All I can do is try, mates - right? Since I am still trying to figure out why my internet connections are so unpredictably dicey, about all I can do is experiment.
Things do post, sometimes, but you can't go back and repeat the experience. It simply stops. So if you manage to post photos on Facebook, which you occasionally can, if you close FB and open it again, you won't be able to post photos. At all. Not until a certain amount of time goes by. It's as if FB gets tired or something - you wear it out, wear out its ability to display your photos. But there is no indication as to HOW LONG that resting period must be.
If you can GET on Blogspot, which is a trial in itself (a brown square is just as likely), you may be able to make a small post, with some pictures in it, but you may not go back and edit. If you try to, you will lose the whole thing because it will not save. We don't know why.
If you want to upload a wacky delightful Christmas crafts video with Caitlin and Ryan, which is obviously date-sensitive and needs to go up right away, it won't. YouTube is not taking any new videos, or at least none of mine.
-----Original
Message-----
From: Kevin Brownlow
Sent: Monday, November 23, 2015 1:41
PM
To: Margaret Gunning
Subject: LE MOULIN MAUDIT
At long last I
have located that film you enquired about. LE MOULIN
MAUDIT was made in 1909
by Alfred Machin. The English title was THE
MILL, it was made by Pathe and
the print emanated from the Cinematheque
Francaise, not the EYE Institute,
Amsterdam, as I thought, It was
restored by the CNC. Here is the description
in the Bologna catalogue
for 2009; 'Adultery, madness, murder, suicide and a
sinister windmill
which confers epic dimensions on this six-minute film. The
elderly
husband crucifies his young rival on the mill's sails and their
sombre
shadow in the river beats time as the deadly finale is played out.
Is
this the film that Julien Green (1900-1998) saw as a child and
which
gave him nightmares? The elements and the atmosphere are the same:
a
river, an "avenging mill" and a nightmarish escalation of horror.'
(I
think Mariann Lewinsky wrote that).
You won't be surprised to learn
that the director, Alfred Machin, was
primarilly famous for making films for
children! He was also a
front-line cameraman in WW1. Julien Green was an
American who wrote in
French, and who became the first non-French writer to
be elected to the
Academie Francaise.
Phew!
Very best
Kevin
Thank you for that - it's pretty gruesome stuff. So, would this be shown as
a double feature with a comedy, perhaps a Chaplin film? I am not sure who
the target audience was for this sort of dark expressionist stuff. The first
time I watched it, I thought it must be some kind of faux silent film or
even a parody (the heroine tied to the railroad tracks?). It's just so
sadistic, actually shocking. A morality tale, too - everyone gets punished,
even the punisher. (Those pants, though - I guess he just had to go.) My
favorite moment is when the husband finds the wooden shoes at the bottom of
the ladder. The two of them aren't actually shown going up it - I guess
that would just be too immoral. But the idea of him scurrying up there in
bare feet - . Much more is left to the imagination here. I note too the
woman is wearing an actual corset, not a costume one. I think women were
still wearing them then.
These things are time machines, for
sure.
Margaret
I made a gif of this - I'll try to send it - the
guy going around and around
strapped to the windmill.
POST-BLOG COMMENTS. Along with my gifs of Le Moulin Maudit (which I will post in its entirety when I get around to it, because I have a lot more I want to say about it - it's a brilliant little devilish piece of early filmmaking/storytelling), I wanted to include my lovely email exchange with Kevin Brownlow, which happened today. In case you don't know, he's the world's foremost expert on silent film and an Oscar winner for lifetime achievement in silent film restoration. And! Of all the people I tried to contact and get interested in The Glass Character, he was really the only one that took any interest or bothered to respond. I had initial interest from Rich Correll, who used to be considered Harold's "second son" and who actually phoned me from Los Angeles a couple of years ago. But there was no followup. The trail went cold when he stopped answering my emails and calls for no reason I could ascertain. Likewise with Annette Lloyd - I somehow turned her off, I think, maybe by making too familiar with her biographical subject.
