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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: Mental Health

RCT and Memory Loss

05 Wednesday Mar 2025

Posted by Bill Watkins in Health, Poetic Blog

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Alzheimer's, alzheimers-disease, Childhood Trauma, Dementia, Health, Memory Loss, Mental Health

-by Bill Watkins
Christian Scientist

***

Everyone’s pretty excited about “Alzheimer’s Disease,” something named in 1906 by its namesake doctor, but not mainstream until the 1980’s. Dr. Alois Alzheimer noticed irregularities in people’s brains, as neurologists continue to diagnose today, the National Institutes of Health estimating last year there were around seven million Americans over sixty-five plagued with its brand of dementia and memory loss.

Did you know that Repressed Childhood Trauma also causes memory loss? Google it. One might argue in order of events that Repressed Childhood Trauma, stemming from… the childhood… supersedes any diagnosis to the brain of a person in their advanced years. Could one say there is a more plausible root of memory loss in our childhoods (environment) than in some sort of God-given/birth given genetic curse?

Science is fallible, no matter what scientists (fallible human beings) say. The Covid disaster from certain perspectives was as much a disaster of Western medical reaction and inconsistency of offered remedy as it was a mighty tough virus. There is theoretical medicine and factual. There is the beautiful photograph my orthopedic surgeon gives me to point out my fracture (factual) next to his or her decision to operate as a “cure” (theoretical).

There is a gigantic element of salesmanship in Western medicine, as well, that cannot be overlooked when examining any scientific or “health” dilemma. A lot of money on the line! Staying with the orthopedics example: It’s a few hundred bucks in this country to diagnose a bone issue to a patient (factual), while surgery (theoretical) yields thousands from insurance companies and personal accounts of the uninsured.

“Health” is a word, in and of itself, that lacks official definition in government and legislating life. There is literally no working definition of the word in Government! Not in ours, at least… I’ve reached out to Nancy Pelosi’s office, one of Obama Care’s architects, asking what their definition of Health was. No response. Same with Bernie Sanders’ office, and same from the Democratic National Committee in Washington D.C. Nothing. I did a little Twitter survey of fifteen or so users, found that there were fifteen out of fifteen different definitions of health.

So this is a push back on Alzheimer’s. A push back on the “expertise” of Western doctors who stand to gain materially by big diagnoses and big payoffs. I am not saying there isn’t actual care for patients mixed into Western medicine, just pushing back. I hope in this also is a seed yielding the flower that is research yielding fact. Repressed Childhood Trauma causes memory loss. What is more reasonable, that we are born with genetic curses or that we are born equipped well to live through sickness and malady, and that environmental stuff happens in life to throw us off of a healthy trajectory?

What is more reasonable, that God or birth injected into us certain “bad” genes damning us to late life suffering, or… factors in childhood and life threw us into funks, in some cases so severely that we cut off those periods from our memory as too painful to revisit. To rethink or relive those moments was too difficult, so we obliterate them from our minds. It is such brains/minds, in my opinion, that Dr. Alzheimer, so many years ago, studied under a microscope to find had abnormalities in them.

Were those abnormalities from “bad” genes or bad living? Can childhood abandonment, rape, abuse, incest or being locked in a closet do enough damage to the brain when coupled with repression of memories to cause abnormalities that a doctor might deem “Alzheimer’s Disease” and gain a lucrative patient for a few years? I think it’s reasonable to think, yes. If so, let’s rethink our excitement for a trendy diagnosis that justifies putting parents away in homes, leaving them to drug treatments and nurses; leaving them to waste away instead of helping them suffer through their childhoods to find, then utter the truth of their pain.

Unlocking negative memories perhaps a key to restoring all of them. Sounds reasonable. Sounds more reasonable than “God cursed my parent with the Alzheimer’s gene. You know the one not mentioned in any spiritual book that’s more powerful than God?” Not reasonable to me. Not plausible, and from laziness and money to spend on professional instead of familial parent care. Let’s wake up to our trauma and break free! Let’s welcome the mental breakdowns sure to happen when we look back, putting the microscopes not on tissue as much as, “Break out the tissues, it’s time to cure our wounded emotions!”

