After all the craven back talking, we are so accustomed to in this town, I did something quite different: I said it loud, pointedly, colorfully, but to their faces. (speech is posted on the blog and will also be on the KVHD board meeting record.) Blogging is impersonal and one sided; however, even when I said the things I said, there was no response from any of the parties.
But that is what I do, I realize. I step in front of trouble and don't act kindly as it asks me to move aside while it continues to propagate malignant results.
I remember a now ex-employee, who left the area because he didn't want his kids growing up around the people in this valley. And also the hospital itself put it over the edge for him
He told me one day that if I wanted him to be a witness in court for me, he would do it.
I said "why?"
He then told me our current and only radiologist had told him some unseemly things about me while they were at work. He said he thought it was unprofessional and dimwitted, and that I should sue her.
Shortly after that I happen to go in for blood work and came out to find Dr. Frazier parked near my car.
I thought, "Oh, no, should I just walk by or talk to her?"
Well as it goes, I stopped and talked to her. I never raised my voice but dispelled her gossip and went on my way.
Whether she understood or not, was not the point, the point was that while she chose to broadcast her judgements to everyone but me, I simply told her what I was doing and why.
I didn't expect anything to come of it, and it never did. But I felt good. And that's what matters. And we didn't have to sue her in court as was suggested.
But again, my strengths are not necessarily palatable to many, but if there were trouble I would be and am the person people come to for help. If you're shooting squirrels you get a pellet gun, but if you're shooting big game you come to me.
It's nothing new and the people who know me, the ones who have known me for years, would not expect me to do anything else. And they would also not expect me to do it like anyone else, because I'm not.
And neither are you reader. You are unique and have strengths with which you have been given to serve.
My strength, is considered a weakness and a mental health problem, but only by people who know nothing about it.
I'm a bi-polar American.
I'm different, I don't need drugs, "my brain makes chemicals junkies would jump through my ears to get to."
It's like driving a race car, the steering is sensitive, just a touch on the gas pedal and your tires spin then you go squealing past or sometimes over everything.
It takes time and training and most certainly awareness to drive a vehicle like this.
After years and years of accidents and fatalities, I've finally reached a point where I recognize the necessity for brakes. (Sometimes I like to do donuts though.)
This is now my issue: helping the bi-polar understand and change the image of the label thus changing their own self image which has likely been attacked repeatedly. And most certainly the healthcare system which on average has little or no clue how to medically handle us.
I've written a book, "The Chronicles of the Bi-Polar Reporter," and started the second book surrounding the oddity which is the Kern Valley, called, "The Valley of Fear." (I'm still waiting to see how it ends)
There are two more books in the series where our main character takes on drug dealers, the police, and then finally Sacramento. The books are fictional, but contain many pieces to the puzzle of the NASCAR mind.
Sometimes one must be a little crazy to get anything done.
I don't care anymore who thinks I'm crazy; but I do care about the 17 year-old who is cutting himself or herself, feeling suicidal, disenfranchised, and lacking enough self esteem to get past social judgments entrenched in our society.
This will be handled by our video production company as we have begun shooting the low budget film, "The order of the Bi-Polar Disorder." We will be using some of the hospital board meeting footage to highlight the difference between a reporter and a "bi-polar reporter."
The next goal is to make a film which can be a learning tool for hospitals and medical types who know nothing about this and have read far too much Freud.
The first book in the series should be available this fall, and that is a book about mania. If you don't feel manic from cover to cover then I didn't do my job. You may just feel the bursting brain cells as you read along.
That book was written at the end of 2007, when I took a week off in between an assault and a head injury.
As I have stressed confusion between calling something a weakness when it maybe a strength given the right situation.
When I wrote the first book, I sent it to all the people I knew who were readers and read many different genres. I took in their feedback.
Then my friends with a twisted sense of humor had their hands on it.
Then I needed some critical eyes; someone who would not be nice, but would be nit picking every page of it. That was my cousin. Hard person to be around, but she started hammering at the first paragraph.
Next editing was important, but grammatical editing was what interested me. So, I got the most fastidious editor I could find. The type most writers would never dare go to if they were at all sensitive.
What I wanted was a good product, so I opened myself to criticism and scrutiny, and I think the goal has been accomplished to my satisfaction. I'm not interested in sycophants they have agendas and don't tell you everything.
(No crimes were committed and no harm came to animals in the making of these books and films.)
I wish that the Kern Valley Healthcare District thought more about welcoming the criticism so that changes can occur, situations rectified, progress made: I love that kind of stuff. And I hope that will happen and the usefulness of that will bring about a "good product" we all can use with confidence.