Of all the people I contacted, or tried to, Kevin Brownlow was the least likely to respond because of his tremendous status and obvious busy-ness as a world figure in cinema. He's also well into his seventies and has devoted decades to the cause. As a matter of fact, he began when silent films were still being melted down and made into bootheels and such, tossed aside as dross that no one would be interested in watching. He met Harold Lloyd when he was a young film student and immediately loved him, seeing him as charming, unpretentious and not at all vain or self-obsessed. The first time I sent an email to a major film figure and actually got a RESPONSE, I was amazed. Kevin Brownlow, for whom words like "distinguished" seem invented, with that cut-glass English accent, turned out to be jolly good fun, accessible, and friendly. He usually answered my questions promptly and with pleasure. Though I knew he wouldn't have time to read it, he agreed to write a blurb for my book that leant the back cover more than a touch of class. If you're interested in silent film, then he is interested in talking to you. I didn't find this kind of courtesy and respect anywhere else, and I don't think I ever will. This doesn't bring me any closer to my movie version of The Glass Character. It doesn't make the book A Success in the mysterious way it is supposed to be. But it was and is a wondrous thing to connect with someone like this. And to have him do some homework on this movie I asked about, and to GET BACK TO ME about it, is nothing short of a bloody miracle in an age when the unanswered email and the ignored request seems like the norm.
POST-BLOG-POST REVELATION! Today, a couple of weeks later, I actually got something in the mail - but it wasn't just anything. It was postmarked from Britain, neatly addressed by hand (a rarity in itself) with no return address.
I opened it, and saw a greeting card:
A Christmas card from Kevin Brownlow, signing himself as Kevin, yes, as if we're friends. . . or at least, as if he's a wonderful and warm person who goes to the trouble to handwrite a card and send it all the way over the ocean to me.
He has done this sort of thing before, when he sent me a wonderful antique postcard of Rudolph Valentine which sits on my desk in a lucite frame.
Somebody has to come through for me, I guess. And the fact that it's the one who knows the most about this subject is not lost on me. Some days, rare days, almost nonexistent days, this all seems worthwhile.
POST TO THE POST-POST! The card contained an enclosure: a photocopy of a page from a book. It's a little hard to read what's on it, so I'll transcribe:
"Lashed to a windmill by a Nebraska mob that dragged him from court, a murderer faces an exotic death. The sherriff halted the rite - depicted in the Police News in 1884 - and the man got a life term instead."
Kevin's comment was, "This isn't very Christmassy but it certainly is a coincidence! Just came across it in Time/Life's THE OLD WEST."
Nebraska, eh? That's where Harold was born and raised. But this poor man, like St. Peter, is being crucified upside-down.
All is buggered. There is some mysterious problem in my computer that is causing intermittent panic: for some unknown reason, last week, things started to fuck up. I couldn't get on sites, when normally my computer functions at light speed. When I finally did get on them, things didn't work, particularly posting photos (which is what I live for!). Text would sort of post, sometimes. This wasn't just on the blog but on Facebook. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
Other things have quirked and eluded me. Some posts have refused to save, or refused to show up at all. (This just happened here, by the way. Everything looked perfect, I had all the photos in place, then it froze and refused to save or post, so this is about the tenth time I've had to find some other way to do this.) I have tried EVERYTHING, and my son the computer genius spent two long sessions with it and tried every purgative, every exorcistic thing that existed in his repertoire (and he does this for a living and has never been stumped before). My husband screwed around with the router, though I don't even know what that IS, and for a brief, blissful while all the problems went away, before they all came back. I would put up with it and try to find workarounds, except - sometimes it just stops. Google Chrome won't even go ON this page and gives me a gigantic brown square, just the background, which is totally absurd. I'd rather have a white page! This is not good, as there is a subtle feeling of erosion, as if the (relatively-new) computer, recently switched to Windows 10, is about to pack it in for good.
