"Jefferson County Mental Health Awareness Walk 2024" [Edited and republished 12/30/2024]

 

This photo is from "A Day of Hope" in Watertown, NY. I was asked to perform at this event, which took place on 6/1/2024. I met some very cool people who connected me to live performances at recovery-based events. As Mental Health Awareness Month ended, I became more active within the recovery community. This is a great photo. I truly enjoy it when children show an interest in my music.Great stuff!

I spent a great deal of time earlier today writing a post only to scrap the whole thing. It's not gone forever. I copy/pasted what I wrote into a Word document and saved it in my "Memoir" folder. Those hours were not wasted. What I wrote will serve as a prompt, maybe even a rough draft when I feel ready to tackle the monumental task of writing a book about my life. I meant this post to be short and to the point. It evolved into a chapter. My decision to start from scratch came after walking away from my computer and rethinking the message I wanted to convey. 

Mental Health Awareness Month meant something different to me this year. With current goals and present realities prioritized, I decided to save the back stories and emotional tangents for a project in the future. For now, I'll focus on the positive things I accomplished.

The Jefferson County Mental Health Awareness Walk was on May, 15th 2024. Writing about this brought emotions out of me that I didn't expect, a mixture of positives and negatives. I have past ties to the event. I used to chair the committee that planned it. It was a work thing. I strongly considered not attending for that reason. 

I've committed the remainder of my life to specific causes and to activism. Sitting it out wouldn't have aligned with my sensibilities or aspirations. Feelings about the past, the employer, or the people involved couldn't be allowed to interfere. A lot of that was based on pride. I attended on my own terms.

Representing the #prescribedharm community was my only objective, even if I did so in silence. I originally wanted to be considered as the keynote speaker for the opening ceremony. I scrapped the idea after speaking to a couple of committee members about it. Let's just say the reception was a little less than lukewarm. It was a lofty perch to aspire to. I'm probably better off for backing out.

My standing within the not-for/non-profit industrial complex of Watertown wasn't exactly stellar. My catastrophic burnout, which led to my exit, was the stuff of local folklore. I can own that without acknowledging the sentiment as valid. Some of the stories about me are true. All are told without context. 

As expected, I was uncomfortable on arrival that morning. So many familiar faces...yeah, "familiar" is the correct word. I smiled and offered salutations, repeating in my head that the opinions of others don’t matter. Their opinions aren't even known to me. Projection isn't healthy. I am working on my propensity for catastrophizing.

I made my way to the auditorium and settled in. I listened to proclamations and keynote speakers. I was annoyed by much of the content and subject matter of those speeches, but I didn't regret my decision to be present. It wasn't so bad, but someone like me should always expect the unexpected. 

Without warning, one of the committee members asked me if I wanted to give a testimonial. I froze for a moment. I couldn't turn down such an opportunity and simultaneously call myself an activist. Activism isn't meant to be comfortable or even to feel safe. If it does, it's probably not effective. I couldn't waste an opportunity to speak to an auditorium full of people. There were roughly 200 in the audience, many of them clinical professionals. I knew I had to accept the invitation, not just for myself, but for the non-clinical people who receive mental health services. People like me.

I listened to many testimonials before giving my own. They were all similar, mostly stories of perseverance, hope, and triumphant metamorphoses while living with chronic mental illnesses. Every other speaker self-disclosed their respective diagnoses. I had no plans to do that.

A few of them were also in recovery from substance use disorder. I can check both boxes. The speakers thanked the agencies that helped them along their mental health journey. It didn't go unnoticed that they were all far more prepared to speak than I was. Their testimonials were either written or typed out. There I was, frantically preparing to shoot from the hip (usually not a good plan for me).

I don't often feel high anxiety levels anymore. At that moment, I was trembling. I don't speak publicly as a rule. That’s another reason I didn't sign up to be the keynote speaker. I hadn't fully considered my aversion beforehand, and there I was. I let another speaker cut ahead of me in line. The adrenalin was pumping. I felt intimidated, totally unprepared, and very aware that what I wanted to say would be controversial. 

I was ruminating when I heard my name called. I put one foot in front of the other and grabbed the microphone. I took a moment to scan the crowd before introducing myself.

"Good morning, my name is Shawn and I feel great today!" Applause. It was on.

