Christine Bollerud's Open Salon Blog

Mr. President, On This Special Day Again

Sun, 20 Jan 2013 14:01:10 -0500

He is older, but the sentiments are the same.

He was born of an American mother and African father and has grown to do so many wonderful things so far. Each day is a struggle, but he comes out shining with that perfect smile and always with lessons learned.

He has brought so much joy to so many people and more than that --hope--that this will be the generation. His WILL be the generation of hope.

Unlike his President, Shoghi knows no parties (except his birthday party). He knows no hate or color. He only knows he is surrounded by love by people of all races and creeds.

Shoghi will always be linked to his President because he was born on this special day with similar birth parents and I hope this gives him a vision to do great things.

So, Mr. President, I present Shoghi, my grandson. He is four. His party will not be red, blue, or tea but a party of all humanity. His WILL be the generation that will celebrate this unity every day.

By The Way, God Says, "Hi"-- REPOST

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 02:12:49 -0500

This is a respost of a previous essay to illustrate sometimes the end of the world is not what it's all cracked up to be--

The first time I found out the world was going to end , I was ten. That was when a big white school but came to our house to take us to Vacation Bible School. We sang Jesus Loves Me, Onward Christian Soldiers, and I don't remember much else except the cherry Kool-aid frosted oatmeal cookies and the fact that the world as I knew it--building forts in the woods and playing kickball till dark would soon be over.

God was going to destroy the earth by fire, our Mama Cass-looking vacation bible school teacher told us--and only those who accepted Jesus would be saved. This revelation gave me a feeling of dread and expectancy, of course--that any minute the sky would open and the world would burst into a huge fireball and there wasn't anything I could do about it--but after about a half hour the feeling went away.

After that, I didn't really think about the apocalypse until I was in high school and met Jerry, a heavy guy with queerly Rasputinistic beady brown eyes who was never seen without his King James Bible or Marlboro cigarettes in the crush proof box.

The End Times were here, he told me and soon everyone would be hunting Christians down like caribou, branding them with the Mark Of The Beast. He talked a lot about taking off before it all began. He wanted me to go along, of course because I need protection from the satanic forces at large. I told him my mom wouldn't even let me go to his church, let alone runway with him--even if it was to escape the coming persecution by heathen hordes.

In all honesty, I didn't really believe most of what Jerry said. It sounded exciting though. When I got bored, I would pull out my own End Of The World fantasy in which I would be some spiritual wonder woman wowing everyone with my strong faith and kind acts amidst utter chaos. The utter chaos never came but I figured it was on its way because I sure heard about it more.

I remember lying in bed on Sunday nights listening to the preachers on the radio describe the hell for the sinner: fire, brimstone, and the never-ending gnashing of teeth. Add to that Rasputin Jerry’s end-of-world scenario and the future became a pretty frightening prospect. So, when I got real nervous about it all, I would close my eyes and save myself--asking the lord into my life--just like I saw on TV. This gave me a feeling of peace and expectancy, of course--that any moment the sky would open up and the loving hand of God would rapture me up in the clouds--but after about a half an hour the feeling went away.

As I grew into an adult, my friends and I loved to sit around and speculate how the end would come and we had a cornucopia of choices: nuclear disaster, global warming, the population bomb or the tried and true Battle Of Armageddon. My end-of-world-fantasy changed a little. I wasn't on the run because with all that disaster where could one hide? But I was still the spiritual wonder woman wowing everyone with my strong faith and kind acts amidst utter chaos.

By the time I had hit my early thirties contemplating the end had become comfortably diverting. It was much easier to think about the world exploding that to face the reality of those around me breaking up, dropping out or offering me Prozac from their very own bottles. When I did stare at this reality of life in the face---I did so smugly. That would never happen to me, I thought, and even if it did, I rationalized, I would still be this spiritual wonder woman wowing everyone with my strong faith and kind acts amidst utter chaos.

When it did happen—a personal crisis of overwhelming proportions, I couldn’t cope with the chaos. The stress of it became too much and I prayed myself into a sleepless hole, desperately running around trying to put out personal, marital, and financial fires. Some where in my mind was the unconscious wish to become that spiritual wonder woman just to be able to handle it all, and somewhere else in my mind—I made that wish a reality. In my chaotic mind, mania was mistaken for Manna and I went from being a woman to GOD’S WOMAN.