The Windows 10, by the way, was a fix, not a cause. This happened spontaneously. Installing Firefox (which now works marginally better than Chrome, but only to get me ON the blog) didn't help. Is it the new photo program that came with Windows 10? Actually, it has been working well, and I like everything but the editing program which I can do in Windows Live. Or at least I've done it successfully up to now, though "up to now" doesn't mean much any more. Is my computer confused? Why? Why does it suddenly work "almost" normally, then go wildly catawampus again (and that IS the technical term)?
The blog is the only way I can express myself as a writer now, sad as that may seem. The only rule is that I do whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want. It's a combination of enjoyable sharing of quirky things, and (sometimes) ranty self-expression. It has no central theme, but similar subjects come up regularly, because these are the things I care about.
So far I can post text without any problem, but who knows what is next. I may have to write with a sharp stick and a little pile of dog poo. This video you see (at the bottom, if it's still there) - I've seen it before, it's fun - would not MOVE so I could write some text under it. It's like sorcerer has gotten his wonky fingers in here and flicked the workings of it this way and that. The WORST is when it all works beautifully again, because the next time I try to use it, one subtle thing will be buggered up - or un-subtle thing - then another, then another, until I am back to the dreaded shit-brown square.
This reminds me of those demonic medical symptoms you get, and believe me I've had them, where when you finally get in to see a doctor, the symptoms are completely gone. Then you go home, a month goes by when you feel a lot better and you're sure you're all right, and then you begin to feel just a little scribbly niggle of pain in the deepest pit of your abdomen. And within a month you're screwed, and on ANOTHER waiting list. Then, just as you walk into the doctor's office, the symptoms all go away.
I've been through that in the past few years, and I am not convinced I am in the clear yet. But this is a mere computer, is it not? Since the worst symptom right now (?) seems to be very erratic posting of photos, MAYBE there's something wrong with - but no, it couldn't be, because the problems started well in advance of installing Windows 10.
I realize this is boring, but I am anxious beyond what I can say. No one seems to understand why it's so significant to me. I failed pretty abysmally at everything else - I can't sell books worth two hoots, though I do think I write good ones. (It's not that, so please don't say something like, "Ohhhh, don't worry, Margaret, your writing REALLY isn't so bad!") Most of what I wrote never saw the light of day. Honest writers, all two of them, admit they have unpublished manuscripts lurking around in their files. I published something like three out of seven. I remember a time when publishing even ONE was a golden dream, something I thought I'd never attain. But I didn't know what it would be like, the loneliness and isolation, the disappointment, and the need to keep it to myself because failure just embarrasses everyone. I've gotten to the point that I just can't do it any more.
This has become a screed. My problems probably won't happen in this post, for the computer sticks its tongue out at me regularly, dangles a hope of wholeness and function. (Oops. After dangling hope by posting one or two images, it now has shut down again. Last time this happened, all my changes were lost and I was back to square one.) Nobody realizes why this bothers me so much, and I am totally convinced other people don't even have it. Or if they do, they laugh it off, it has nothing to do with their identity. IDENTITY? Isn't that just a given? Why do you need to work so hard to maintain it, to support it? What the hell is the matter with you, anyway?
Anyway, I don't know why this is even going up here at all except that I have HAD IT, had it with all the crap that is going on. I know a blog isn't a personal journal, but I also know it's not whatever I have been doing all day for four solid years, with literally thousands of posts. Only one gained a vast readership (I See Dead People: Victorian Post-Mortem Photography) from being on Pinterest: last time I checked, it was at 106,192 views, and the time before that, a few months ago, about 100,000. Considering my average is around 25, that's not too shabby.
I will make an attempt to post some images here. The sorcerer who has been screwing with my head may well allow them this time, who knows. Or not. Like life's problems - no, like MY problems, I am sure everyone else is consistent - it's intermittent and maddening.
Which is why this funny horse video is posted at the bottom.
(P. S. At the moment, I can't even save this, let alone post it. I had to go back and restore all my changes from memory. WHY is this happening? More to the point, how the hell do I get OUT of here??)