What followed was cautiously improvised. I spoke about the increased funding the County had recently been awarded by the State to increase the availability of mental health services in the area. This was previously announced to an ovation in the opening remarks. My anarchism kicked in. I praised the increase in access but made a strong statement about the importance of quality over quantity in mental health care. I absolutely meant to step on some toes by saying that.

Other topics included:

-Active participation in one’s own treatment plan and setting your own goals as a recipient of services.

-Insistence upon person-centered treatment methods.

-Informed consent! I know that was an uncomfortable term for practitioners to hear. I sure hope it was. Informed consent is almost non-existent in mental health treatment. I went a step further. I urged patients to ask for counseling from a pharmacist before ingesting psychiatric medications, to discuss potential side effects and drug interactions up front, and to initiate a detailed conversation about comorbidities pre-prescription. 

My improvised testimonial was interrupted several times by rounds of applause. I talked about my cancer battle and my addiction recovery status. Those were hits. I knew they would be. I said "um" a lot, so I made a joke about it. People laughed. I don't recall everything else I said, but those are the key points. My nerves were on edge throughout.

"You know yourself better than anyone else does." That was my favorite line in my speech 

I said most of what I wanted to and then wrapped it up. I don't really remember what I closed with. Something meant to inspire, I'm sure. Afterward, I was proud of my message. Some people who know me well told me I held back. Of course, I did. I knew my audience. I hope to partner with some of those professionals in the future, in the interest of implementing positive changes to a broken system. I suppose I could have indulged my own selfish urges and verbally bashed the hell out of mental health treatment practices and practitioners, but I didn't make it just about me for specific reasons. I put the cause first. No regrets.

With the difficult part behind me, I happily participated in the walk and the picnic that followed. Many strangers approached me and complimented my testimonial. Some thanked me. Others shook my hand, mostly patients. My people. 

Some of my former colleagues spoke to me at the picnic. I received some hugs. It was a little weird, but less awkward than I predicted. I'm assertive as fuck these days. When it felt weird around others, I made things even weirder. That seems to be one of my superpowers now. I used to believe my weirdness was a detriment. It isn't. I just needed better people in my circle. Weird people, like me.

A hotdog lunch, a drum circle, and some more conversations followed. It was a good day. I introduced the "new me" to the mental health awareness community. I'm just getting started. I hope to demonstrate more activism. I unexpectedly became a public speaker that day and welcome future opportunities to speak. Lookout world...I have shit to say.  

This is not the concise post I planned on writing. I have a lot more to say on the subject of mental health, with its draconian, profit-obsessed methods of treatment, sketchy diagnostics, and propensity for iatrogenic harm. So many stories to tell...

This Is What I "Do" (Part Two)

 

*This is the video for a brand-new song I wrote on 5/24/2024, inspired by my granddaughter, Ivy June Hills, born 11/7/2023. It's not a finished song. This video was made minutes after writing. In the video, I'm reading the lyrics from my notepad as I perform.

“I have one of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy…or stay out here and play writer and starve. I have decided to starve.” - Charles Bukowski

As I embarked on this journey of mine, I tended to look for inspiration wherever I could find it. Not every day is filled with confidence and victories. I post inspirational anecdotes about myself on social media. None are disingenuous. My stories and the emotions they evoke are totally real. However, I often choose to keep my feelings of doubt, frustration, and the accompanying setbacks to myself.

I've realized that complaining isn't marketable. As purist as my sensibilities about creativity are, it is not lost on me that this is a business. Whether referring to music or writing, the hard truth is that art is not only a business but a cut-throat one at that. My distaste for this reality does nothing to make it less so.

I've developed a deep affinity for the writings of Charles Bukowski. The quote above is from a letter he wrote to John Martin, a publisher. Martin offered Bukowski $100 a month to quit his job and spend the rest of his life writing. The quote was his response to the offer.

Charles Bukowski did just that, publishing six novels, countless poems, and many essays. I find his writing so relatable that I read his work whenever I'm reminded to, usually by some meme that pops up in my Facebook feed. That's a low-brow admission. Social media is trashy, overstimulating mind-control. I'm on it a lot, too. My feed probably looks quite different from most. Do you get a lot of Bukowski? 