It was the end times but also a new beginning and I, God’s chosen Midwife, was to birth a whole new world. This odyssey gave me feelings of peace and dread and love and fear of course, that any second the mighty hand of God would come and rescue me or sacrifice me—but in a half hour the feeling didn’t go away but stayed for weeks. So I waited not sleeping, not eating, my mind spinning it’s lightening speed visions that I knew would come to pass—but nothing happened. I was not given a messianic miraculous rescue or sacred sacrificial death, but food, drugs and sleep. The most terrifying thing about coming out of my end of the world fantasy was realizing there was none. There was NOTHING. There was just another day and another and one after that.

And when I finally was brought down out of my terrifying cloud nine I received more revelations—of the real world kind: You sure find out who your friends are when you tell them God talked to you. Even the closest held me at arms length while most just whispered and gave me looks of sympathy one would give the mentally deranged. So I walked through the valley of the shadow of death alone and made it to an even darker place the valley of absolute mental poverty and emotional nothingness: Who Am I Now?

Alone I suffered through the terror not knowing and slowly recreated my world and myself. I always thought the end of the world would be scary and it was but I discovered there is always a new world born in its ashes--even if you have to build it yourself.

To say the least, I’m a small-scale woman now: family, a friend or two and writing make up my universe. There are no sacred signs, cosmic connections, messianic miracles or freaky hands of fate in my world. Needless to say, I really don’t talk to God that much anymore. I figure he knows what’s going on—and luckily he doesn’t tell me about it.

Living this very small life may seem sad to some, even tragic but it suits me just fine. Not being responsible for the fate of the world leaves a lot of time to focus on the little things that perhaps I overlooked before: family, a friend or two and writing.

And you know it’s funny, at the end of the millennium, when everyone was freaking out about Y2K and the end of the world—I was remarkably calm and comic about the whole thing. When you don’t expect the worst to happen, you sure can see the humor of it all. As the midnight hour approached, it gave my two preteen children feelings of fear and expectancy of course, that at any moment they would be plunged into Y2K darkness! When nothing happened, boy were they relieved—until I snuck to the back of the house and hit the breakers.

Psychosis is SERIOUS seek immediate medical attention -- here is a helpful link for first aid for psychosis:

http://mindhacks.com/2007/09/12/learn-first-aid-for-psychosis/

What Psychosis Is Like: A Story From Experience

Sat, 15 Dec 2012 14:12:33 -0500

In light of the recent events of yet another mass killing, I just wanted to add my two cents from the other side--the mind of the killer. If this man was psychotic it might be helpful to know what that really is up close and personal. Because the closer you examine the process of psychosis you will see first steps, first choices, and a place to interupt it.

That's the first thing I want to say is psychosis is not an event--it is a process--which if you are paying attention can be subverted any step of the way. Now it takes super human effort for the person going through the psychosis to stop it towards if it gets too far along. But it can be done.

It was my experience with my psychotic break that I was literally in a different world while I was in this world. My mind processed incoming stimulai differently--and at lightening speed. My psychosis revolved around a power greater than myself as they often do. The orders were coming from God--and as He is my witness--I truly believed with all my heart and soul this was true.

For others in psychosis it could be Satan, Aliens, Ghosts, Angels or TV. In my psychosis, the whole OJ Simpson trial was about me. All my religious writings were about me. And my I honestly believed that if I did not do certain things all of humanity would perish. So if the voice that I thought was God Almighty would have told me to kill my children for the saving of humanity--I WOULD HAVE DONE IT.

I was at that point and my mind had created an emotional out because I was convinced that the reality of people were actually in another world waiting for me. So my children were not really my children but shells of human beings. My REAL children were actually in the next world. So had my psychosis continued and God told me to--I would not have any problem killing my children--because in my mind it wasn't really them.

And if that voice would have told me to kill all the children for saving all the real children in this other world--I would have done it.

By the Grace Of God (the real one) my psychosis was interupted and I was taken to a facility and given medication. This incident happened 15 years ago. I had another psychotic break a few years later but of much shorter duration.

I have prevented other incidence by deconstructing the ones that I had. How did it start? What was the catalyst? How to circumvent? We are talking years and years of examination and constant vigilence and absolute in my face support and unconditional love from my family.

Now, it is my personal opinion and certitude, really that I will NEVER be in that situation again. I know the signs, the triggers. I know to get sleep, I know to avoid constant stress, I know avoid too much caffiene. I know to eat lots of carbs if I have too much caffiene. I know how to break things down and question myself. I know I can always call on my family and they will fly to my rescue. But they rarely have to because I AM IN CHARGE OF MY MENTAL STATE.