I used to call this "life". I used to call this "normal". I had nothing
to compare it to, since the outside looked so perfect and so much energy
went into maintaining it. I see now that a number of key people in my
family of origin had narcissistic personality disorder. They were not
arrogant power-brokers but sad, powerless people who desperately needed a
facade of control, and had to suck the vitality out of the most
vulnerable (youngest) members of the family in order to feel
whole/alive. You don't get revenge against such people because they have
more evasive/responsibility-escaping twists and turns than an octopus.
But sometimes, if you just hold up a mirror, the narcissist will start
to blink and primp in it as usual, but then the death rays coming out of
their eyes will bounce right back at them. And that will be that.
Woman riding horse across Saskatchewan to raise mental health awareness Dana Nordin hopes to increase awareness of mental health
CBC News Posted: Nov 19, 2015 1:15 PM CT Last Updated: Nov 19, 2015 1:15 PM CT
Dana Nordin plans to ride a horse almost 300 kilometres to raise awareness about mental health issues. (Dana Nordin)
Dana Nordin knows all about mental health issues.
As a child, Nordin had to deal with her mother's bi-polar disorder. Her mother would fly into rages for days at a time, then swing into an unpredictable manic state.
Several years ago, Nordin was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder herself.
Breast Cancer Run for the Cure, 2015
Now, she's riding her horse almost 300 kilometres, between the villages of Clavet and Buchanan, to honour her mother--and raise awareness.
Speaking to Saskatoon Morning's Leisha Grebinski, Nordin said bi-polar disorder still isn't talked about often.
"I still struggle with the stigma," said Nordin. "Stigma is the number one problem for any kind of mental illness or addiction to get help, because there's so much pressure, internally and externally to deny what you have."
Breast Cancer Awareness and Fundraising, 2014
She hopes that the ride will change that.
"Now, I've gotten to the point where I've come out of that closet," she said. "If I can take the brunt for somebody and be the spokesperson that it's not so bad, once you come out, you might find that you have more support than you thought."
Breast Cancer Merchandising
Rough ride
Nordin first started noticing there was something different with her mother when she was seven-years-old.
"I just remember mom not being super safe or super stable," she said. "She was sleeping a lot when she was in a depressed stages, and when she was manic, she was just fast and unpredictable."
Then -- she was diagnosed in 2009 with bi-polar disorder.
Movember Rally World Record: 2015
ALS Ice Bucket Challenge
"I had certainly had episodes before then that I didn't really realize or want to see," she said. "Accepting my diagnosis meant, to me, in the back of my mind, that I had to be like my mom."
Nordin said she has a strong support team surrounding her. Still, she admits that her disorder is a struggle. Just a few days ago, she was admitted to Saskatoon's Dube Centre, to stave off an episode.
"In the past, I didn't let anyone know until the middle of it, and then I would be hospitalized and drugged," she said. "In the past, it's been about a month that I was hospitalized. But this time it was only a week."
She plans to go on her ride this weekend.
BLOGGER'S COMMENTS. As with Clara Hughes, we have one incredibly brave woman here: brave not just because of what she has endured, but because she is willing to ride that lonesome valley to make others aware of people's suffering.
Cancer awareness is big business now, and no one ever says anything against it or how the funds are raised. But I did hear this about Clara Hughes and her magnificent (lone) cross-country cycling journey for mental health awareness:
"Oh, great. Now the crazies want to get in on it."
"The crazies". People with mental illness still have that dungeon chill about them, that sense they should be "put away", at least symbolically, because they're frightening, dangerous, and a source of shame. How bizarre to even think of having a rally or a run to benefit them! The kinds of jokes that would probably result make me shudder.
There is lip service paid, but not much else. We constantly hear people who haven't suffered from it exhorting others to "reach out for help!", when for the most part the only "help" is hospitals with no beds and therapists with months-long waiting lists (not to mention misdiagnoses, mismedication and general insensitivity in the medical community). Why so many holes in the system, I wonder? The bucks aren't there. No one is motivated to donate or fund-raise because of the (and how I hate this word!) stigma. No rallies for whack jobs, thank you very much.