Looking at any non-native family history, is it… unreasonable… to think that we immigrant descendants in this country, so far away from our original roots, might have a lot of trauma, sadness and homesickness to work out? There’s a choice, to me: work it out with drugs, doctors and nurses, or go back to God, even G.O.D. – Good Orderly Direction, as they speak of in Twelve Step rooms. Go back to the wilderness of our beginnings, be it in Scandinavia, Africa, Asia or Latvia, go back to what our folks did to us and theirs to theirs – find the real cure to our wandering minds and bodies.

Your “Depression” Could Be Alcoholism

05 Wednesday Mar 2025

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poetic Blog

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Depression, Health, Love, Mental Health, mental-illness

-by Bill Watkins
Formerly Suicidal
Los Angeles, CA

***

I was in a freefall. The order of events seemed to be: I had a spiritual awakening at the Betty Ford Center in February of 1995, dropped everything to become a dedicated member of the Al-Anon 12-step program for about four years, then… the roof caved in. I felt like I had entered a Black Hole. Not depressed at first, but more like empty, unsure, and listless. My joie de vivre was suddenly tres blasé, the spirit from my awakening at zero… I just thought I was dying.

Of what, though? The rounds with doctors began… Psychiatrists, psychologists, a neurologist and a cat scan. I had Clinical Depression, that’s it! Manic Depression even a better one because I would swing up emotionally with creative projects, then dip down at other parts of my day. With that handy diagnosis, prescribed medication became readily available to me, and doctors began to prescribe various drugs to me.

Their doses didn’t create the desired effect, so I conveniently took over their management, got high on Lithium hours before that experiment sent me to the hospital. I had overdosed for the first time, but was it? When I blacked out on alcohol as a kid, that was an overdose wasn’t it? We didn’t call it that, but it might have been. For a few years I wasn’t ready to link alcohol use with my depressive state.

How depressed was I? Suicidal eventually. For days, weeks, months on end – unsure if I wanted to live through days, unsure if I even could live through them. Sometimes I still thought I was just dying, moreso after the overdose on lithium, which left me gravely injured physically. Of all things, that psychotropic natural salt on the element chart, used by some as an industrial cleaner and certain physicians as a way to calm the mind of suicidal patients – it tweaked my brain enough to tweak my diaphragm.

I remained suicidal and now physically injured from an overdose for a period, then overdosed again, mostly on another psychotropic they gave me called Celexa. It was during that hospital stay when I looked up at my very tall psychiatrist doctor and noted, “Dr. W, there is no Pill for Will!” A true statement that jarred me back to my twelve steps. I started to slowly piece together my alcohol and substance use as a child, relate it to my current depression.

I started drinking alcohol on Dad’s lap at five years of age, his last sip of bourbon and water. He didn’t want to give me that “adult drink,” but I kept asking for a sip, knowing it was that liquid standing in the way of our intimacy. When I took that sip, I crossed several thresholds that would come back to haunt me. I had jumped into the alcohol drinker’s club young, kept that secret from Mom, so had learned how to lie – which for the religiously inclined like myself let in an evil force I call the devil, you can call it what you want.

That evil led me to a career of underage drinking, reconnecting with the substance with friends at twelve, blacking out on it for the first time at thirteen. I was a little thirteen year old, by the way, not a burly young man… still a squeaky-voiced boy, chugging flammable, toxic liquid around my sport playing, thinking that was normal. I didn’t know how to tell the girl I loved that I loved her, but I could play sports and drink alcohol.

A sad past, leading to a sadness doctors called a clinical depression, green lighting drug intake without checking my alcohol and substance abuse history. I suspect this happens when the doctors in question are out of touch with their own alcoholism. Lee Harris, the social worker who led me to my spiritual awakening at the Betty Ford Center on February 7th, 1995: was in a position to truly help me, coming from relevant training and… I suspect life experience.

