Modern Stream of LIfe – poetry by Alice M. Pollock (?70′s?)

I’m over the hill, so they say,
Not really in the stream of life,
Just sitting, watching beside it,
wondering more with each birthday
if, some day there’ll be no housewife
because of that equal rights bit
and when women make their own bed
will they then like lying in it;
I hope, if wrong, they can unthread
the pattern, and to man commit.

Things that folks throw out yesterday,
they’re wishing they had kept today -
they’re acquiring money value;
and drugs that some folks take today,
they wish they hadn’t yesterday -
it’s something that is hard to undo.

Babies aren’t blessed events now,
they pollute and they overcrowd,
say ecologists; should ration,
they say, just one or two allow;
wonder if mom woud be more proud
if she disposed of all but one
and still could history repeat
with hidden bulrush baby ark?
I think God’s wisdom is complete,
His ecology the flood-mark.

Children learn sex with A.B.C’s
and can discuss it with such ease,
parents take another fade-out.
Youth is highly educated
and well equipped to get ahead,
even to the planets, no doubt.

Oh, one may be over the hill,
but find life today exciting,
trying to weigh the pros and cons
of the stream, downhill or uphill;
but it’s the little things I’m righting
that makes me ask, “What paragons”
with beans in the pressure cooker
and the lid simply won’t come off;
electricity does concur
with clock and backwards it takes off.

Style change

I have adjusted the style of this blog to improve readability.  It had blue text which was too small for older readers.  Hoping this helps.

Early Memories of Grandma Pollock – post 1

Posting these writings of Grandma have triggered memories of this woman.  Here are some from the early 60′s.

First, her house on 678 Grand Marais Road East in Windsor….as a small child, it was so different from any of the other homes that I had known or been to.

I doubt there are many of those homes left, they were small — enclosed porch, enter to living room, bedroom and bathroom on right, dining room, then kitchen at the back, with a 2nd bedroom, i think.  The yards were long and narrow, lots of rooms for gardens and kids to play.

When you entered grandma’s porch it was full of stuff, stuff for doing plant arrangements, gardens, and who knows what else.

When you went into the living room, piles of newspapers would be removed from the couch and stacked with other piles around the room. The furniture was big and old, and there plants growing everywhere and stuff, lots of stuff.  As a kid, it was fascinating.  I don’t think I ever went past the living room, the dining room generally had boxes in it, for some project or competition she was on .  What was in the boxes? well, she kept every label from every can she ever ate because in those days to enter a competition you sent can labels. Another box was full of boxtops.   She won more competitions than anyone I knew, from creative writing or just sheer volume of entries.  There was a large upright piano in the dining room, but no one played it.

She was a big woman back then, and was active in her horticultural society.    When I first remember her, she would have still been working for the government of Canada (?) in customs and excises or it’s equivalent.  She would bid on boxes of items seized at the border.

The combination  of competitions and border auctions  led to interesting gifts for Christmas — memories of items from around the world, along with a Jolly Green Giant stuffed toy.

I have a recollection of a hairnet and black hair.  Big jowls and always in a dress, like most women of her time. She wore glasses, I think.

It was clear, that Grandma loved me.  There was no question in my mind, that this woman cared about me.   It was also clear that she was different.   She was ready for a visit, and I don’t remember her complaining about the length of our stay, though it could never have been long.  Shucks, we never stayed for dinner, nor do I ever remember using the washroom.

Ode to the Night — poetry by Alice M. Pollock

An ode to the night is what you ask
I write, but not in the limelight to bask
As a fail planted seed this poem has slept
You, as the spring, stir what winter has kept
safe in its bosom until time says NOW.
Listeners of the night, to Him I bow
My head is grateful thanks for his great care
When stillness of the nights with me did share
Until the sound I listened for was there
A blessed thump, sweetest sound in the air
A bike came home, safe in His arms, my heir
To a parent’s share of blessed wear and tear
Listener’s of the night, now that tires four
I listen for, His care is as before
No ode to the night I wish to share more.

Color Blindness by Alice M. Pollock

Peter, in Grade 3 and his Uncle Brian, in Grade 9, were going shopping, both color blind. Peter said, “I think I should by a pair of purple pants like Brian’s.” Brian’s previous purchase wasn’t purple, but was of a colour suited only for “Little Black Sambo”.