Look at the multiple millions the breast cancer movement has hauled in - though only a small percentage actually goes to research. The rest is for running that vast juggernaut, the "pink" industry. As for mental health, have you ever pressed a few bucks into a bucket for this particular cause?
Can you imagine the mentally ill being seen not as whack jobs and nut cases, but warriors and heroes?
Why just one woman on a horse? Where are the pink tshirts, the ice buckets, the millions of dollars, the cheers?
Because people don't feel comfortable. Let's not let the crazies in on it. Who knows what Godforsaken group of people might be next.
"Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable sodding rotters, the flaming sods, the snivelling, dribbling, dithering palsied pulse-less lot that make up England today. . . . God, how I hate them! God curse them, funkers. God blast them, wishwash. Exterminate them, slime." -- D.H. Lawrence's reaction to a London publisher's rejection of "Sons and Lovers" due to its “want of reticence.”
. . . and as Evelyn Waugh said of the Welsh:
"From the earliest times the Welsh have been looked upon as an unclean people. It is thus that they have preserved their racial integrity. Their sons and daughters rarely mate with humankind except their own blood relations.”
IF YOU have ever thought your name sounded bad, spare a thought for this guy.
Phuc Dat Bich (yes, that is his real name) was tired of being accused of having a “false and misleading” name, so he took matters in to his own hands.
After having his Facebook account shut down three times, the 23-year-old Vietnamese-Australian posted a picture of his passport to the site to prove it was real.
“I find it highly irritating the fact that nobody seems to believe me when I say that my full legal name is how you see it,” he wrote. “I’ve been accused of using a false and misleading name of which I find very offensive. Is it because I’m Asian? Is it?"
Phuc Dat Bich loves his Subaru.Source:Supplied
Guess who’s riding in this hotted up Suby?Source:Supplied
“Having my fb [sic] shut down multiple times and forced to change my name to my ‘real’ name, so just to put it out there. My name. Yours Sincerely, Phuc Dat Bich.”
His post has received more than 21,000 likes and was shared 65,000 times, with many calling for Phuc Dat Bich (pronounced Phoop Dook Bic) to embrace how it sounds in ‘Stralyn’.
Phuc Dat is a common name in Vietnam, while Bich (“Beht”) is usually a first name for girls.
One of his best friends, Brett, confirmed Phuc Dat Bich’s authenticity and rejected suggestions on social media that the passport had been doctored.
He said Facebook had even asked his mate to provide evidence his name was real.
“He’s able to get through international airports so it is legitimate,” he told the Herald Sun.
Meantime, is post has elicited both sympathy and mirth in unequal doses, with one on Twitter pledging to name their children after him.
Facebook friends have questioned the safety of publicly sharing his passport details on social media, while others wondered about the likelihood of identity theft.
“Who the HELL would want to steal THAT identity!!!,” wrote one.
The 23-year-old says on his Facebook that he works at NAB as a cleaner and is a member of many Subaru clubs around Victoria.
To balance the nightmare of terrorist bombing and bloodshed, harrowing fears of mortality and other atrocities, I offer this, something that was new when I was a kid and still appeals to me now for its variety of dances. Caitlin's school is doing a sendup of this for Christmas, with ALL of the various dances faithfully reproduced. There are things to feel good about, if I can only remember.