Different platforms, different personas. At least that's the case for me. On X (Twitter) the algorithms show me posts from people like me. These people have been deeply damaged by psychiatrists and their toxic medications. My skin in this game does not call for any further explanation. What's interesting is that some of the interactions I've had regarding this subject have been with professional people, not just patients with horrific stories. There are plenty of MDs, psychiatric nurses, and even a few psychiatrists who reject the current status quo in psychiatric "care". While this is all fascinating, I have over 5500 followers, but I’m getting absolutely nowhere by promoting my music online. I'm getting nowhere with that venture in general.

These statements should not be misconstrued as bitching. Like Bukowski, given the choice between wage enslavement or starving as a creator, I too choose to starve.

While I will never compare myself to Bukowski in terms of talent, the life parallels are numerous between us. He was a drunk too. He also suffered major depressions and was completely disgusted by a life of meaningless drudgery, working at a postal job he hated. He was 49 when he received the offer from Martin. I'm 50. Nobody has offered to be my benefactor yet though.

My partner is likely more nervous about my choice of starvation than I am, although she doesn't express it, at least not verbally. If things go well, my Social Security Disability claim will be approved, making the government I despise my benefactor. It's not a done deal, but I would consider it poetic justice if it does get approved. Before anyone jumps to the conclusion that I am pulling a scam by applying for disability benefits, I will offer a caution.

As stated in part one of this series, I never initiate conflict. However, I don't cower in the face of it either. I can hold my own in any situation.

Disability

I am disabled. With that information out in the open, let's clarify something at the beginning: being disabled does not mean being unable. I have abilities and skills. I would like to believe that writing is one of them. That remains to be seen. I will claim making music as a skill I possess, but only because I've made enough money over the years to be comfortable making such an assertion. Has it ever been enough to live on? No. Not even close.

I've done a lot of hard physical labor in my lifetime. I'd rather not go into detail about these professions, because frankly, the duties are boring as hell (I touched on that subject in part one). I'll just state that I did (in the past) have an ability to break my back in order to obtain adequate shelter and food for myself and my family. I no longer have it in me. After being diagnosed with cancer for the second time in my life, I'm quite physically broken. I don't have the endurance to be on my feet for eight hours, much less lift heavy objects, bend and twist repeatedly, or even crouch, reach, climb, push, pull...you get the picture. I'm as active as I can handle being, even more sometimes. My abilities, in their current state, don’t come close to making me employable as a laborer.

I'm sure some, if not all readers may be thinking, "Well, you can write. I'm sure you can find less physically strenuous work in an office or something." That's fair, I guess. The reality is that I have worked in an office setting before and was reasonably proficient at it. I'm not going to claim that I've ever found any type of work enjoyable or even close to being worth the time and life experiences I've exchanged for it, but I've certainly done a lot of shitty tasks for minimal money, in order to enrich and advance the careers of more privileged people than myself.

That brilliant office idea you may have in your mind is no more realistic than doing heavy lifting for me. I'll explain. 

I've mentioned my interactions on X (Twitter). When I connect with others in discussions about iatrogenic pharmaceutical harm, it's because I live with tardive dyskinesia and mild akathisia. I also have symptoms of PSSD. Worst of all, I have clearly lost a fair amount of executive function. I will be asking for an evaluation of the damage when I meet with a new doctor on Thursday of this week.

Neuroleptic medications (anti-psychotics) have been shown to cause cortical thickness deterioration in the brain. I have deficits in cognition. My creativity seems to be unaffected, along with my ability to rationalize and think critically. I can read and comprehend written information as well as I've always been able to. That's the good news.

The following are life/occupational skills that have been deeply damaged by the poisons I was prescribed (considering my symptoms, these were acts of gross malpractice):

-The ability to make quick decisions in fast-paced situations: Although it is already illegal for me to drive a car due to multiple arrests for drunk driving (I mentioned that I was a drunk previously in this post), I would be terrified to get behind the wheel of a car these days sober. Even if I was able to reach my destination, the chances of me getting confused and putting other motorists and pedestrians in danger would be very high. I'm not testing this theory. I will never drive again.

I am in recovery from alcohol addiction and have committed my life to staying sober. I am active in the recovery community.

-The ability to complete multi-step tasks: I do try to be helpful around the house. The upkeep of one's living quarters is not the same as wage slavery. Doing these tasks is beneficial to my own well-being.