The new blog, "The Bi-Polar American," will be up soon and the book samples as well as video will up on that site.
So, it's July 4th weekend and I felt free to tell you readers who you are really dealing with: "The bi-polar reporter."
As our country is experiencing a mass social depression with an economy equally as depressed, don't feel victimized, but use this time to become empowered. Use your strengths whatever they are and wade in and change this country for the better. We fought, we protested, we marched, and those efforts made incremental progress.
So let's do it again. I'm with you.
Here's a sample from the second book in the series, which is again about our valley. It is still under construction, but you get a first peek, even before all the negative, scrutinizing people get their chance.
If you are under 18 or over 40, and do not watch the show "Family Guy," there is language that you may want to avoid. The rest of you have fun.
The Valley of Fear
Chapter 1
Welcome to Temerosa
“You look like shit,” Larry the lump head was telling me as we made our way up the stairs of our new humble abode.
“I’m really grateful to know that, Larry, as my self esteem frequently requires a good toughening up.”
Larry looked around at the mobile home, or the rectangle as I call it. He peaked his head round every corner, of which there were two, and finally declares, “You, Hannah Bennet, reporter, are officially white trash.”
“No, that occurred when I picked you up years ago. Looks like I really have let myself go.”
Larry, a newspaper photographer, had left our former town to follow me on my quest for inner peace.
How we found this place is another story. We literally took out a map, a coin, and a highlighter. After rounds of coffee, a lot of yelling and arguing, we had two choices selected.
That was quite a feat considering how large the state California is and all the possibilities.
Taken into the equation was the fact that I began suffering from some unknown illness which requires that I have the least amount of stress possible.
However, I could not count out working because it was strongly ingrained in me. If I’m not writing, investigating or researching, I’m usually in trouble. But then again, I must admit, even then I’m in some sort of trouble.
Here in this mountain community nestled above the smog and business of city life, I came to heal myself.
The mobile home with a view of the massive lake and surrounding craggy mountain tops seems like a good place to start relaxing.
“Let’s go get the moving truck and the movers and get this thing settled,” Larry says, pacing around in the front yard under the expansive shade tree.
“It’s hot up in these mountains, not like the beach.” He grumbles.
Larry makes a call and moments later an orange and white truck backs into the drive.
I surveyed the contents as they came off the truck. Three sweaty guys were being dogged by Larry as they unload his precious computer and photo equipment.
The largest guy, probably a little old for the work, but muscular arms and legs went with the gray specks in his hair.
“Be careful with that one,” Larry points to the home made label indicating the contents were, I guess, precious.
“I got it, man, don’t worry,” the mover reassures an unreassurable Larry.
I watch the spectacle of all this from a chair with a glass of lemonade in my hand. I had nothing to say about the move, but I’m thinking pretty hard about what I’m going to do now that I’m here.
Larry nervously takes a break with me to have a few gulps of the powdered lemonade that came out of the trunk of the car.
As night fell, the truck was empty and the cartons stacked and organized in the various rooms.
A bed with no sheets or pillows was dumped on the floor of what would be considered a master bedroom, and we raced to get on it. We rolled over on our sides, looking at each other.
“Okay, so we are here,’ I was sighing.
“This is what you need, Hannah, rest, you’re sick.”
Since I flatly refuse to be sick, I say nothing more than, “I will get better you know, I always do.”
“Just to be clear here, I think you need some help getting better. I’ve watched your hands shake, your muscle disappear, your attitude; uh well, it’s gotten pretty bad.”
I am too tired to argue with him, but he knows the last time I saw a doctor I ended up with one less cranial nerve in my head.
There are only12, but this one controls visual and physical balance and equilibrium. Though I built my body to offset the loss and kept reading until my eyes couldn’t take it, I still have to be ever vigilant not to fall and stay out of the dark where I have no ability to walk.
“We will talk about it tomorrow,” I conclude our discussion then roll over and go to sleep.
The Sun comes beaming through the east facing windows early which wakes both Larry and I.
We roll off the mattress and take off in two different directions to the bathrooms. After a short time we head into town to look for a coffee shop, breakfast is overdue.
Since we only brought Larry’s little car, and left mine back at the shop in Desparada, we take a spin in his piece of tin onto the main highway surrounding Lake Presbyteria.
As we head to town we pass a sign for the local hospital. Neither of us says anything, but there’s a strong feeling that comes over me as I see the green sign with the arrow.
We make the turn off the highway, now into the edge of what is considered a city, but more like a little town.