Peter’s color blindness had recently come to light when we discovered that it is a family trait. Controversy over colors between Peter and Brian is highly amusing. We laughed about the pants. Peter, rather defensively said, “Well, anyway, I had more colors in my sky at school than anybody.”

Brian’s eye defect had just been discovered too. A girlfriend and he had a mutual dentist. She said, “I’m not afraid I just look up in his big blue eyes.” “His eyes aren’t blue, they’re green” answered Brian. He came home and wanted me to affirm it. I took him for an examination.

On my next trip to the dentist, I told him this story. He informed me that he is also color blind. He said he was in college before he found out. “How?” I asked. “I was painting a cow and it didn’t look right to me, so I had my eyes tested.” “What color were you painting it?” I asked. “Green”, he replied “and I wanted it red.”

Brian’s brother Jack was working on the railroad when he had a chance to advance a little, with considerable more remuneration. It required an eye test. Having found out shortly before that he was color blind, he was afraid he would goof on the test. He did. His fellow employees had briefed him thoroughly. “No matter what you think, no matter what they show you, the colors will be such and such.” He stuck to the colors, no matter what he thought. Brotherly love or brotherly humour? At any rate another job was saved for someone.

Will someone educate the educators to detect color blindness in our youth? Children are smarter than we think. They cover up their imagined color stupidity very successfully, at home and at school, but, in so doing, must create within themselves a bit of a psychological problem.

Their color blindness certainly creates one at home. Brian would wear thin an intemperately coloured shirt while some of pleasing color would just gather dust. I had to grin and bear it. Now, that we know, a better understanding on both sides exists.

Brian’s story was that they just didn’t teach him his colours in grade one.

Jack didn’t have a story. He just wouldn’t finish his art work, even though that was all that stood between him and his diploma. He said he used to look at the other pupil’s paint boxes to see what color they were using.

Teachers, if a sky has too many colours, you might check the ground too.

A test for this defect is simple, quick, yet doesn’t seem to be included in an examination unless requested.

Color blindness can be funny but it can also be a problem. We need a little more togetherness on it.

Ps. Children in story – Alice Pollock’s grandson Peter Goslin, and sons Jack Pollock and Brian Pollock, written about 1937 (sic –note from Jayne, I’m thinking that should be 1957)

What I feel about getting older — by Alice Pollock (1978)

I might as well like it because I’m getting there anyhow.

Have you noticed how very close Xmases come together now? I start in January to shop for next Xmas and I barely manage to get everything wrapped for delivery before the big day. The great grandchildren keep coming and I don’t have to do a thing about it, except shop.

So many men and women open doors for me and my cart when shopping and often younger women smile while just passing, in deference to my age, I suppose.

Many doors are opened for the old folks in our country not all can be taken advantage of when one is still cling to one’s own home.

It is most difficult to swing being independent now and keeping the home, with jobs needing to be done and one is unable to do them. Repairs are terribly expensive and the little jobs go undone. To me, the house is a fulltime job and I haven’t been able to swing it to enjoy senior citizen’s activities.

It’s getting a little harder to use the bus for transportation and taxis are expensive.

I have multiple medical problems but thank God and the powers that be for medical and drug coverage.

Thanks too for the monthly cheque which makes the monetary part of old age so secure.

To be perfect honest though, I’m quite worried about the future – with the home and garden I can’t keep on coping and neither do I feel equal to moving. Things kind of own me, and they take the place of people, somewhat. To dispose of almost everything and then work on the house to sell is a worrisome job. Then when moved, my lifestyle must change. I envy the folks who made the move when younger and could cope. The truth of it is the whole of my life all I asked for was a small happy home with a bit of ground for a garden

When I was young, I didn’t know how I’d feel when I got elderly. Now I wish I had understood when my mother was elderly, but at least, I understand the younger ones who don’t understand

This at seventy-three is how I find old age –time which for medical reasons I can’t utilize, frustrations for the writing I had planned to do when I had time and for which now I don’t have the inclination or even the same mentality.

If some younger person reads this article and decides to do what they’ve wanted to do, now, then this will have been worth the half hour or so it took to write it.

Note: this would have been written before Grandma’s trip to the senior’s centre and then apartments.

