Hotline assistance
When I was in college, I was one of the founding members of the Sexual Assault Support Team (SAST), which was a rape-crisis hotline. I carried a beeper, which at that time was as large as a computer monitor. As a rape survivor, it was important to me to be an activist for the cause. In the beginning we didn’t get a lot of calls. I got a few about gray-area date-rape incidences, and a really chilling one from a guy I knew. He called to tell me he thought he might have raped and sexually assaulted girls, but he wasn’t sure of the criteria. He was kind of tortured, but it freaked me out. At 19, you’re just not ready to deal with such confessions.
Later, a friend started dating a different guy–one I got a phone call about. The woman who called the hotline told me his name–let’s call him John– even though I asked her not to. (Oberlin is a tiny place. It’s hard to keep secrets.) So when my friend hooked up with John, I couldn’t tell her why I held him in such contempt. I stewed about it for months, but knew I had to keep every call confidential. They broke up soon, as people in college do. And the hotline was disbanded a couple years ago after its own membership decided it was racist. Only at Oberlin could you have a 24-hour emergency resource completely obliterated because it was “created in a white space.”
Anyway, I haven’t thought about this stuff for ages, but was reminded of it when EVS sent this BBC article about a helpline.
Suicidal girls calling for help
[Image from Ohio University's vintage print advertising archive]
Liz | 4:57 PM | Uncategorized
First the column, then the video
Your biweekly Trouble With Spikol column:
>> THE TROUBLE WITH SPIKOL
A Gong in My Heart
Someone should stop me, but until they do, I’m Diana Ross.
by Liz Spikol
I don’t think it’ll increase my social standing to admit this, but I was one of those kids who was always in the school play. And the choir. Actually, I was president of the choir.
It started at my wacky elementary school. For our first musical—a Mexican peasant folk tale—I had only a small part. I stood in the back layered in embroidered cotton, and dinged the triangle (the lowliest of “instruments”) every few minutes.
But the next year my freakishly high voice was discovered, and I got to do a duet. The song was called “The Silkie,” which we were told was about a beautiful gray seal. But if you look up the word on Wikipedia, it says the silkie is a variety of chicken, which makes the song less poignant.
From then on, I was featured prominently in all musical performances. My voice was so praised, I became a member of the Philadelphia All Girls Choir, and in summer camp I triumphed in Hair and Bye Bye Birdie. High school brought Guys and Dolls, Godspell and The Pajama Game. I got shut out of Pippin, though. I probably shouldn’t have done a dance routine in the audition.
My senior year I quit the choir to focus on acting, which is funny in retrospect, and my choir director was angry. So my only part in the senior musical was an awkward “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” performance, for which I had to do complicated dance steps while maintaining one line of a three-part harmony. My choir director took great pleasure in my flop sweat.
Soon the House That High C Built came tumbling down. My voice got deeper. My voice teacher moved out of town, taking my vibrato with her. The All Girls Choir disappeared into a heartbreaking no-one-cares mist. My access to vocal passion died, and I’ve been nursing the disappointment ever since.
But in my secret heart, I’ve always thought that given another shot at “The Silkie,” I could make it work. But I don’t think it’s playing on the karaoke machine.
You’d think I’d be a karaoke natural. But I can’t do it. My investment is too high. If I fail, it’ll be like the time I forgot the words to “If I Were a Bell” in Guys and Dolls. Crushing.
But everyone does karaoke. People with the worst voices in the world get up there and sing their hearts out. They alight on D-flat instead of D-sharp. They ignore glottal stops and diphthongs. They’re unmanned by key changes. Yet still, they sing.
The other day I decided to do karaoke at home using an online program called SingShot. It’s a website where 74-year-old men from the United Kingdom sing Dionne Warwick—poorly. I had to join. I turned on my iSight camera and tried a variety of songs for what I call Sweatpant Karaoke—performed in the comfort of one’s own home, unbothered by drunk hecklers and wannabe American idols.
I decided to choose songs I knew well so I wouldn’t get confused by the bouncing ball. I started with the Julie London version of “Cry Me a River,” which has been a bathroom favorite of mine for some time. I love the line, “Told me love was too plebian/ Told me you were through with me and … ” Isn’t that genius?
The bathroom, I learned, is deceiving.
Next I did “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” a classic from eighth-grade sleepover parties. I tried to sound like Olivia Newton-John, but sounded more like Steve Irwin. Delete.