We pass a fast food restaurant, making a mental note of where to get a quick meal.
As we continue down the main drag we see a few grocery stores, a pizza place, and finally a small coffee shop, called, “Bertha’s Place.”
“I guess we should try it,” Larry says as he turns into the pot hole ridden parking lot.
The place is bustling as we go in, it’s Saturday morning, and it seems every retired person in this valley is drinking coffee and reading newspapers.
We grab the only available booth situated next to the front door which has a lovely bell attached to it which hits the glass each time someone arrives, which is every two minutes.
A heavy set waitress with black hair tied back, sets some menus on the table with one hand, and fills our coffee cups with the other.
She quickly heads off without saying a word to pour more coffee at some other table.
Larry looking famished closes his menu then slides it to the front of the table.
He’s staring at me while I peruse Bertha’s menu with not much luster. Lot’s of things to do with eggs, which I hate.
I scan the al a carte section and put together my own desired plate. Then I throw my menu on top of Larry’s to wait for our most pleasant server to return for our order.
“What’s our plan for today anyway,” Larry finally says after watching me closely for more than five minutes.
“I’ll tell you we should do some sight seeing. Check out the river, walk by the lake; maybe even take a ride deep into those mountains out there.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
“Could you get me that newspaper that the gentleman left at that table behind us?” I say to Larry who can just reach an arm over the seat and fetch it.
“What do you want with it?” he was questioning.
“To paper train a dog or to use when I sleep on the park bench. What the hell are you asking me for?”
“You know why I’m asking,” he says almost solemnly. “We came here for you to rest. I’ll do the working, you do the relaxing.”
“How the hell do I relax without working?”
“Well, you stick to writing fiction or something else that won’t involve you in any sort of investigations or conflicts.”
Conflicts? What is life without them?
“Listen partner, I’m just thinking about writing some country crap, nothing serious.”
Larry was pondering the idea when our waitress finally returned with pen and paper. We gave the no nonsense waitress our order and went back to our discussion.
“All right, here’s the paper.” He pulls the small publication back as I try to grab it. “There’s more to this deal then you think.”
I sit back against the large crack in the vinyl seat and sigh waiting to hear what my orders are. And I was thinking if I were alone without this other being, there would be no question as to what I would be doing.
“Hannah, we are making an appointment with a local doctor who can look you over and tell us what to do to make you well again. That is why we came here,” he emphasizes looking me straight in the eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just give me the paper.”
Irritated with me he chucked the damn thing at me, catching me on the chin leaving a slight paper cut.
I open the paper, stretching it out in front of me so I can no longer see Larry or the rest of the crowd.
The waitress came by and pushed our food in front of us while I was laughing at the little backwards newspaper.
“Listen to this Larry, there’s a fishing contest and a story about some high school students on the front page,” I find it amusing.
As Larry chews on his steak and eggs, I go through the paper with a fine tooth comb. I look at the ads which were almost comical. Apparently, there’s a store which sells everything from fishing licenses to household appliances.
I ran through the short list of classified ads which were mostly handyman type ads with a few job listings.
“Hey Larry they need help at the bait and tackle shop, you could do that.” I was saying with my most notorious sarcastic tone.
Larry, like organized people do, already took a job before we even got here. He’s going to freelance his photography, I think some wild life types of pictures. I’m sure his fear of animal life will make that a short term assignment. But at least he has a job.
We finished up our first breakfast in the town of Temerosa, leaving a decent tip, and grabbing the little newspaper on the way out.
The tour began around the dam of the lake and ended an hour later back at the house. Larry was ready to unpack.
We spent the next two days arranging our trailer, but most importantly setting up all the computer equipment. We were both junkies when it came to those things. We could no longer live without checking our email.
When Monday rolled around, Larry was ready with his plans for me.
“Okay, today we go to the local clinic and you will be seen by a doctor.”
I was looking blankly at him. Actually, I was hoping if I did this long enough he would forget about what he just said to me.
“Hello, are you having a 60’s flashback? Can you hear me?”
“I take umbrage to the mention of the sixties when I was only a mere child, not tied dyed in a love fest.”
We leave an hour later on the way to the clinic. We again pass the sign for the hospital and again I have a weird feeling about it. Nothing I can pinpoint, just a feeling.
The clinic looks like an old strip mall with some antique wood siding that looks more rotted than restored.
“I’m already unimpressed here Larry, where did you find this?”
“It doesn’t really matter there’s not much to choose from in these parts of the woods,” he was saying as he pulled the car close to the building.
