet those from other organizations,  such as Psych Rights, Icarus, Mind Freedom and Opal Project, to learn from them and get strenght from them.

I hope to live blog and Tweet from there. So please check this blog in two days, and check my tweets on Tuesday as well.

Slump

The world didn't come to an end this weekend. But my world continues to evolve into a downhill spiral. My agoraphobia is back with a vengeance. I  cannot leave the apartment for love or money. I've left twice in the last fortnight- once to visit my parents and get blood work done. The other one was to go to the local grocery store, get a 25 lb bag of kitty litter, several 5 pound bags of kitty chow, and a case of wet cat food. (Tuna and salmon of course). 

I hate depression. I hate agoraphobia. I cannot think of too many things worse than these things. Even Brussels Sprouts are better, and that is saying a great deal. 

I know some of it is my making. First of all, Spring and Summer are the worst time of the year for me. I suffer from reverse SAD. I've never met anyone who has this- I am not even sure if it is a medical term. I've sat through countless support group meetings where people have said they have SAD, bought light boxes in an attempt to feel better. But to me- it's the long sunny days that bothers me- the heat; I am so much happier in the fall and winter when the leaves fall off the trees, when it snows and when it's dark more than it's light. 

I even told a joke to my doctor last week- I would be happy living in Antarctica where most of the year is in darkness and it's cold. Seriously. Let me move there with my cat and my books, and radio and I would be happy. 

On top of all that- I seem to be in a slump. I cannot write for anything. It's not that I cannot write- I cannot think of anything to say. The wells gone dry. I just want to lie in bed all day, cry and not do anything. Not go on line and check other friend's blogs. Not look at Twitter, not look at Facebook, not even to read the LOL Cats Cheezeburger site. I'm living on coffee and cigarettes. Food has no pleasure for me, I just want to eat sugar. So I stick with the coffee and three daily  menthol cigarettes. 

I've never been in a writing slump like this before. Not able to write, no ideas. Afraid to address the comments here, should I say something wrong. Just not doing anything other than sleeping, crying, and if I can get to the couch, watching hours of Red Dwarf on my VHS tapes. 

Once again, I'm not living. I'm existing. I don't care if I wake up in the morning or not. I need something to get me out of the bed, something to get me out of the apartment, but it's not there. It's my fault. I'm not looking for it. I need to do that. Soon. I fear what will happen to me when I just exist, not using my brain, or my heart. I'll be a Zombie, living dead, cursing the light every morning and praying, praying for something, anything to keep me alive. I don't want to be that person. I'm scared I am turning into her. To me that's a fate worse than death. This slump has to end.  I have to kill it or it will kill me. The latter is not an option. 

Out of the mouth of babes- Kitty has the right idea to end my slump.....

My Miracle:Repost

I normally do like this time of year. Autumn sounds so much nicer than fall. Watching the leaves fall in my part of the country is the most beautiful gift that Mother Nature provides. All the magnificent hues of reds, yellows, and  oranges. But the leaves soon fall off the trees, withering, dying, reminding us of our own mortality as we watch children playing in the leaf piles. I watch the squirrels scampering around in a last minute of food collecting before the winter arrives.  It always makes me smile at their antics. And I must confess, I feel lucky to live in a town that has both black and gray squirrels. 

But with the change of scenery brings sadness.  This is not a depression, this is a sadness that is overwhelming.  It permeates my entire body, through each pore, worming it's way into my soul. I take extra care to make sure I am doing well, watching it carefully so it does not transmogrify into something more overwhelming and sinister.  It is hard. There are changes at work, and many of us feel our jobs are not as secure as they were prior to September 2001. Yet I manage to stay optimistic, I am fortunate enough that I have saved  up enough money that I could live for a year frugally and write if I lost my job. Not that many people have that luxury. Or perhaps it is me; I have once been homeless, so I watch my money carefully with a sense of dread that it can happen again. 