Smallpox by Alice M. Pollock

This factual story of the smallpox epidemic in the Windsor, Ontario, Canada area in 1924; I write to jog memories of one horrible killer disease which has, apparently, been eradicated, thanks to diligence in applying the prevention available to us in the form of vaccination. In years gone by, folks like my mother, born 1859, died 1941 vaccinated themselves. The Boy Scout motto, “Be prepared”, is always in order, for as the little boy who opened the door and said “the kitten just leaked in”, so may an old or killer disease leak in.

As I remember, fifty-nine people in the Windsor area in this epidemic contracted smallpox, fifteen deaths resulted In two days at the end of February, 1924, five deaths occurred, three in Windsor, one in Amhertsburg and one in Detroit. All of the cases were apparently traceable to the death of one Windsor man, four of the victims being relatives of his. Noone who had not been vaccinated at some time, survived.

A news item from Britain at this time said, “Dr. Herman Joseph Anisley, a thirty-seven year old pathologist who carried out a post-mortem on one of the first victims, a Pakistani girl, died at an isolation hospital in Britain.” Another item, “A football game was postponed at Bradford because of the smallpox.”

Our boarder at that time whom I shall call Eddie (not his real name) was feeling “under the weather” and visited our family doctor who also happened to be the doctor for the City of Windsor. He gave him medication, presumably for influenza. Eddie came home, went to bed, sweat profusely, soaking the bedding. When spots developed, I called the doctor. He lost no time coming. His vist, however, was not of the bedside manner. With coat on, hands in pocket, from the head of the stairs and not in close range to Eddie, he exclaimed, “Oh, my God ,I don’t doctor smallpox!”  Eddie held out his payment but the doctor, hands still in pockets, made a hasty retreat to the downstairs portion of our small house Having brought vaccine, he vaccinated my husband and I. We had both been vaccinated as children That doctor is now deceased but I record his professional non-treatment of Eddie in no derogatory manner, but simply a statement of fact as to the horror of smallpox.

Eddie’s face soon seemed to be just one big pox, it was so completely covered. He ate nothing. He requested only water I took him squeaky clean milk bottles full of tap water, having no ice. Replenishing them often, I found the empties so slimy from the pox on his hands, I had to watch lest they slip from my grasp.  If our doctor could not or would not treat him, how could we be expected to have the knowledge to treat this disease? Eddie begged us not to send him to the “Pest House”, but the “Pest House” it was. The ambulance attends said they expected to go later that night to remove his body. Eddie was under the impression if one did not annoy or scratch the pock marks, one would not be scarred; being tall, handsome and single, he determined not to scar himself. Just after Eddie went to the “Pest House”, a fellow a few doors away, went also. He took one look at Eddie and asked if he would look like that. The reply was, “I’m afraid you wil.” “Then I don’t want to live,” he said – he didn’t! Eddie was a fighter; they gave him up three times, I was asked by staff member, later, if Eddie were crabby when he was not ill – he wasn’t.

In the meantime, my husband and I were quarantined of course, I think for about three weeks. We had no phone and anxiously awaited the newspaper each night to see if Eddie had died. When my husband developed three pock marks, I pictured myself alone, with him in the “Pest House”, perhaps I’d even be a widow at eighteen years of age and my family so far away Our house was as isolated as the “Pest House”! Talk about people avoiding you like the plague, they did! They wouldn’t enter the block unless they lived there or had business there. No one would touch our money or our empty milk bottles until the quarantine was lifted. I had just knit a sweater for a neighbour for which she reimbursed me. When the smallpox sign went up, she burned it fast. A pregnant friend had been visiting us just prior to Eddie’s spots. She spent anxious moments later, but the disease did not spread to anyone through our case, to my knowledge. The friend said, “Just to think that tray that Eddie returned, untouched, looked so tempting, I almost offered to eat it myself.” Well, my husband developed no more spots and wasn’t ill.

In due time, Dr. Fred Adams (now deceased) arrived re fumigation and releasing us to the outside world. Triple the customary amount of disinfectant was burned in Eddie’s rooms and our bed-sitting room. The fumes were so strong that night that we moved our bed to the kitchen but were still afraid of not waking up. Yet, Dr. Adams said, personally, he believed fresh air and sunshine would kill the germs more effectively than any other medium.