Then came “Touch Me in the Morning,” a no-brainer. It ended up being my favorite because I really felt I was channeling Diana Ross, which is, as anyone who knows me could attest, an amazing transformation.
Finally, I sang “Evergreen,” that horrible Barbra Streisand song that begins, “Love, soft as an easy chair.” What does that even mean? Like a velour recliner? I kept getting stuck at that line, which is a problem because it’s the first one.
Playing around on SingShot was the first time I’d seen or heard myself sing in 20 years. I wasn’t as upset as I thought I’d be. I mean, I wasn’t good, but I wasn’t as bad as some of the other people on that website—and they were karaoke professionals!
In fact, I started to think my talent had come back. I teared up watching myself become Diana Ross. But later that evening I found my boyfriend doubled over at the computer, tears rolling down his face as he watched my karaoke videos. He was laughing harder than I’d ever seen him laugh, and there was no question of at-me-or-with-me, sad to say.
My dreams of being a soul singer or jazz chanteuse fully dashed, I decided to go with more musical theater—this time a song from the soundtrack to Fame. To get a sense of the pageantry and emotion Fame can generate, I’d suggest you go to www.philadelphiaweekly.com, where I’ve posted my karaoke debut. And I encourage all former musical-theater geeks to join me in this crusade to return to our roots. Who’s going to sing “Day by Day,” if not us?
See Liz’s video here
Do you have a Sweatpant Karaoke video you want us to post on our website? Email lspikol@philadelphiaweekly.com !
Liz | 2:27 PM | Uncategorized
Schizophrenia (?) Made Me Do It: Be a Sexual Sadist
Clearly, this Toronto case is more complex than delusions related to schizophrenia. In fact, the judge cited “several serious problems in [the offender'] makeup” in addition to his supposed schizophrenia, including ” his anti-social personality traits that include psychopathic attributes, substance abuse and sexual sadism.”
It’s interesting how often people conflate mental illness and personality disorders, which are not the same thing. Ted Bundy [pictured], for instance, had an anti-social psychopathic personality. He wasn’t mentally ill. Seems like this case is putting the two problems together, and I imagine they can indeed co-occur.
Attacker a `dangerous offender’
Liz | 9:37 AM | Uncategorized
Oh my God! I’m a seer!
Or perhaps just exceedingly observant. At the same time I was writing my plea for Britney to get mental healthcare, TMZ.com (the best site for gossip) had this tidbit (emphasis mine):
TMZ has learned Britney Spears’ troubles may have little to do with substance abuse. Sources say doctors at her rehab facility think the underlying reason for her trouble may be post-partum depression.
Sources tell TMZ that Britney’s doctors have two operating theories — either that she suffers from post-partum depression or bipolar disorder. The doctors strongly believe post-partum is the problem.
As for substance abuse, as one source says, “No doubt about it - she likes to drink.” But doctors believe the drinking is a way Spears has coped with a bigger problem.
We’re told Britney, who is sticking it out at the Promises rehab facility in Malibu, is currently reading Brooke Shields’ book, “Down Came the Rain,” in which Shields reveals her battle with post-partum depression.
We’re told doctors believe Spears’ problem is complicated by an intense feeling on her part that she has lost control of her life.
There’s also a poll at the site: “Do you feel sorry for Britney?” At the moment 59 percent say yes, but it’s close.
[The image here is from Brit's online store, where she sells her perfume--named "In Control."]
Liz | 6:17 PM | Uncategorized
Britney
My history with Britney Spears has been fraught. (I can’t believe a reasonably intelligent person wrote that sentence.) I hated her and her stupid music for years, and was offended by her marketing of herself as a barely legal sex kitten. On her reality show, she demonstrated how vapid she was; it wasn’t pretty.
At the same time, I felt sorry for her. She’d grown up under a glaring spotlight, and like so many child stars, seemed to be devoid of an identity that didn’t revolve around celebrity. I wondered if that’s why she seemed so empty on her show. Maybe she wasn’t dumb, but didn’t have an opportunity to cultivate any depth or intellect. She was potential, unfulfilled. Maybe.
I do remember quite clearly an episode of female jealously and hostility, many years ago, when a boyfriend drooled over a bikinied Brit in a magazine. “I guarantee you,” I said petulently, “she won’t age well. Those thighs are destined for serious cellulite.” I was embarrassed that I even said that. But I was angry that my thin thighs weren’t being sufficiently praised–and I was even older than she was!