“I’ll bet the doctor is as old as the building,” I was saying in a minor protest.
We went in to find a waiting room full of people waiting.
“I guess this must be the only game in town,” Larry was observing all the elderly folks lining the chairs. A few small children played at the table full of torn magazines.
We checked in and only a short time later, at least three hours, we were taken into a small examining room where we waited for another hour.
I was sleeping on the exam table and Larry was sitting in a chair his head bent back, when the doctor knocked at the door.
He introduced himself in a friendly way, apologizing for the extended wait. “I’m Dr. Fingle.”
I would say he’s about my age, the middle type; a little overweight and by the bags under his eyes, overworked too.
My attitude was one of distrust; not only because I had been previously damaged with the help of a doctor, but because I knew I was really sick this time and it was getting worse no matter how much I tried to ignore it. That means to me I have to rely on a doctor. Quite a distasteful idea I would say.
I started the conversation complaining about hair loss.
“Do you see this bald spot in the front?” I begin moving my hair to the side so he could see the patch that was missing.
“I’m clogging drains doctor. I have to use a roller on my clothes I’m shedding so much.”
While he was jotting down my complaint I noticed his bald spot on the back of his head.
I’m sure he understands how emotional it is to lose your hair. However, I’m sure his is male pattern balding and not part of some disease process. For a moment I felt sympathy for him that his molting would continue, while mine may just have a chance to be restored.
He continued asking me what my symptoms were and Larry, another male pattern baldness victim, veered the conversation away from the hair into other areas.
“Dr. Fingle, Hannah has lost weight and muscle; she shakes in the mornings hardly able to grasp anything; and quite frankly she’s difficult to deal with, if you know what I mean.”
Fingle pulled out a form and began checking off numerous squares then handed it to us.
“We need some tests run to see what is going on.”
He then told us to come back in a week, which we did.
This time we had an early appointment and we were escorted right in to the examining room. Dr. Fingle came in right behind us.
“Well, it looks like you have an autoimmune disorder called “Grave’s Disease. It is currently escalating your thyroid which accounts for your symptoms. We will put you on some medicine which will retard the overstimulation of the hormone and then just watch you”
I suddenly remembered that my mother had the same thing when she was young. She had told me the story of her lengthy bout with the disorder. She said it made her crazy. Well, she never had far to go and frankly neither do I.
“What about her irritability doctor, is there anything we can do about that?” Larry tosses his personally important question in the pot.
I was glaring at Larry who never even looked at me, but rather was receiving a sympathetic glance from Dr. Fingle.
“Larry, it might make sense to put her on an antidepressant while we get these symptoms in check.”
“I don’t think I need an antidepressant, thank you. I don’t react well to medications, so I take the least amount possible.”
Fingle cajoled me with some story about how antidepressants have some magical qualities that could help a bitch like me become a little tamer. Okay, he didn’t say it like that, but I was reading between the lines.
“Okay, fine, give me the crap and I’ll try it.” I was just trying to get along at that point. They were two and I was only one.
Back at the trailer, we were preparing a big dinner, as we finally found the box I had mislabeled with all the kitchen ware.
Larry, standing over a grossly large piece of beef, sprinkled garlic and salt then wrapped it tight, and slammed it into the oven.
“You got the salad going, or am I going to have to do that too?”
I think Larry is the one that needs the antidepressant, not me. Maybe I’ll sprinkle it over the salad.
“Salad, chop chop,” I tell Larry as I wield a knife over the unsuspecting vegetables, unable to move or escape.
I scrape the colorful mixture into the ceramic salad bowl and end with a “ta-da.”
We curl up on the futon and begin a wrestling match for the TV remote.
“I’m not watching another fucking documentary, I want something either dramatic or really funny,” he complains.
I can’t remove the remote from his grip so I bite his hand and the thing falls loose.
I then program the history channel to learn more about what Hitler did. We all need to know more about what Hitler did.
“Fuck it, you find something I’ll endure it.” He looked quizzically at me that I gave up on our regular family feud for the remote so quickly.
“Don’t be disappointed, I’ll dominate the television some other time.”
He reached over and put his arms around me, giving me a kiss on my chin putting his saliva right into my paper cut.
“Hannah, I want you back,’ he whispers in my ear.
“I’ll be back,” I reassure him while trying not to sound like the “Terminator.”
We fall asleep together with the TV murmuring in the background.
This is the first chapter of the second book in the series, but it does not have a conclusion as its storyline ties right into the drama with the Kern Valley Healthcare District.
The first book, which I will tease soon, will be available this fall.
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