I don’t remember how long it was, whether days or weeks until I heard that unforgettable step on the verandah; I peaked and quickly thought of locking the door but Eddie had seen me. How horrid that would have been of me but I just froze, I guess. What a homecoming for a man who had virtually returned from the dead! How did Eddie react to my fear – with the same hearty laugh and then I was reassured. My reaction wasn’t a recoiling; it was merely one of shock. He was so thin, with his chin down in his collar like old Andy Gump. He really didn’t look like the same man. His face was badly scarred, but after all, they were only depressions.

Eddie’s laugh was short-lived. I soon learned that the scars had gone deeper than his face. Perhaps others reacted the way I had. He left our home shortly after. At the time he was stricken with the small pox he held a good job in Windsor, owned a car and real estate (I believe two houses). The next and only time I heard from him after was through a mutual friend who happened to see him on a Detroit street. After they chatted awhile, Eddie asked him for a quarter for a cup of coffee. I wonder now, if he is alive and if so, where? He had been a very likeable man.

As for me, I can’t look at a child with chickenpox without reliving that horrible trauma.

The little girl who had just learned her colour said in her payers, “God bless yellow and pink”. Today, the “Pest House” is the “Isolation Hospital”. We have many counselling services available. We have made tremendous strides in the medical field. Do we thank God enough for new life-saving services, medical procedures and the knowledge and perseverance of those whose discoveries they have been?

The above is written by my paternal Grandmother.  It was given to me by my father and I share it with you and family. I have tried to keep the punctuation and spelling as Grandma had it. Feel free to comment, or add information. Grandma was someone that I admired.  These stories were written by hand, through multiple drafts, and then she had someone type them for her.   I wonder how her writing would have been in this day and age with the advantages of wordsmithing provided by software such as  MicrosoftWord. 

Anniversary With A Difference by Alice M. Pollock (written in 1986, 1905-1988?)

This, the 25th day of Feb. 1986, is the third anniversary of my move from the Essex Nursing Home, Essex, On, Can to my Essex County Housing Authority home, a senior’s apartment.

Via this factual condensed story, I want to give thanks in celebration with a message somewhat like “Buyer Beware” – in this day of “Miracle drugs” one must evaluate carefully the chemical answer as all drugs are not for all people.

I was a novelty when I came here in more ways than one: a wrong way Corrigan (seldom does a nursing home patient leave to maintain an apartment); a novelty arriving with a small television, one fork, knife and spoon and little else; to some who had seen me “Before and After” I was not only a novelty but a “Miracle”.

At my first breakfast in the nursing home, folks were conversing in shocked tones about the large gas explosion in Essex that morning. I looked and felt like I had blown in with that wreckage – hands swollen, crippled, almost useless; walk limited, slow shuffling; balance poor, lurching; involuntary shaking of right hand when standing or sitting; right foot pawing like a horse when standing (my sister not understanding had stabbed me with “Do you want the music on?”; speech interrupted by a blankness (word loss); writing difficult, almost illegible; falling backwards; worst of all was the dread facial mask (my face as stiff as my body made an effort to emulate a smile appear grotesque).

I arrived here at the apartment on a Friday, a smile on my face, a song in my heart and a faith that God would engineer everything for me. He did, in a marvelous way, His wisdom and timing perfect. Two lady friends from Windsor arrived laden with card table, two lawn chairs (loaners), gifts of odds and ends and sandwiches. I upended my small suitcase for the third chair and lunch never tasted better. He knew with five years out of circulation I needed to feel like an entity again – He took care of that via accomplishments of mine being honoured that evening and next, sort of like a re-birth! On Monday, some beautiful furniture and small appliances, etc, arrived, free gratis – a lady, unknown to me and I to her had died Friday, requesting only that her possessions be appreciated; they were, what came here!

1978 saw this story emerging with involuntary movements of my right knee, perplexing and disturbing. My internist added heart pills to heart pills. At my family doctor’s, after a long wait in the waiting room (my knee was like a rebellious child when sitting) I blurted out “I can’t stand it any longer!”. It was to the hospital then, but as he was to be away my internist would be in charge. I was jumped from two diabetic pills a day (which I had taken for several years) to fourty-four units of insulin. Now, my mind also was in a turbulent and rebellious state – always independent, I would now need a nurse to administer insulin each day as my eyes and hand tremor would preclude me injecting myself. The Special Services at the hospital had all the answers – but they weren’t my answers because of the completely overlooked real devastating problem. As my stay, nearly a month, was worsening my condition, I left — it would now take four years of intense trying and with the help of three bars to get in and out of the bathtub unaided, though it had been no problem when I entered the hospital.