Tyrannical employment situations give bosses the power to decide what level of well-being a person is entitled to, after trading the better part of existence for a stipend, which is also determined by the boss. Before I go off on that tangent, I'll stop myself and continue on the topic. My feelings about "the 9 to 5" are in alignment with Bukowski's.

Stand me in one spot and tell me that a basket of laundry needs to be folded, and I'll perform the task in a semi-timely manner, usually with reasonable proficiency. 

Conversely, ask me to collect the trash and put the large cans by the street for collection the following morning, and I'm going to struggle. This involves many small steps, such as finding the cans in each room, scooping the litter boxes on two floors, gathering the training pads for puppies on two floors, and replacing the liners in all of the small trash cans. Two years ago, this was a 15-minute job for me. Now, it's about an hour and a half. I'd prefer this not to be a duty I am asked to perform, but I usually wind up doing it anyway. I cannot complete the job without great frustration, and there has been zero improvement with repetition. 

-I have no short-term memory: None means none. I am often wandering aimlessly. It's sometimes frightening when I walk the city streets. There is no need for further elaboration.

-My attention span is extremely limited: I can focus on reading, but I have not been able to follow the plot of a movie in its entirety for many months. I usually forget what I'm doing while I'm doing it. I was diagnosed with ADHD before being harmed by the medication. It has gotten far worse. 

I used to help people with disabilities complete applications for Social Security Disability, Social Services, and Unemployment Insurance as a profession. My last job title was "Mental Health Peer Advocate". I have needed assistance with all of these applications recently. Luckily, I have a wonderful recovery coach who has patiently worked with me to complete these applications. I could not have done it on my own. I tried and failed. 

Could alcohol abuse have contributed to this condition? It's possible, but unlikely. So what if it did? It doesn't change the fact that I have a traumatic brain injury. I've also had several concussions, one resulting in a brain bleed. My brain is complete mush in many respects. I'm just glad I don't piss my pants regularly or need a bib to eat. A helmet is probably not a bad idea. 

*Psychotropic medications are not completely safe. I wish the general public would wake up to this reality. In case anyone was thinking I was full of shit about the cortical thickness deterioration, I'll drop a link. Feel free to educate yourself. I spent two years on Olanzapine (the drug used in this study vs placebo).

Effects of Antipsychotic Medication on Brain Structure in Patients With Major Depressive Disorder and Psychotic Features: Neuroimaging Findings in the Context of a Randomized Placebo-Controlled Clinical Trial | Depressive Disorders | JAMA Psychiatry | JAMA Network

The Future

I don't wallow in despair. Yes, I'm disabled and in a fight for financial stability, but I love my life. I have 3 beautiful, healthy adult children. My 7-month-old granddaughter has captured my heart. I have a decent relationship with my family, despite being a 50-year-old screw-up. I have a small circle of friends, but they are all high-quality people.

My involvement with the recovery and mental health communities have provided me a platform for activism and opened up new musical venues. To be writing music and performing live after a three-year absence is so amazing that my level of humility and gratitude cannot be overstated. I'm very fortunate to be alive. I'm doing things!

Writing this blog has been therapeutic. Before every post, I tell myself that I'm going to be more disciplined. The plan is always to start with an outline and write with structure. That hasn't happened yet. The posts are all just streams of consciousness. At least the Bukowski quote was planned for this one. Baby steps.

*I didn’t complete this series. Life changed dramatically just a few weeks after publishing this post (updated 1/5/2025)

This Is What I "Do" (Part One)

This Is What I “Do” (Part One)

It's impossible to meet new people without the conversation ultimately veering in the direction of occupation. While I would never use the words, "So, what do you do?", I understand that this is (usually) merely an attempt to get to know someone better and is just standard, boring banter. Discussing politics or religion is considered a taboo when being introduced to new people. It’s probably for the best. These topics should be open season, but will usually lead to undesirable consequences. Therefore, "what do you do?" has a more innocuous tone. I understand these dynamics, I just don't particularly care for them. 

Admittedly, I'm not much of a group person at all. In some circles, the current version of "me" would be seen as feral, or at least undomesticated. I don't shy away from these opinions. My honesty can be brutal at times. If asked this inevitable question, I'll probably give an answer that is completely unexpected. I hate small talk, don't give a damn about my image, and frankly, I become bored easily. 