OK. I'm the LAST person who would object to someone trying to help when someone else is "actually not okay" As someone who has BEEN "actually not okay" more times than I care to admit (but I'll admit it right now), I can tell you that many, many times I wish someone had been there to at least acknowledge my not-okayness, let alone offer me a little bit of comfort. And maybe I'm the only person in the universe who feels this way: but - BLUGGHHH! This is the stupidest, most self-righteous, trite, patronizing thing I've ever seen! This is called A Self-Care Printable, an apparently new phenomenon in self-help It contains a questionnaire for people who are Actually Not Okay. Whether this means they FEEL "not okay" or actually aren't OK (whatever that means) is never spelled out. "Not okay" is, after all, a pretty loaded term. I know it's not written by a professional, any more than those sappy, comforting memes with sparkly kittens on them are. It's written by somebody who wants to Go Viral. And the hell of it is - it works. This has to be the most trivializing - but I digress. It's "someone out there", we don't even know who they are, but They Care - that much is obvious. No, wait a minute - they don't "care", they want to fix you so that you no longer feel you're "actually not okay", and won't burden anyone else by talking about it. "Self-care printables" never did turn my crank, mainly because before this moment, when I found this earnestly posted on Facebook (under the title I'm Going to Help Someone Right Now Because I Know A Lot Better Than They Do), I didn't know what a self-care printable WAS. Nobody prints things any more anyway, do they? Unless they don't have the moral strength to stagger to the computer and turn it on. But now comes this.
I've known people who were seriously suicidal. Hell, I've BEEN seriously suicidal before, and I've survived it, mainly by the teeth-gritting/stubbornness method, because it's been my experience that no one else can stand to step inside the abyss of loneliness and despair that is suicidal depression. You're in it alone. You've got to walk that lonesome valley. You've got to walk it by yourself. That is the nature of the disease. That is what it IS. And it applies every bit as much to those celebrated professionals: even more so, since the average person with serious mental illness is misdiagnosed an average of sixteen times (with a good many of those diagnoses being dismissals. My absolute, all-time favorite was "go home and behave yourself!"). But in any case, real human help, mano a mano, professional or ludicrously UN-professional like this thing, could never come in the form of asking a suicidal person if they're "hydrated". Sorry, no one overcame their existential despair by popping a water bottle. But that's what passes for "help" in 2015, on social media, on Facebook or Twitter or wherever, and it explains much about alienation and "expert-ism" as a way of life, and as a way of insulating yourself from someone else's pain.
For, you see, if you're the expert, if you have the answer as to what that person should be doing to fix their state of "actually not okay-ness", it puts you in the position of power, of strength, of expertise. Just try this! Better now? That means you don't really need to get involved in it at all. You don't need to listen. You don't need to feel empathy or compassion or step into their messy lives. You just need to Fix It. But at the same time, you can pretend to identify on a surface level - I had a bad day once, too! - and feel really good about yourself for offering so much generous, helpful help. I am convinced that 90% of people's efforts to "help" others are fix-it oriented and a means to stay insulated from another person's pain. And if they don't get better? They're just not doing it right. Look, I tried, but if that's your attitude - if you really don't want anyone to help you - Anyway. Since this blog is largely satire, I will hereby insert my highly-satiric-but-deeply-heartfelt answers to the blue-lettered questionnaire with its head-patting, run-along-and-get-some-yogurt-and-you'll-feel-better tone.
For When You’re Actually NOT Okay: A Self-Care Printable
“Everything is awful and I’m not okay: questions to ask before giving up.”
(Let us assume, as a given, that "giving up" means killing yourself. To be honest, I don't know what else it could mean.)
Are you hydrated? If not, have a glass of water.
I can't find the freaking water because of all the blood on the kitchen floor. I keep slipping and falling down before I get to the fridge. Have you eaten in the past three hours? If not, get some food — something with protein, not just simple carbs. Perhaps some nuts or hummus? I did that, but I kept throwing up the hummus. Maybe it was all those pills I mixed in.
Have you showered in the past day? If not, take a shower right now. I love the assumptions they make about my personal hygiene! Not that they stereotype depressed people - oh, no. Never mind that the huge majority of depressed people make themselves function, and disguise it so well that nobody even suspects it. Let's just assume I don't shower. I like smelling just as disgusting and awful as you are implying I do. I am just as big a slob as that question indicates. Not only that - I need to be reminded of it because I either don't know, or I don't care enough to make myself socially acceptable. If daytime: are you dressed? If not, put on clean clothes that aren’t pajamas. Give yourself permission to wear something special, whether it’s a funny t-shirt or a pretty dress.