I write this not to bring sympathy--society must be protected. But it is all our responsibilty to be watching. If there is someone you know who is prone to this--get in their face with love and support even if means you have to listen to hours of flights of fancy that don't make sense to you.

And just so you know--EVERYONE has the possibilty of becoming psychotic. You just need the perfect storm of events, or drugs, or lack of sleep.

It takes a village raise a child and a village still to watch over him until he dies--by his own hand or by others.

We distance ourselves from those who are not like us--the funny thing (and not really funny but scary). MENTAL ILLNESS of this sort or any other can happen to you or me or our beloved church choir director. Time to step up and stand with the outcast, the isolated, that weird kid.

OS Weekend Fiction: The Seeker

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 12:10:29 -0400

Jason Little said, “We all a seeker of the spirit when we leaves our mama's womb. And we find it again at her breast.” His mama died when he was five. So he said, “I started lookin' to where my mama went and the spirit that go with it, going on now for seventy-seven years.”

“What is the spirit?” I asked. He told me while we were walking clockwise around the gazebo at the mental health center. The spirit is that feeling of utter love and acceptance you get from your mother. He said, he later called the spirit God because “you can't go worshipping your mama, dead or alive.”

He loved singing and would always be singing up and down the halls like it was his calling to sing or maybe he thought it was our calling to listen. So I did. For an old man, Jason Little moved a lot--always looking for spirit. He taught me that the spirit moves sometimes. How many times had he just gotten that “settled feelin' at home” some place when the spirit left.

Maybe he thought the spirit was now among us unsettled souls because he said he just came to get his heart pure amongst the sick in the head. It never occurred to him that he was one of us. Jason said, “only a pure heart makes a spirit want to stay home.” So maybe the spirit was sick, too, and he just followed it there.

We sat eating our orange slices and soggy Raisin Bran, waiting for the mental health aids to tell us to leave and go to the med line. No one sat with Jason Little because he talked too much. Most of those crazy people had their own voices that had to get out. I had stopped listening to my voices, so I was glad to listen to this old, broken, joyous at nothing black man.

“The thing is, young lady,” he would say, waving his milk coated spoon at me, “we don't know where the spirit be but we gots to follow it if we don'ts, we die.” Then he'd smile like some angel had come and whispered to him about the secret of life.

“And if'n we finds it, the search for home is over.”

“What home?” I asked, not really knowing what that ever was and secretly wanting a place called that.

“Home be where the peoples treats you like your mama....with big sloppy kisses and hugs that wipe. You get treated like the prodigal son. They sings for ya and claps for ya and have dinners in your honor.” His voice got louder like the sound of clarion angel and I thought maybe he might be channeling some spirit of his own.

“What for?” I asked. I looked around and saw the rest of patients start to exit without looking at this man of light. Couldn't they see how bright he was?

“What for? For believin. FOR BELIEVIN'!!!! THAT'S WHAT FOR LITTLE GIRL!” His voice thundered like a preacher's and it made my heart skittish at the power of it and then I had to know for maybe my very soul depended on it.

“You gots to believe in whatever they say. If they say they lord died and rose, then believe it and you gets it all. If they say that Jesus come again in different name, then believe it and you get treated like the prince of peace hisself.” Jason Little moved in closer and whispered. “That's the secret...baby doll...that's it. BELIEVE!!”

“What if it's not true?” I asked, still clinging to that age old dream that there was such a thing as the TRUTH.

“Oh, it's true all right. And you know it's true by the ways they eyes gleam and they smile at ya--at least for a while. The spirit stay for awhile and make 'em all turn into Jesus or God and they treats you like you da most important person ever been born.”

Jason had been to this heaven many times. And of course it had many names: First Baptist Church, St Andrews Catholic Church, Second Street Masjjid, Jehovah Witnesses, Baha'i, nondenominational this or that and meditation Buddha or the Jewish synagogue-- it didn't matter, he said the spirit was there in all of them.

“How can the spirit be in all of them?” I asked as they herded us all in the hall way to take our meds.

“Don't matter how--cuz it don't stay. It fly off just when you gets comfortable bein' the new shoe. After you says you believe, then the spirit go and you alone again. You ain't nothin for them to conquer or to change. Once you change, they just leaves ya there...to sink or swim. I don't sinks--I always swim away. But I seen many souls drown. Those folks, they don't shed a tear abouts it. They all after the same thing...the new blood, don't care about no old blood--old blood can dries up and blows away. It don't make no never mind.”