Despite the best measures, I found myself slipping towards depression around Thanksgiving. I do not know why,  after all, my heart's desire has always been two things, one of them  looks like it will happen next year. I have always wanted two things in life, one is to be a published writer. I have an agent. It may happen. I just need the discipline to make it happen.  The other heart's desire will not happen. That is to be a "normal" person, with a family. And real manic depressives should not be with other people, since we drive them crazy, as our moods washing over us and changing as easily as turning on and off like a water faucet , as mutable as the tides.  And perhaps that is where the depression came, from sadness.  A writer, like all artists, tends to be a solitary introvert. I find when I write, and I get on a roll, I do not want to be bothered. I take the phone off the hook. I walk around in a t-shirt that covers down to my knees, and just write. As a person with bipolar disorder, I find the bests writing I do is when I am slightly depressed, just somewhat sad, as you would feel after seeing a movie like  "Titanic".  Or slightly manic, just ever so slightly just as a normal person would feel after 3 cups of coffee. In these moods I have the discipline to sit and write for hours with a glass of water or a Snapple by my side. But no, this is down and out depression. I see the warning signs. Two days without showering. Three days without washing my hair. Two days without brushing my teeth. I tend to hypersleep when I am depressed. I am now sleeping 12 or more hours a day. I cannot concentrate. I cry at the drop of a hat. I take such things like St. John's Wort. This does not work. I call my shrink. He suggests I come back in to go back on meds after being off them for about a year. With trepidation, I do. I don't like meds, I really don't. But I have decided if it is between meds or suicide, I will take the meds every time. Suicide is not an option. I had Lyme disease so my body chemistry now does not allow some of the more standard drugs anymore. He and I discuss what options there are. He feels I am not in danger to myself, or others, so hospitalization isn't an option. So it comes down to lithium or Depakote. I've been on and off lithium for years, I personally don't like Depakote because it makes me fat. So I leave his office with a script for that and start taking it. 

My body does not adjust to it well. I go several days unable to sleep, unable to keep food down. I have nightmares. I am fortunate enough to have a good friend on the same coast who is a hypnotist, and he helps me through the drug induced nightmares.  I find as the lithium enters my bloodstream to normal levels, I get suicidal. Very suicidal.  I decide to do the unforgivable. I want to die. And being a Virgo, I have to organize it. I paid off all my bills, checked my 401K and my will, and made sure the cat was taken care of. This makes me feel good. It's a fail-safe in knowing that I can do this if I choose to.

Then one night it gets bad. Very bad. I wake up in a cold sweat. I try to get back to bed, and I cannot. I feel alone. I do not mind being alone, but this time I do. Maybe it's my hormones. I feel lonely. That is overwhelming. The sense of despair which has been my constant companion for the last few weeks is sitting besides me, it's arms wrapped tightly around me. I cannot breathe. I sense a panic attack coming on. And then it hits. The suicidal feeling washes all over me. I am not thinking clearly. All I know s I want to die now , right now and ease this pain. I feel like it's not going to get better And I want, no NEED to end it now, and fast. 

For my own safety, I have no sharp knives in my apartment, or razors.( I do shave but it is with a safety razor). I have no toxic things in the house like Drano, for two reasons, my safety and the cat's. There is no place in the apartment to hang a noose, unless I feel like hanging a stuffed anial. And I am on the 2nd floor, so if I jump, all will happen is broken bones. I took care of myself when I found a dwelling place. But then an idea occurs to me. Perhaps it was because I was reminiscing on a quote from Tolstoy "Happy families are all alike".  I live near the train station. Every hour a train goes from NYC to Washington DC. I can throw myself under the train. I get in my old green Ford, and drive to the train station. And just missed the last train, as luck would have it. I sit on the outside, on the cement ledge looking down on the train tracks,  my feet swinging  softly on the track, my feet making imaginary circles. I look at the train tracks and I know when I see the train coming, I just have to jump down, walk to the thrid rail and lie down. It shouldn't hurt too much, what ever pain there will be will be fleeting. I feel somewhat at peace, very calm, an emotion I haven't felt in a long long time. I am at peace,  knowing in less than an hour, I will be one with universe and the stars. I will be anywhere but New Jersey. 

