The Dysfunctional Family

I'm almost embarrassed to admit that until yesterday I didn't know there was a term for  non-stigmatizing your mental illness. It's called Mad Pride and obviously the "pride" part is a step-sister of Gay Pride, Black Pride, and all the other "pride" designations out there that I probably don't know about. I'm embarrassed because not only do I suffer from chronic depression, but I sometimes write about it in magazines and like now, in  blogs. I even did a story on the stigma of mental illness for a well-known magazine. Until yesterday I might have thought Mad Pride meant something like "everyone is entitled to get angry once in a while, so don't fret about it." But like so many guesses of mine, I'm wrong. From what I gather Mad Pride means ending the shame of not being like the "normals," and it includes illnesses like depression, anxiety, OCD, Bipolar, and everything else on the psychologically dysfunctional spectrum

I wasn't always so distrustful. There was a time when gullibility ruled, and I'd believe just about anything that anyone told me. Driver's Ed in high school is a good example of how I allowed those in authority to control my fate. From the moment I squashed into the back seat of that white nondescript Ford compact that was the standard vehicle for school instruction, I knew I'd be low man on the totem pole--that is to say, I'd have to compete with two high normals, as in kids who were smart and didn't struggle with anxiety and worries as I did. There was Nancy from my junior high school sewing class who looked like she stepped out of Little House on the Prairie and Bob, a schizoid type personality who acted like a juvenile delinquent but scored high enough on SATs to get into Yale. I intuited correctly that Nancy was a pro sewer. I knew this on sight because it was obvious from her demeanor and dress that Nancy had been sewing up a storm for years. She was the

Full disclosure: I didn't vote for President Trump in 2016. I saw him then for what he is now. A bully, a tyrant, a misogynist, a racist, and a liar. But that really doesn't cover it all. Before I dissect his brain, psychologically speaking, consider a few questions: 1. Why does Melania seem so sad? 2. Why does his youngest child never talk? Is he autistic or ADD? 3. Why does Trump think he's so great? Is he not the biggest egotist you've ever seen? 4. Why are there so many people who believe everything he says? 5. Why isn't Trump trustworthy? If you had trouble answering all or any of these questions, don't feel bad. You're in the majority. At least 50 percent of the population doesn't know who Melania is, and 90 percent think that little boy standing next to her is a fake child or windup doll. As to whether he's autistic or has ADD, no one seems to know. He hasn't said a word since Trump threw a verbal bomb at the kid five years ago. He's

Whenever any member of my family (one husband, 6 schnauzers, 2 cats) or I have a lousy day, I always think to myself that it's because it's a Monday. Even if the rotten event happened on a Friday, I'll still refer to it as a Monday mess-up. It would appear that it wasn't until about three seconds ago when my brain woke up for the day that I realized I'm a prejudiced bitch, at least about negative occurrences happening only on Mondays. What do I have against Mondays? I don't know, but a lot of professionals and other service providers I use have come to understand that I will never make appointments on a Monday.Got a suspicious looking mole on my leg? No way am I going to the dermatologist on a Monday because dollars to donuts, the diagnosis would be melanoma (translation: you're going to die a horrible excruciating death but only after you go through weeks of nauseating chemotherapy, 4,000 doses of radiation, and all the money you were saving for your old a

For a long time I've watched my life unfold as if it were a Hollywood blockbuster or even a cheaply-produced Indie. It's time I re-evaluated it. My life is certainly no million-dollar mega thriller with a mixture of hot sex, car chases, and tender scenes of supportive, loving families. If anything it's more of a bad joke that found its way into one of those Bruce Willis-Arnold Schwarzeneggar-adventure type movies that never make it to the big screen and go straight to video. I know it sounds like I'm whining, and it's true. I am. But even though I 'm surrounded on a daily basis with heartbreaking newspaper obituaries and upsetting media stories of injuries  and deaths from floods, fires, and other natural disasters, I'm still an ungrateful wretch who fails to count her blessings. I'm even a little proud of that since it means I'm not just settling for a crappy life. I want the real thing--fame, fortune, and an invitation to the Kennedy Center. But

So where were we when I finished up Part I? Did I tell you about how I conquered my OCD and became a model of mental health? No? Well, that's because it never happened. Actually the OCD just up and left me in my thirties. I don't know why because I wasn't taking any meds at the time that would diminish the constant rattling going on in my head. In fact the shrink who I was seeing couldn't explain it either. He mumbled something about getting older, and your brain is now coping with other more critical problems like what you're going to do for the rest of your life, but I really think I just couldn't hack the OCD any more. It made sense. Self-esteem wasn't my strong point, so I concluded that this was just another one of my growing list of failures. And without the OCD, I would be close to normal, whatever that was, and I'd have to give up my shrink and the other amenities of my lifestyle that I had gotten used to. Why was the OCD fading. I obsessed about

Okay, I confess. I already have a real biography on my website www.janicearenofsky.com , but I also have what you might call a "shadow" biography. It details my emotional/spiritual/psychological events, in short, my mental state. I think it's only fair that if you're here to follow my daily blogging on various aspects of my person and what I think about other persons (like my sister, parents, and Donald Trump) that you know just what kind of a mind I really have. The web biography tells you that I'm an educated female who's written  a lot of stuff over the years in some prestigious publications. That's all true, but it hides the real me who wakes up each day with so many warts and all that no one actually wants to hear the details, which can involve anything including my first blankie and a certain walking/talking doll in a pink net evening gown. No one wants to hear juvenilia like that, and when I say "no one," I mean parents, friends, space cad