This particular awkward social situation presents itself most often at gatherings. Regardless of the setting, people are usually brought together by a common friend or family member. For me, trying to find commonality with complete strangers can be an arduous task. Unlike many, I don't force conversations and I never find silence awkward. I have been accused of being standoffish in the past, but recently I have become quite fascinated by people, even complete strangers. It's just not interesting to me what sort of toil people engage in order to justify access to basic necessities like food and shelter. Do they really believe their job duties are interesting to someone they've just met? Is it nervousness? 

Thinking the worst of strangers is a game I will no longer play without evidence. Still, I can't help but wonder sometimes why people talk about their job during leisure time. Sure, it's customary, but why? Am I the only person who cannot help but ask such questions internally? Maybe. I find myself being "the only" in most social situations. 

I used to try to acclimate to a group. This behavior was detrimental to me in every instance of my past experience. Authenticity has improved my self-esteem, and has reduced the volume of anxious, intrusive inner monologues during social situations to a whisper (they were once a roar). So, if I'm considered "weird" by strangers or even people I know well, it doesn't bother me. I am weird. It's cool by me. I'm never intentionally offensive, but I don't put on faces either.

Vibes are something I’m sensitive to. I've found that the best method for handling toxic situations/people is making every attempt to remove myself from the negativity quickly. Sometimes, it’s not practical or even possible. When encountered with these unfortunate predicaments, I always stand my ground now (also an essential element of my healing process). 

Sometimes the "WDYD" question is asked with insidious intent. It's more than small talk. The true motivation is to establish some imaginary social hierarchy. "Imaginary" being the operative word. That's when things get tricky. In these moments, I have certain demands of myself. Passivity has been a personality trait which has caused me great emotional and mental distress throughout my life. I've discontinued this practice in the interest of my own well-being. No, I do not initiate conflict, but when faced with it, I have become extremely assertive. I'm not the kind of person anyone should provoke and not expect a strong response. Respect is a two-way street. 

My sensitivity to social norms is nothing new. For as long as I can remember, the feeling of not belonging has been a constant. When I reflect on the many times, I contorted my personality in attempts to fit in, it makes me nauseous. I have never once felt the freedom of total acceptance in a group setting. Well, maybe for a while back in college. 

I was fortunate enough to connect with a tribe of outcasts at NCCC in Saranac Lake, NY. We didn't have much in common as individuals. What made us friends was that feeling of not belonging. Being a year older than most of my friends, I look back and see myself as the common denominator; the one who brought the weirdos together. That distinction isn't mine to officially claim though. My friends may view things differently, and that's just fine. It was never a competition. We were more about getting wasted, roasting each other, and laughing our asses off. There was an unspoken rule of “seriousness not allowed”.

Last week I was approached by a couple of young guys while playing street music (busking) on the Square in Watertown, NY. They offered me a hit from a dab pen, stating that they didn't have any money to give me. I had to decline, as taking that hit would have had dire legal ramifications. That's a different story altogether. The actions which led to my current legal situation are the reason behind my daily presence in Watertown during the week. That's an example of me turning a negative situation into a positive one. It’s what I do these days. Allowing myself to slip into pessimism would be unhealthy, so I make the most of any situation. I guess it’s training.

I describe this encounter for a specific reason. First, it was cool of those two young men to understand that street performers often get tipped. Let's face it, Watertown isn't anything like Battery Park in NYC. Second, one of them asked the question, "So, what do you do?" My answer was important. It was an admission, stated out loud, that I have never offered to a complete stranger before. Actually, I have never spoken to anyone with such unabashed honesty in reference to my current profession. So, of course, now I’m doing so on a public platform, because it sense to me. 

My reply to the young man was this: "You're looking at it."

The Roots of My Passion

My short answer to the young man's question was an enormous oversimplification of my vocation as a whole. While street performance is an integral aspect of it, there are many more elements and layers to exactly what it is that I "do". Grandiosity doesn't mix well with my sensibilities. My philosophy is egalitarian. I don't brag, because I find bravado disgusting.

This is probably a big reason why I don't usually make fast friends with other musicians. Sure, I do make connections, but as with any other bond I forge with others, humility is a required trait in a friend. That's justohow I'm wired. 