I used my funny tshirt for a noose, but it didn't hold for some reason. Poor Hello Kitty. And by the way, does this "pretty dress" business apply to men? Doesn't this person know that putting on a dress may be part of the problem? Transvestites and transsexuals often have a hard time of it in our culture. Or maybe the assumption is this: only a girl/woman could get herself into such a deplorable state. Guys are basically all right, or else they know how to ACT all right and not fall into a stinking, unkempt mess, refusing to get dressed or bathe out of self-pity and ceasing to make an effort.
If nighttime: are you sleepy and fatigued but resisting going to sleep? Put on pajamas, make yourself cozy in bed with a teddy bear and the sound of falling rain, and close your eyes for fifteen minutes — no electronic screens allowed. If you’re still awake after that, you can get up again; no pressure. Oh! No pressure? You mean it can take as long as I want to kill myself? Can I do it nice and slow then, with my fuzzy-wuzzy teddy bear squeezed tightly in my arms? Will the sound of falling rain drown out the screaming worthlessness in my soul? Or the sirens? Sorry, they're not here yet, but they will be soon.
Have you stretched your legs in the past day? If not, do so right now. If you don’t have the spoons for a run or trip to the gym, just walk around the block, then keep walking as long as you please. If the weather’s crap, drive to a big box store (e.g. Target) and go on a brisk walk through the aisles you normally skip.
My legs are being stretched on a rack. I just heard the bones shatter.
Have you said something nice to someone in the past day? Do so, whether online or in person. Make it genuine; wait until you see something really wonderful about someone, and tell them about it.
Seriously. Saying something "nice" to someone is supposed to keep me from committing suicide. But it has to be genuine! What language is this person speaking? Since when does an "actually NOT okay" person "on the verge of giving up" have the strength or the inclination to "say something nice" to anyone at all? If your mouth opens, pain comes out, not My Little Pony. It's trite advice like this that stops people from doing that immediate cure-all, "reaching out for help". If THIS is the quality of the help, I'd rather not reach out for it at all.
Have you moved your body to music in the past day? If not, do so — jog for the length of an EDM song at your favorite BPM, or just dance around the room for the length of an upbeat song.
Have you ever been depressed, whoever you are? Do you know what the word "inertia" means? Have you ever heard the phrase, "if I could get out of bed, I would"? Have you ever felt insulted by someone's implication that you could "beat the blues" and not feel suicidal any more just by doing a few simple, fluffy things that (of course, because you're too self-pitying) you never thought of doing before? Also, I guess this advice is only for people who know what EDM and BPM mean. I don't. It's that whispering on the playground thing again, the secret language which winnows out the old. The old aren't worth saving or even comforting: they're on the obsolete pile anyway and don't deserve sparkly teddy bears, rain on the roof and the reviving magic of hydration. Have you cuddled a living being in the past two days? If not, do so. Don’t be afraid to ask for hugs from friends or friends’ pets. Most of them will enjoy the cuddles too; you’re not imposing on them.
My landlord didn't like it. Neither did my boss or the postman. After that, I ran out of living beings. No one else can deal with me, you see. It's uncomfortable if someone isn't cheerful and saying nice things all the time.
