When I was a little kid I loved to dance.  My mom hauled me to classes and the family albums are filled with pictures of me in all sorts of costumes: rosy red taffeta with a polka dot sash and tap shoes, a frilly pink tutu and ballet slippers, a modern dance footless black leotard and a cowboy hat.  But my favorite pre-teen dance class was one for the hula.  I learned to swish my hips “around the island” and make graceful hand movements meant to represent fish and palm trees and sunsets. 

   The teacher would give us printed versions of the words for the songs we danced to.  And in every song there was a musical interlude during which we were to mark time by doing a simple “to and fro” dance step without the interpretive hand motions to match the words of the song.  This part of the dance was marked with the instruction to “vamp.”

   I liked the word “vamp.”  It reminded me of another sort of “vamp,” the mysterious silent screen sirens like Clara Bow who batted their makeup-caked eyes.  But, in reality, the hula definition of “vamp” meant to mark time with a simple step.

On the road to recovery in dealing with my son’s schizophrenia I did a lot of vamping. And it was not a road with smooth upward progress like a chart of the price of gasoline.  It was more like the erratic tracing of a disturbing EKG.  The bouncing ball progress of my son’s recovery was, in large part, mirrored in my own ups and downs.

   Our mutual education and understanding of the disease evolved over time.  For my son, the first major positive step was in admitting that he had a mental illness.  That was my first step too.  However, my realization came fairly early on.  My son, on the other hand, took almost a decade to come to the same understanding. In the intervening years between my admission and his, I vamped. 

I vamped and visited him in hospitals.  I vamped and attended family support groups.  I vamped and advocated.I vamped in and out of courtrooms, jails, and secure wards.  I vamped between state facilities and county mental health systems.  I vamped through several states, sometimes painfully having to leave him behind.  I vamped and continued to love him with a fierce constancy.

   One day, he seemed to grasp the fact that there was something terribly wrong with his life.  One day, we started to talk.  Different from the times he accused me of holding him back and intimating that I was the primary, underlying reason for all his problems.  And, we were able to move him from a hospital in upstate Pennsylvania to Southwest Virginia with the caring and able advocacy of Nan Neese.

   The transition was not without problems, but eventually, with the careful planning of both hospital and county professionals, my son now lives independently in the community in his own apartment.  He has received a lot of help along the way from a lot of people.  Support Services are now an integral, necessary, and helpful part of his life.  His current bond of honesty, trust, and friendship withVicki Frasier gives us both such comfort.

Recovery is based on a collaborative, supportive plan of action. And, all in all, my son’s aims in life are universal but very simple: a safe place to live, someone to love, and something meaningful to do with his time.  Not much to ask.  And we’re all working on it.

   So, I still vamp, but not always, and not in lockstep.  Sometimes I dance to the words and my hands create the images of fish and palm trees and sunsets.  And we laugh more and talk more and dream more.  A dear friend used to say to me when times were rough, “Claudia, remember, it is what it is…for today.”  I would add, “There’s always tomorrow.”

          Claudia Duffy

 

 

“It will be seven years ago in October when I came to Southwestern Virginia.  I had been homeless for some time and was looking at another winter on the streets of Boston.  I got in touch with NAMI in hopes of being referred for services as my mental health issues had become a problem and I hoped for a referral to a shelter as well.

I spoke to Moe Armstrong and he convinced me to apply for services in the Abingdon, Virginia area.  He said they are leading edge and I would be able to be placed in an assisted care home.  I moved to the area and was so grateful to have a place to live, a roof over my head and treatment for my mental illness. 

The clubhouse was another plus.  I so enjoyed going every day to the clubhouse.  It was way out in the country.  There are cows and pasture across the road from the clubhouse.  Being in the company of other people with shared experiences is very meaningful.

In the clubhouse I received a lot of training for leadership.  LEAP was a very important training program for me.  It taught me how to become an advocate for myself and others.  We did letter writing campaigns and email blitzes to our legislators on issues of importance to the mental health community.