It is an absolutely beautiful night, lots of stars in the sky, and a sliver of moon. the air is clear. I

find tears streaming down my cheeks. I do not know why. I do not feel alone anymore. I feel some presence near me. It's 3 am  and there are no other people around - cept for a cop.  There is indeed a a person next to me, a police officer. He sits down next to me, his badge and belt buckle shining in the moonlight. 

"Are you Ok?", he asks.

"Yes"

'What are you doing by yourself at 2 am here? Are you drunk?"

I assure him I am not drunk. he moves my blonde hair off my face, to get a better look at me. I am surprised that such a big man can do this so quickly I don't feel him do it.

We both look at each other with a hint of recognition in our eyes. 

We knew each other in college. He was in one of my Lit classes when I was a Teachers Assistant. He makes small talk with me, and realizes I am sitting on the curbside because I want to jump. And a miracle happens. He does not talk to me anymore, we both just hear each other breathing and stare at the beauty of the stars. I feel totally at peace. What seems to be an eternity later, I hear the train coming. I can see the light. I know the police officer's breathing is now coming harder, his adrenaline kicking in. He thinks, no he KNOWS I am going to jump.  I look at him, his brown eyes staring deeply into my blue ones. I get up, he is breathing real hard, staring at me. And then I offer my hand to him. 

"Can you walk me to my car, please?" I ask him as the train rolls by.

The smile he smiles would light the entire Vegas strip. "Sure", he says and it is over. I am safe, aI am alive, and in the end, that is all that matters. 

The suicidal feeling still stays with me, it's still here, it's overwhelming. But I am not going to act on it. I won't jump. And that, strangely enough gives me comfort.

Copyright- 2002, 2007, 2011

This has nothing to do with mental health. Please save this cat

Update: Precious was adopted today, Friday the 6th. It's a miracle. Thank you to all who reached out and helped to save the life of this cat. 

For those readers who have been blessed with the company of a dog or a cat, there is nothing like that. They give us so much love and happiness and ask nothing of us other than a warm bed to sleep in, food to eat and a litter box or walkies.

Pets are better than Prozac.

Here is the story of Precious. I cannot believe I'm posting this but cat has touched me and I do not want to see her put down because she cannot find a furever home. And she will be put down in a two days. 

Please if you can, consider adopting her, or if she is too far, another shelter animal. They will love you back with kindness and help you get through the rough times and recovery. And please put in writing what should be done with your animals so they won't suffer like Precious. My fur baby came close to being put down this past November because my parents felt no one would adopt an 11 year old cat that was considered unadoptable when I got her. I am blessed I have a friend who will take her should I have died or become unable to have her.

Here is Precious' story

I lived alone with my mama who I adored above all things. We had a very,very happy life. Then my mama fell to the floor and I went over to her but she was not moving. Her son came over to find her. They took her somewhere and she did not come back for a month. 

I did not want to go upstairs in the house where she was. I knew that if I sat on the hot water heater downstairs, I would have a better vantage point to see her car come in. I waited and waited and waited for a month and no one came, no mama. 

Then some people came and got me. They stuck me in a cage and I got sick in the cage because I felt like they would never let me out. 

Then a woman came to adopt me. She had me for three days and her husband got sick and now I am being taken back to the house with the prison bars and the people who will not let me out. I was a very good kitty at my new home, but the woman too was elderly and she said she would have to stay long hours at the hospital to take care of her sick husband and that was not fair to me. I am very worried. No body wants a 6 year old kitty. I am healthy though, except that I am not allowed out of the small cage and the litter box I have to use is where I have to sleep because it is so small. I am fully vetted, tested for FIV and Feleuk and spayed and have all my shots. 

My mama died, I was told. I miss her something awful. Everything was okay untill she fell on the floor that day and now I live in a small cage. 

Can you ask someone to help me please??? I am in Greenville, SC.