Back home I went to a Senior’s card party close by – I couldn’t sit and my partner said, “I think you have Parkinson’s disease.” Shortly after, a lady guest on a call-in radio program was giving advice on beneficial colours and also an answer to one question. On a million to one chance (it seemed), I got on a line, though not my habit and said the one word required “East” as to the direction of my house in Windsor, ON. I asked “Will I be making a move soon?”. I had lived in the same spot for about fifty-five years, but everything seemed to be in limbo at this time. She replied: “Yes, you will be in the hot summer months, July or August – you need to see a neurologist!” It was then, I think, late May or early June.

I hurried to my family doctor and though I had cancelled an earlier appointment with a neurologist, I now asked for another. It was with a very thorough Oriental doctor. He conducted tests and thought it might be early Parkinson’s but left the medication to my family doctor as an earlier ulcer condition might cause bleeding of the stomach.

I was by this time leaning on my daughter to drive me places and to push me around our mall in a wheelchair. Taking care of business was difficult, like standing in line at the bank (one day a friend noted and took my place in the line until she reached the wicket, (one of the niceties we remember), writing a cheque was a small trauma as was every little decision, even selection of groceries.

No one counseled me, but I expected, with Parkinson’s, to get steadily worse so I decided to enter an institution. Like a zombie, I started to dispose of my prized possessions via give-away or garbage. I signed a General Power-of-Attorney to a family member, at the worst possible time in Windsor for a house sale (sale a disaster, a give-away)!  How untrue to form, I , who had always been so independent, bucking life’s storms, on my own at fifteen, married at sixteen, now signing away my rights to govern myself, to make my own decisions!  I, who dearly loved and prized “Things”, especially old things, sentimental things, etc., who had worked so hard for many of them, now blowing them all away as with a puff of a dandelion!  I locked the door of my home for the last time in mid-August in sweltering weather as the radio lady had said. I chose the Essex Nursing Home, about eighteen miles from my home. It would be a six month wait, three at my daughter’s and three at my son’s.

At my son’s, a friend of his, an orthopedic surgeon came to the house one night to look at my hands. He said “I wouldn’t operate on those hands, it’s like gout, but it isn’t gout, what medications are you on?” As I listed them, he stopped me with “That might do it” a water pill, I believe.  That was my first inkling of a medication problem.

Born in 1905, I had now accumulated quite a variety of afflictions and complaints, some diabetic related, as I arrived at the nursing home with quite a collection of daily medications which I continued to take along with a heavy dose of Parkinson’s pills which I had postponed taking due to fear of bleeding. There were trial ones, too , now, plus the occasional ones, antibiotics, etc.  My allergies to certain drugs, food products had always been a problem, as they were here.  One day my lady doctor said “That stomach pill you are taking at mealtimes can make your Parkinson’s worse, in fact it gave a man Parkinson’s” .  I promptly quit the pill but my hietal hernia let me know in no uncertain terms. Her was my second inkling of a medication problem. I reasoned – if the stomach pill may have caused the Parkinson’s then perhaps,  I would not know need the Parkinson’s pill.  I quit them against the doctor’s advice.  Then I read of a lady who went through an awesome ordeal with Parkinson’s including mental illness, etc., as a result of a tranquilizer drug. A third inkling. I sent for Parkinson’s information. I reasoned if the lack of a chemical in my brain was causing my trouble, then perhaps some of my medication was causing that lack. I quit, on my own, practically all my pills, almost cold turkey.

In the meantime, my doctor reduced the insulin gradually to zero, put me back on diabetic pills, then reduced them to zero.  I went from chubby to skinny (114 lbs). I had improved my walking, by pushing the wheelchair patients, my stiffness lessened. I had taken on the Presidency of the Resident Council and that kept me very busy. However,  I now began to feel like a caged bird and wanted out!

One day, I started on foot into the outside world, scared stiff! God sent an angel (in human form) to walk with me and after that it came easier. I checke dthe town out and decided to stay here as Windsor would mean a high-rise. My application for an apartment here was not taken seriously at first, but I persisted and I’m sure my Heavenly Father put in a word for me too, so here I am, Bless Them!

Though the Parkinson’s has left no Visible sign it did leave its mark in various ways. My reversal of the disease was fortunate as left too long it is irreversible. Some might say it hap-in-chance, this circuitous route to recovery, but I’m sure He had the route planned.