After five years in an assisted care facility I was ready to move out on my own.  I was able to find a little house I could afford and made the leap into the world of living independently.  Shortly after I moved I was invited to do WRAP training.  And after that I was invited to go to the Virginia Services Training Program and become a Peer Support Specialist.  The training sent me to Charlottesville, Virginia and I became a fulltime student for a semester. 

After I returned from Charlottesville I did an internship with my service provider Highlands Community Services and a few months later I was hired by them to work as a Peer Support Specialist.

I now teach WRAP classes to my peers in the group homes and at the clubhouse.  I have a meaningful work experience.  I serve on the Consumer Empowerment and Recovery Council, the meeting of regional clubhouse representatives.  I also serve on the Southwestern Virginia Behavioral Health Board for Regional Planning.  And at the clubhouse I serve on the Camp Impact, our clubhouse representatative council.

I have come a long way from being homeless with nothing but worries.  I have a circle of good friends, a good part time job, a place to live, and a more meaningful life.” 

James T.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Hole
  One day when I was a little girl I was walking down the street in my hometown.  I started to cross the street and I fell down into a hole.  I checked myself over and except for a few bumps and bruises I was okay.  But, I couldn’t get out of the hole.  The sides were wet and slippery and I couldn’t climb out.  I would get so far up the wall then I would slide back down again.  I tried and I cried but no matter how hard I tried and I cried I couldn’t get out.  I just knew I was going to die in that hole, lost and alone.  Nobody would ever know where to come and look for me.
  After I had been in the hole for quite a while a man came by.  He told me he would talk to me and maybe I could get out of the hole for a little while but he couldn’t promise me for how long.  He said I’d probably be in and out of the hole my whole life but if I was good I might be able to come out every once in a while.
  So for years I would walk along and everything would seem like it was fine and then BOOM! all of a sudden I found myself back in the hole grasping desperately trying to climb out again.  Every now and then someone would hear me hollering for help and they would stop and offer assistance but I always wound up back in the hole.  Each time I was a little more desperate and a lot less hopeful that I would ever get out and stay out.
  One day I was back in the hole and no matter what I tried I couldn’t get out.  I yelled and yelled but nobody heard me.  It felt like I was in there forever.  I was completely exhausted and could hardly speak.  Suddenly, a stranger appeared out of nowhere and called down to me, “What’s all that yelling about down there?” “I’m stuck down in this hole and I can’t get out,” I cried, “when I do get out I only stay out for a short time before I fall back in here again and I don’t know what to do.”
  The stranger introduced himself and said, “You know, I believe I might be able to help you.  I’ve been down in a hole just like this one and it took a lot of work and commitment on my part but I was finally able to get out of the hole.  That doesn’t mean I’ll never fall back into the hole but I now have the tools to help me back out if I do fall in and keep me from falling back once I’m out.  I’d like to share these tools with you if you interested in learning them.  Then, maybe you too can stay out of the hole.”
  The stranger helped me to recognize how to enjoy the times when I was out of the hole.  He made me look inside myself and I found that I already had the tools to get out of the hole and stay out of it.  I just didn’t know that I had them so I never used them.  Then he showed me how to recognize when I was getting too close to the hole so I could avoid falling back into it again.
  This stranger who had been down in the hole before finally helped me to see that I no longer had to fall in the hole but if I did I had the tools to climb back out and stay out.  So, with the tools that I had, I climbed out of the hole hopefully for the last time.
  For those of you who didn’t recognize the stranger he’s a peer support specialist named James.  The tools to keep me out of the hole are a program called WRAP (Wellness Recovery Action Plan) and the hole is my mental illness.
  Thanks to James, WRAP and God, today I’m the one that’s helping others from falling into their hole.  If by chance they do fall I help show them that they too have the tools within themselves to climb out and who knows maybe even stay out of the hole forever.
 
Sue Eller 04-13-08