Top result of image googling "mean Yolanda". In the process, I learned that Yolanda is originally from the Greek, meaning violet or purple -- and connotes royalty.
>>> IN HONOR OF THIS SPOOKY SEASON:
1. First of all, I called my Mom this morning, and had a great and long conversation -- glancing on politics a few times without any blow-ups, and of course I made sure that Mom knows that it was her DEMANDING WAYS (which I couched in nicer words), that prepared me for everything I've faced -- and will face, and I love her so deeply for that.
If any goblins git her in Raleigh tonight -- at least she got my love beforehand. And I broke NEW TERRITORY by apologizing for my intemperate words last we spoke. Mom countered that, "Well, I shouldn't have stated my opinion" -- meaning hers, and I said that I really need to respect her opinions whether I like them or not, but since we aren't likely to change each others' opinions on anything, we should just avoid those topics.
I think this is another signal that I've advanced a little. Previously, I was so angry at what has happened to me, our country, and so much more -- and especially that I was forced to listen to all the bull crap of "religion", politics, etc. -- things that SUPPORTED any kind of abuse of me that Christians, conservatives, etc. wished to meet out, that I felt I had a right to force everyone to listen to how I think -- this is why my email list is nearly all conscripts and I'm loath to take certain types off.
2. Actually, there is no "2" -- I just wanted to say that I will tell the story, "The Day Scott Kenan Became Yolanda", after number 3.
3. I think this is the saddest story, although I'm sure the authorities know more of what happened than is reported by HuffPost. Cases like this show the impossibility of GOOD watchfulness of people -- even WITH psychiatric help -- can't prevent such tragedies, at least not completely.
And beyond that, our dependence on the medical/chemical balancing act for mental illness is going into a breakdown. It promotes the idea of "no fault" of ANYONE, really, for their behaviors -- don't like someone's words or actions, then MEDICATE THEM -- they are not responsible!!! Get a doctor's or politician's orders to do so if necessary.
Before about 1975, most psychiatry was about talk therapy -- a slow, painstaking and EXPENSIVE approach to things. It didn't always work, and the chemicals coming out DID seem to work -- and I'm not saying they don't, but they can be horrifying if you take them.
People act on their beliefs, which are only thoughts we entertain enough to be taken as a given. OFTEN we are incorrect (think of those who differ with you politically), but we sure can defend the truest or silliest beliefs even putting our lives in jeopardy.
Talk therapy forces the individual to sort through beliefs and prejudices, to cull the negative or destructive ones, and to bring out the loving and practical ones. Drugs only mask the symptoms -- and often only for a while, and then a new drug must be found.
Now, if you are a linear thinker -- and especially if disposed toward any kind of self-righteousness (like the Republican Party, conservative Christianity, and similar organizations espouse), talk therapy is NOT likely to work. You are best to stick to just drugs. They will likely at least subdue you and keep you out of trouble. But if you have an open mind and an actual belief in healing and your own possible worthiness, you are better off getting to the ROOT of your problems (and successes), and explore your beliefs.
Decades ago, my favorite spiritual teacher, Dr. J. Kennedy Schultz, pastor of the Atlanta Church of Religious Science and President of that denomination, told me that no one is free unless they can put on and take off their beliefs as if they are fashions for different seasons.
That sounded CRAZY to me for some years -- until I found that ALL beliefs have a truth to them in at least one or two levels of reality, and then once you become familiar with a lot of levels of consciousness, you drop the judgment that some are high and low -- and play them like a pipe organ with a full range of sound.
The first I heard about this was from moving-pictures acting pioneer, Lillian Gish, when she spoke in Swasey Chapel at Denison University, about 1972 -- the tiny woman on stage filled that space like a mighty pipe organ. Then, years later in late 1981, I met Lillian Gish at the US State Department cocktail party before the dinner for the 1981 Kennedy Center Awards. It was rather comical, and at her suggestion, we paraded around the party, eventually landing in front of the dapper Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., whom I spoke with as well.
From my memoir, should you care to read more: http://laterdaysoftennesseewilliams.blogspot.mx/2013/10/chapter-7-dinner-at-seven-thirty.html
Anyway, here is the sad story, my own will follow it:
This is especially sad. The kid never showed ANY sign of violence, and although they decry lack of psychiatric help, he was OFF meds (un-named -- and his mental illness is also un-named), so he WAS getting help -- just not taking meds, but never being violent or threatening, WHO would realize he could do such a thing???
The New York man who beheaded his mother before jumping in front of a train Tuesday night was off his medication and scheduled to see his psychiatrist,...
3. HOW did I become "Yolanda", and WHY did it last only a day???
Here are your answers:
In 1990, when I was incarcerated in the Dekalb County, Georgia jail awaiting trial for 15 weeks for simple Trespass, one day a new inmate was brought in -- a huge 6' 3", football-player build guy who was mad as hell and whose personality seemed like someone always high on Meth.
Within an hour, he had settled into his cell (cell doors were only closed and locked over-night, unlike that one or two hours per day than any of the many cell blocks I was on in New Hanover County Jail -- which technically is illegal and abusive by not only International Law, but US standards), looked around a bit, then grabbed me, told me I was now his bitch, and renamed me Yolanda, which everyone in the cell block had to also call me.
He invited me into his lair, to let me know he would always treat me tenderly -- as long as I like his giant schlong up my behonkus, and was looking forward to our honeymoon later on that evening. As you might imagine, I had mixed feelings about this -- but mostly fear.
However, two hours later, he got into a fight and hurt another inmate -- then was sent to solitary confinement for a week -- never returning to our "dorm".
So, I suppose you could say my name was once Yolanda -- I just never CONSUMMATED the dang thing -- pity.
This strikes me as a fairly lame story, and I doubt I should title my next memoir MY NAME WAS YOLANDA.
People might think I have ROYAL PRETENSIONS!!!
Scott
Well, I hope you have enjoyed the month of October as much as I have -- I'll now be shedding this slimy, smelly costume and SHOWERING UP!!!
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