Now, as everyone knows, Britney is in serious meltdown mode, and she’s in rehab after a strange shaving mishap. But while the media wonders about her alcohol and drug use, I’m thinking it’s her mental health that’s really the issue. This is a woman who had two children in two years, which compromised her career and destroyed the only image of herself she’s ever had. Her husband was a partying lout who tried to get away from her at every opportunity. Her ex-boyfriend wrote a mean song about her. She tried to turn things around only to get slammed in the press for partying too much. (She’s in her 20s! Her babies aren’t awake at 2 a.m.) She was on the cover of Newsweek as the epitome of trash and wildness. Her new boyfriend dumped her and then sold details of their sex life with the British press.
She went from megastar to mega laughing stock. Who wouldn’t be depressed after all that?
Perhaps she is abusing alcohol and drugs, but I’m going to suggest that a rehab facility without mental health treatment is a big mistake for her right now. Not all rehabs know how to handle psychological problems; I know this from personal experience. I hope they know what they’re doing over there.
Anyway, that’s all about Britney. I just had to get that off my chest. She needs mental healthcare, media people. And there’s no shame in saying so, handlers and assistants. I wish her the best of luck.
[This photo of her was taken when she was the epitome of celebrity success. Sad.]
Liz | 1:44 PM | Uncategorized
Yes, I’d like to know…
Antidepressants and Bipolar Disorder: What Do Recent Studies Tell Us?
Liz | 12:44 PM | Uncategorized
Mother of a bipolar child writes in about Rebecca Riley
This comment came in from “Just a Mom”:
I have a child with early onset bipolar, this story is quite shocking to me. Our psychiatrist is adamant about bi-annual labs as my child takes Seroquel and Trileptal, she wants to watch for glucose and sodium effects from these meds.
While I’m not sure who is to blame in this particular tragedy, I think some is attributable to all involved. Clearly, the parents were over-medicating with the Clonodine and had been given the back story we have about 10-day prescriptions due to “lost” or “destroyed” pills. The father has a questionable history - was there abuse? Bipolar is heritable - did mom have it too? Where was child services? And finally, given all of the above, why wasn’t the psychiatrist more careful - this patient should have been being seen weekly given the powerful medication combination. Also - where was the basic education on medication interactions? I can’t believe they were giving this poor child cold medication on top of everything else. It’s just so tragic!
The seven fold increase in diagnosis I feel is due to the fact this disorder has only been acknowledged in children in the last dozen years or so. It doesn’t mean it was never there before, its just that now it has a name. We have been seeing the same scary increases in the dx of Autism - and I personally don’t believe it wasn’t there before, I think its because the we now have a name to attach to the symptomology.
[Sculpture of mother and daughter by Nancy Schön]
Liz | 10:37 AM | Uncategorized
Missouri: Mental Illness Stops Here
The great state of Missouri (well, I’m guessing it’s great; I’ve never been there) has been chosen to host a mental health initiative in the correctional system there. This is a good thing, because our mental health system fails people over and over again, and they get stuck in prison instead of in treatment facilities. Did you know that 16 percent of incarcerated people in this country are seriously mentally ill? Ugh.
From the Springfield News-Leader:
Missouri Chief Justice Michael A. Wolff will lead the statewide task force, according to a state news release. “There are thousands of persons with mental illnesses incarcerated in our state prisons, and there are thousands more on probation and parole who need mental health treatment,” Wolff said. “We believe this initiative will enhance Missouri’s efforts to reverse the worsening effects of mental illness by enabling the state’s three branches of government to formalize a strategic plan to help offenders deal with their illnesses and become more productive members of society.”
[Image of Missouri state flag from the Missouri State Archives.]
Liz | 2:42 PM | Uncategorized
TTWS Policy
I love the fact that this blog even has a policy. I feel so official! But I want to clarify some things.
1. If you say anything personal about another … person, I will not publish it. Tit for tat doesn’t interest me.
2. If you say anything racist or homophobic, I will not publish it. Oh, or sexist. Or anti-Semitic, now that I think about it. You get the idea.
3. I do not publish anonymous submissions. If you leave a comment with your name and a valid email address, but don’t wish to use your real name, that’s fine. I understand that some of these issues can be sensitive, and privacy is absolutely allowed. But I have to verify that you exist, you know?
I guess that’s all for now. Three policies is kind of weak. I’ll think of more soon.
Liz | 1:00 PM | Uncategorized