The transitions haven’t been easy: institutionalized care, various adaptations to an apartment (the first in my life); adapting to new doctor, dentist, stores, services; remembering a sea of new faces, names. On a walk of discovery one Autumn day, leaves falling, I thought, this isn’t real “Brigadoon?”. Gathering the essentials for comfort and the unbelievable number of small things needed sapped the energy. As a stroke victim (suspected small ones in Windsor), I had to learn the simplest things over again.

After sharing in the nursing home with an undefined number of people, now my most precious tangible, banal possession is my TOILET! Intangible? Well, even one’s smile can be taken away and given back – Praise Him!

I hold no resentment toward my former Windsor doctors whom I held in high regard, or the hospital whose collective alertness could have saved me from all this upheaval, loss, suffering, trauma, in which should have been the best years of my life. Just a case of a sensitive system acting horrendously to calculated cures. I suspect, in future, “Computer doctors” will quickly tap out the answers, but I hope our “Great Physician” keeps an eye open , too.

Here I escape the medical production line and my physician is cognizant and most tolerant of my chemical sensitivities – on reflection, the clock ticking, I felt a sense of urgency to record this story and hopefully, others soon as an obligation to Him, my Saviour.

 

The above is written by my paternal Grandmother.  It was given to me by my father and I share it with you and family. I have tried to keep the punctuation and spelling as Grandma had it. Feel free to comment, or add information. Grandma was someone that I admired.  These stories were written by hand, through multiple drafts, and then she had someone type them for her.   I wonder how her writing would have been in this day and age with the advantages of wordsmithing provided by software such as  MicrosoftWord. 

Trying to Catch a Bird by Stamping Feet

The following was written by a dear friend of mine, Kim.  I imagine it being read in the style of slam poetry.

Kim is a brilliant artist, a wonderful mom, a great wife/partner, a minister, a woman, a daughter, a friend. 

 

Read it, ponder it, then read it again.

*****************************************************************************************************************

 

 
···  words  ···

 
words are preposterous – words are not the way into me

into this place of darkness and madness and mania and flight

there are no words, no sounds, to draw you in

if I were to try and tell you who I am – how I am – what I am

it would be like trying to catch a bird by stamping feet

as you approach by yelling at it  -

hey bird  – hey bird  – hey bird –

 

the bird will do what it needs to survive – it will fly away

and so will I – the  ‘wisdom’ of mania will urge me to soar

and the darkness of depression will push me to fall….

either way, I leave

 

because words are formed thought –

because they require spelling to be understood

and grammar for context and clarity

they are bound by a structure that does not allow for chaos

and because my thoughts at the moment are made up of

smooth and shrieking, despairing and cruel, urging, ever urging voices,

voices that tell me of their secret plans but know I will not tell

I do not think that language will serve us well

because the voice you hear, the voice that finds the surface

sounds familiar, like the person you know and love

sounds intelligent, like someone who is sane and responsible

sounds …well… ok….

 

because the voice you hear is the voice of the moderate

this voice allows some misery to seep through but oh, not all,

it will allow some pain to shout out but not the roar, the screaming,

it will allow the hello and how are you and I care, I care,

to coincide with a smiling face, a soft tone, outstretched arms

but not the snarl, not the face of the reaper

or the weapons of words that lie like grapes on a plate

waiting there, enticing me –

no – the biting, cold, gunshot words that I know will break skin

cut the deepest;  shatter perception; stay on the fruit tray

and instead I admit to feeling grumpy and I snap but do not bite

 

the ugliness of my depression knows how to pass unnoticed, unheard -

it understands the twists and turns of inquiry and passes, always passes -

 it even allows the tourists – doctors, residents, family and friends

safe passage in my brain, a tour, rooms roped off, the guide entertaining,

it knows, is sure,smug in it’s belief that there is no way

to be caught – no way to be tamed -no way to be taken

and so it holds me prisoner but tells me I am free

 

a shackled tiger – a whale in a tank – a monkey on a chain

they are wondrous beings – but they are kept – as am I.

 
*****************************************************************************************************************

Kim allowed me to share this writing with you stating “combatting mental health stigma and breaking the silence around it is something I am deeply committed to and so I open the door widely to my battered brain.”

 

I ask that you honour her wishes and do your part in breaking down those doors.

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