Do you feel ineffective? Pause right now and get something small completed, whether it’s responding to an e-mail, loading up the dishwasher, or packing your gym bag for your next trip. Good job! When I read crap like this, I feel ineffective, but PLEASE don't take it personally. Oh and by the way, thank you so much for saying "good job!" like you'd do to a preschooler! I've also seen it in dog obedience school, and it's very effective. Just. . . don't try it on me. Didn't I just tell you I'm an adult, or at least old? Do you feel unattractive? Take a selfie. Your friends will remind you how great you look, and you’ll fight society’s restrictions on what beauty can look like. This is just - this is jaw-dropping, sorry, I have nothing to say about this! I didn't write it, by the way, this is not a satire, it's a real thing that people post and re-post and write thousands of comments about. It fills me with a mixture of panic and despair. Again, there is a gigantic assumption that anyone with any degree of depression "feels unattractive". It is a very short step from this to "looks like a mess" or "no longer cares". The "fighting society's restrictions on what beauty can look like" is a La Brea tar pit of assumption: in other words, even if you look like shit, you can CHALLENGE that assumption that you look like shit and forge a whole new standard of "beauty"! And of course, everyone must be Beautiful. It goes without saying. "Do you feel unattractive? Take a selfie" might just win the Ignobel prize for terrible-but-typical psychological counsel in 2015. Take a selfie is just as potent in this day and age as "take a Valium" was 40 years ago. Do you feel paralyzed by indecision? Give yourself ten minutes to sit back and figure out a game plan for the day. If a particular decision or problem is still being a roadblock, simply set it aside for now, and pick something else that seems doable. Right now, the important part is to break through that stasis, even if it means doing something trivial. Who ARE you, and why is everyone so slavishly listening to everything you say? Do you realize that in the dark pit of your soul, you know nothing, and no one is interested in anything you have to say? Furthermore, do you realize that if you had to live inside a truly depressed person's head for even one day, or perhaps one hour, you would run screaming?
Have you seen a therapist in the past few days? If not, hang on until your next therapy visit and talk through things then.
I love the automatic assumption that anyone who ever feels "actually not okay" needs a therapist/sees one. They're just that kind of person, you know? They're "troubled people", they "see therapists", they'll never really be part of the rest of us. But that's OK, that's good, it means we have the opportunity to hand out tons of gratuitous advice! It's good to be target-oriented, isn't it? Targets are always a good thing. Have you been over-exerting yourself lately — physically, emotionally, socially, or intellectually? That can take a toll that lingers for days. Give yourself a break in that area, whether it’s physical rest, taking time alone, or relaxing with some silly entertainment. Reading this is enough, though too silly and disturbing to qualify as entertainment. Have you changed any of your medications in the past couple of weeks, including skipped doses or a change in generic prescription brand? That may be screwing with your head. Give things a few days, then talk to your doctor if it doesn’t settle down.
While I love the immediate assumption that anyone who ever feels bad is "on meds" because they can't cope like a normal person, I think this is laying it on a little thick. "Your medications"? It's like saying "your knee" or "your elbow" - a given. It's obvious you just assume you are talking to a psych patient. No one else would read or even NEED directions like this. Isn't it obvious it isn't meant for anybody "normal"? So fuck the cozy fuzzy-wuzzy teddy bear cures. I am about to fly into a psychotic rage!!
Have you waited a week? Sometimes our perception of life is skewed, and we can’t even tell that we’re not thinking clearly, and there’s no obvious external cause. It happens. Keep yourself going for a full week, whatever it takes, and see if you still feel the same way then. "Wait a week" - now what could they mean? Wait for what? All the fuzzy jammies and recordings of rain on the roof can't disguise the fact that this is a totally patronizing, warm-fuzzy and lamentably unprofessional attempt at suicide prevention. I think the author of this Self-Care Printable should work in an ER for a week - a day, maybe! - or a psychiatric outpatient clinic, and listen to the despair and maybe bandage up a few slashed arms or try to pump out stomachs. Or talk to some cops about some of the things they find, cutting people down. But it's really a lot easier to hand out fuzzy blankets to imaginary "really not okay" people. It fixes them right up. Oh, and one more thing. The voice in this thing is in the form of "you-questions", but all of a sudden it can change to "our (perception of life)": the "Royal we", or the "we" assumed by extremely patronizing persons who feign identification (such as doctors). "Now we don't want to do anything foolish, do we?" It's the lack of respect. That's all. But it passes for help. Maybe it actually helps people - I don't know. But to me, anyone who would benefit from this kind of help doesn't really need it, because they already feel more or less OK. Not about to "give up" - whatever that may mean. You’ve made it this far, and you will make it through. You are stronger than you think.