I have met plenty of musicians who view the art-form like a sport, or some other form of competition. To me, this is vile and disrespectful to the medium as a whole. Musician talk can involve a lot of dick waving. This is why I find the marketing aspects of music tedious and uncomfortable. I can only see and hear music as an art-form. It’s subjective. My preferences are not going to be the same as anyone else's. Who am I to claim that my music is "good"? Self-promotion is an unfortunate reality for independent artists. I accept this. I don't have to like it.

*I will offer a tip to those who made the questionable choice of reading my blog (thank you, by the way): music, writing, art, jewelry making, sculpture, poetry, etc. are not HOBBIES. They are not "side-hustles" either. When creative people work regular jobs, it's a survival thing. Please, do not ever refer to artists as hobbyists. It's disrespectful, especially coming from a person who is not creative. Not only is it disrespectful, it's ignorant. Every one of us longs to (insert creative medium here) do this full-time. Survival jobs are a detriment to creativity, without exception. Collecting figurines is a hobby. Creating original art is a vocation and a passion. Don't confuse the two.

Self-aggrandizement is a game I refuse to play, but I would like to offer a snapshot into what goes in to what I do, the estimated time it takes, and how I became who and what I am. It's strictly anecdotal. My mindset is one of continous evolution. I will never be satisfied with myself as a creator, or as a human. My only competition is yesterday’s version of me.

Inspiration comes in many forms. Everyone has influences. I’m no exception. That list expands with time and I'm pretty old. I'm still adding to it. When I hear other musicians talk about influences, they usually reference celebrities. I'd be lying if I said that I didn’t admire, and even attempt to emulate famous musical creators. It's actually what sparked my interest when I was young. My father had an expansive vinyl collection. This love for music didn't spawn from anywhere foreign. 

My father is an incredible vocalist. He introduced me to artists like Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Janis Joplin, and many more of the greats. As wonderful as those mentioned are, my real desire to be a musician came from Dad taking me to his band rehearsals.

I was just a young child. Listening to their band was like something out of a dream. To this day, my biggest musical influence is probably still him.

Early on, while watching my father and his band rehearse, my young mind began to fantasize about being of part of this glorious thing; something I couldn't completely understand.

It was loud! The parents of today would find exposing a young boy to that decibel level irresponsible, maybe even a self-justification for becoming a CPS rat. That’s unfortunate. These experiences shaped me. Without them, I wouldn't have found my passion...well, at the very least, it would have been less probable.

Loud music can be a full body experience. If you've never felt that deep bass punch you in the chest, you really haven't experienced music properly. Technology has worked against the quality of modern music (opinion). My gripes about it are too many to list. As I type, my Bluetooth headphones are draped around my neck. I enjoy them, but they aren't nearly loud enough. 

I was born in 1973 with music in my blood. In addition to Dad, my grandfather, Gorham Allen, on my mother's side, was an accomplished big band and jazz trumpet player. About a decade ago, my father played me a very old (1930s-40s?) vinyl record of my grandfather's jazz band. Grandpa had chops! I won't claim to be any sort of jazz expert, but I can hear talent and ability ring through in anything.

My grandfather was obviously formally trained. He was an only child in well-to-do, small-town family who owned and operated a successful sand and gravel business. He was the gentlest man I have ever known. As a human, his example inspires me most. 

Like my father, my musical skills are self-taught. Yeah, Dad showed me a few “cowboy chords” on his guitar when was about 12 years old. I'll offer no credit to anyone, other than that, for teaching me how to play music. It was all self-directed. 

I learned to play guitar by ear, trying to emulate my favorite songs while blasting my cassette tapes in my room. I later learned to read tablature (sort of). School activities like Band and Chorus never appealed to me. I developed my singing voice the same way, by belting it out (badly) to my cassettes. I was shy about my singing voice because my father was/is extremely intimidating and critical, not just about music.

A few inborn traits are required for my method of learning: a natural sense of rhythm and timing, near-perfect pitch, and most importantly: the willingness to suck out loud.

So, I guess I'd say my musical acumen is a combination of nature and nurture, perfectly complimented by a propensity to be unapologetically annoying to all within earshot. I'm still annoying people.

Part two to follow...