Amongst the mentally ill in that line, tangled up in all the insanity and irrationality of being god or hearing aliens whisper in your ear, I heard truth--at least I thought so. This old man seemed to make sense. But I had to check myself. I mean, this was a mental institution. You always had to check what you heard in or outside your head. Because it was a spiritual matter, I didn't tell the doctor about it. I waited for my church family to come, for my pastor to come, or even for God to come so we could tackle it together--but they never did.

The Fairy Tale Of The Hair

Sat, 6 Oct 2012 20:10:41 -0400

Once upon a time there was a young princess that as soon as she was born had the most beautiful long hair in the kingdom. It was prettier than that Rapunzel chick and even lovelier than that naked woman on a horse, Lady Godivia--why do you think she had to get nake? Because her hair was simply not as awesome as Princess Jennifer's.

One day when Jennifer was still a young woman, the ugly witch named Cancer put a spell on her. This spell made Princess Jennifer very sick and made everyone in the court very scared --especially Prince Shawn and Christine, Jennifer's favorite court jester. They called in the Wizard and asked him for a spell to break the witches spell but the Wizard said there was no spell--in anger and deep love for his wife, Prince Shawn cut off the Wizard's head. Then he asked for any elixer, potion, or herb in all the kingdom to make his Princess well and as each person approached and remedy tried and failed --in anger and frustration, Prince Shawn cut of their heads.

Finally, court jester, Christine went to Prince Shawn and said, " Hey you got to cool it --you got enough heads to start your own bowling alley. I know a hermit who has a treatment but it is not fast and it is not painless and worst of all Princess Jennifer will lose all her hair. "

"What? Lose my hair?" cried Princess Jennifer, " but that is the best part about me! It's prettier than that Rapunzel chick and even lovelier than that naked woman on a horse, Lady Godivia--why do you think she had to get naked because her hair was simply not as awesome mine!"

"Yeah yeah yeah so the story goes but your real jewel is your kind heart. Everyone has hair on their head but not too many people have a kind heart. The kingdom needs more kind hearts and less hairy mean people." said Christine.

So with much fear and trepedation, Princess Jennifer with Prince Shawn holding her hand began the treatment from the Hermit and it was just as the jester said. The treatments were long, and painful and soon Jennifer's lovely hair began to fall out. She cried and cried and her cries echoed in all the whole kingdom--and all the people ached with sadness as she was most beloved princess in all of fairy tale land-- even more than that Sleeping Beauty princess who in reality snored real loud and drewled so much it took a lot of coaxing to get the prince to kiss her.

Jester Christine called upon the Princess every day with a new joke or riddle or dog imitation, happy to get the Princess to smile. But the Princess was very tired every day and her lovely hair was falling out more and more which made her very sad and Jester Christine had to remind the Princess that this was proof that the treatment was working.

One day the Princess decided to go ahead and shave all her hair off, With her family around her and her Prince at her side, tears streamed down her face as the dreadful deed was done. No one could console her and when they looked around for Christine, her favorite court Jester--but alas, she had disappeared!

Three days later, Christine returned wearing a funny hat with bells, shells and feathers in it. "I'm sorry for my absence but I was preparing a great amusement for you." she said to Princess Jennifer.

"Well, the hat is cute but it is not that funny." Said Princess Jennifer.

"If you will come out to the balcony, Princess Jennifer."

"Okay, but this better be good," said the Princess still a little bit crabby from her morning treatment.

Jester Christine took the Princess out on the balcony and suddenly took off her silly hat. And there underneath the Jester was as bald as a cue ball!

Before the Princess could say any thing, she looked out her balcony and saw hundreds and hundreds of people in her kingdom--very young and very old and everyone in between --all with silly hats--when removed revealed all shapes and sizes of bald heads!

"Hair is hair, Princess," said the Jester. " It will always grow back but a kind heart is very special because -- it is effects everyone--except mean hairy people!"

The Princess was very moved but instead of crying she just started laughing and laughing at all these silly bald heads! This made Prince Shawn very happy and he ordered a great feast and in invited everyone who shaved their head for the Princess! The feast would last nine days and nights--or until they ran out of Barbeque.

Princess Jennifer was soon fully recovered and after that kept her hair short because she was no longer the princess with the beautiful hair but the one with the kind heart.

One day, Prince Shawn saw Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, and Lady Godiva all shaved bald and eventhough he really wanted to cut off their heads, he just shook his head and laughed and decided to go to the castle and be with his Princess.

the end

Post Script: I wrote this story for my best friend, Jennifer when she was going through chemo and also shaved her head. Love you, Jennifer--thanks for watching out for me.