Lee created a safe room of strangers at the facility’s “Family Program,” inspired us to tell our truths out loud to the group. Hence the awakening, as it will always be true that the Truth sets us free. I dream that this humble piece stirs the truth in readers, perhaps one veering toward depression and a merry-go-round of “know-it-all” doctors who don’t know it all.

Letter to Someone Considering Suicide

10 Thursday Mar 2022

Posted by Bill Watkins in Addiction, Alcohol, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Depression, Health, Men's Health, Mental Health, Poetic Blog, Recovery, Suicide, Women's Health

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Tags

Addiction, Bipolar, Depression, Health, Joy, Love, Manic Depression, Men's Health, Mental Health, Peace, Recovery, Sobriety, Suicidal, Suicidal Depression, Suicide, Truth, Women's Health

Suicidal2

by Bill Watkins, formerly suicidal
3/10/2022

Dedicated to the memory of Robin Williams

***

I would have told Robin just to sleep.  Stop trying to breathe.  Stop doing stuff and thinking you have to do stuff.

What suicidal people sometimes forget is the glory of the “mini-deaths” cleverly built into this life: sleep.  The complete cessation of activity.  The suicidal want to stop, want all thinking to stop, so… STOP!

Complications arise with drug and alcohol addiction.  Next to that, or maybe the same thing, is a bedevilment of negative thinking, insane thoughts—which any human being is capable of thinking from time to time.

There is a snowball forming, and suicidal people might start to believe the lies they are telling themselves that all would be better, if they were dead.  If they took an action to stop the heart and stop breathing… for good.

I was a victim of a suicidal depression that lasted about three or four years.  Parts of it are cloudy still, but I can now sum it all up as:  Alcoholism.

I started drinking Dad’s last sip of bourbon when I was five.  I started drinking the flammable, volatile, toxic liquid on my own with friends by the age of twelve.  I was blacking out on the substance by thirteen.

The above facts were not of interest to the multiple doctors I saw for depression at the end of the last millennium.  They saw and heard some symptoms, started to prescribe me drugs.  One of those doctors is now a recovering alcoholic, but because they missed my obvious alcoholism I sometimes think all of them were either alcoholic, drug addicted or just plain incompetent in the field of mental health.

I forgive them.  Alcoholism is “cunning, baffling and powerful,” to quote Alcoholics Anonymous—a powerful, tough, formidable foe.  I don’t blame anyone for my alcoholism and subsequent suicidal depression, but have come out of it to celebrate twenty years of consecutive sober days to distrust Western medicine in some areas.

They and all of us are fallible!

To the person who is at the time of reading this letter considering suicide, I say: “I love you. Thinking of suicide is a normal response to pain, when the pain builds and builds and sustains over a long time.  Love and accept yourself in this moment, but if you have a place to sleep that is warm and sheltered, be grateful for it and ‘die’ the mini-death that is sleep.  Stop trying so hard to breathe.  Slow down.  Do nothing.

“Do nothing for as long as it takes, with no time limit.  Based on my experience, the good rest and permission to stop will after time become a meditation or dream that makes you want to ‘go’ again.  You might get a vision that is positive.

“As far as managing life through a suicidal depression, stop doing that. Get out a piece of paper after your rest, and write down one or two things you want to do.  Eventually a bucket list (since you’ve been craving death anyway) of passions and activities.  Today, of course, you can only manage one or two of those things.

“Do them.  Love yourself for this one day.  That’s the only day that matters and exists.  If something makes you smile (that is not harmful to anyone, drugs or alcohol), note that and do it.   Repeat it, and follow that bliss throughout your day.  Your day is now your life!

“Note stuff in life we can’t control, like results or the future.  Let them go.  Maybe even consider prayer to a power greater than yourself.  Call it whatever you want to call it.  Just know you’re not in control of everything, and if you let yourself go… if you stop trying so hard and just rest… you’ll find the world continues to spin, and I do believe based on my own experience that positive thoughts and dreams are within us all…

If we wait for them.”

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