WAGblog

Another Update

Hi all,

I continue to do extremely well. Book is due to be published in a couple of weeks, and review copies sent out. It will be on bookstore shelves as of Aug 24 if all goes according to schedule. We have some local readings scheduled and our publicist is working on more national coverage.

As for what I'm doing, well, I've written 2 poems recently; I'm reading for the second time a great book written by a friend of mine, Rose Weitz on women and their attitude towards their hair, RAPUNZEL'S DAUGHTERS: WHAT WOMENS HAIR TELLS US ABOUT WOMEN'S LIVES. It is a good read and covers everything from the history of hair and hair care (it used to be that people washed thier hair less than once a month; in Marie Antoinette's day, hair had become such a production that it often had to be sculpted and kept in place for several weeks, without washing or even combing, necessitating use of 'head-scratchers') to how various ethnic groups use their hair to attract men. I think it is a terrific book, and it should still be available through Amazon.

Another friend wrote a book of poetry that I'm reading that I also highly recommend. It's called GLOSSOLALIA and the author is Leonard Cirino. If you enjoy really good poetry, not just junky rhyming stuff, you'll find this book worth purchasing and reading several times over. One thing I can tell you, I think, since the author makes no secret of it, is that he's been where we are, done what we have done, and though he has been well for a long time, writes incredible poems about his own dark days, which were dark indeed. The book, and others Leonard has written, can be bought from Pygmy Forest Press, 685 Ninth St Springfield OR 97477 tel 541-345-9635 and it costs just $15. If you like really good poetry in general, checkout their website: pygmyforestpress@msn.com

Then, I'm also reading a book, an historical novel, called MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS AND THE ISLES by Margaret George. It's not so well written, but you learn a lot of history, which I find otherwise really hard to read, painlessly!

Other than reading and writing, I've been taking the stairs when I can, some days doing as many as 50 flights of stairs both up and down, each flight being 15 steps. My minimum is 20 flights, unless I take a 3 miles walk, when I allow myself to use the elevator...

I rarely go out, and almost never drive, and I've given up riding my bike as my balance is just too awful. But I'm sane and happy and productive, and who could ask for more than that (except to need fewer meds to accomplish that?) Actually, I don't feel I NEED the meds, I just figure, they don't harm me, and I'm now addicted to them, so I can't actually stop them abruptly, so why not just take them to placate the doctor and nurses who give them to me?

Enough for now. THanks for listening.

Update

This is an update on the book and its publicity: In addition to the starred Publisher's Weekly review, we got a great review from Kirkus, which can be found on the web if you google "Kirkus review Wagner and Spiro" and I believe it is still available but it may not be.

The guy writing for the Reader's Digest just came to interview us for his article on the book, an article which may become available in September or October, it's not clear which (technically the October or November issue).

We have some local library presentations and one engagement at a prestigious bookstore to do in Connecticut and we are hoping that plans for GOod Morning America actually come to a set date, rather than the presently more vague, We want you!

That's about it, but it's enough to exhaust me, just thinking about doing so much in August and September alone. I know that most people work eight hours every day and would find one "gig" a week or every few days, nothing. But to me it feels nearly overwhelming, at least right now. But right now, I'm nervous and feelling overwhelmed in general. Perhaps after the first library reading, if all goes well, I'll be able to calm down and maybe enjoy things a bit, or at least not suffer so much beforehand 8^)

Thanks so much for being there to listen to me blather and wail and sometimes whimper, even when things are going so well. I am totally amazed by how the book is being received, and enormously pleased. My 13 years of work have not gone for nothing! But at the end of the day, I'm still just me, Pam Wagner, with schizophrenia, and things remain difficult to cope with, no matter how well life is going. I hope you understand that, and don't think I'm merely complaining over nothing...

Beating Schizophrenia #2

Hi, Here is a rewritten version of my part of LIVES column. Hope it is more to the point:

PAMELA:
On November 17, 1952 I slid into the world with barely a whimper. Five minutes later, my twin sister tumbled out after me, kicking and squalling like she’d been hit by a thunderstorm instead of oxygen. Alike as two spoons, we knew without a doubt that we were identical. We answered in one voice, spoke each other’s thoughts, completed one another’s sentences. We were bound to one another as firmly as any conjoined set of twins. But others insisted on seeing in us polar opposites. To them, we couldn’t have been more different than if made from elements on opposite ends of the periodic table.

And this set the pattern for the next two decades. I was the steady, stoic twin, the twin who had no problems, no needs, no anger, no tears. I could be counted on to soothe my more needy twin whenever she went on a weeping jag or had a fit of temper, which seemed to me to be all the time. She was the screamer; I was the placid, untroubling, untroubled twin. I was the capable one, I was the golden girl; Lynnie was the social one, she just had to be with people. No one could have known how time would reverse our roles.

But when JFK was assassinated, the voices started, and though I told no one, terrible thoughts haunted me: I was sure I was to blame for the president’s death. Still, I didn’t let on that my world was falling apart. My grades suffered under the fears and pressures of public junior high so I transferred to a private school, without Lynnie. There I experienced a brief reprieve, but soon withdrew from extracurricular activities and refused to talk unless it was absolutely necessary. In one class, instead of conversing in French as the course required, I replied to direct challenges from the teacher with the words: Je n’ai rien a dire, “I have nothing to say”...and I remained mute the rest of the hour. The other students called me The Zombie. I had a car accident, because I “heard” the hallucinated voice of my headmistress tell me to step on the accelerator instead of the brakes.

In college, the hallucinations continued. I became paranoid, thinking every one was trying to hurt me: when a friend wore a red sweater it meant I was in danger. In desperation, I took an overdose and spent five months in the hospital. There I was put on anti-psychotic medication and gradually improved. Although I finally graduated from college and started medical school, I was soon back on a psych ward, suffering from the delusion that if I touched anyone I would be electrocuted.

Although I would not be diagnosed properly for a few years, the decades of cycling through hospitals and halfway houses, supervised living or living on my own in squalor that schizophrenia would initiate had begun.

Beating Schizophrenia

This may or may not be printed as a LIVES column in the New York Times Magazine, but since many of you do not or cannot get the Times, I thought I'd put it here early (and also since it has not yet been accepted, if or when it is). I wrote the first part and my twin sister wrote the second part. Mac users please note: this and other entries cannot be read properly using the Safari browser. Please use Netscape or Explorer.

SOLO FOR TWO

PAMELA:

On November 17, 1952 I slid into the world with barely a whimper. Five minutes later, my twin sister tumbled out after me, kicking and squalling like she’d been hit by a thunderstorm instead of oxygen. Alike as two spoons, we knew without a doubt that we were identical. We answered in one voice, spoke each other’s thoughts, completed one another’s sentences. We were bound to one another as firmly as any conjoined set of twins. But others insisted on seeing in us polar opposites, as the world so often does. To them, we couldn’t have been more different than if made from elements on opposite ends of the periodic table.

And this set the pattern for the next two decades. I was the steady, stoic twin, the twin who had no problems, no needs, no anger, no tears. I could be counted on to soothe my more needy twin whenever she went on a weeping jag or had a fit of temper, which seemed to me to be all the time. When we went swimming, she got ear infections and couldn’t hear for a week; my ears were fine. She had tonsillitis many times until she saw The Surgeon, and ate pistachio ice cream until it came out those delicate ears. I had neither. She was the screamer; I was the placid, untroubling, untroubled twin. But I shone at school; Lynnie didn’t read until fourth grade. I won swimming races; Lynnie came in second best. I was the capable one, I was the golden girl; Lynnie was the social one, she just had to be pretty.

But when JFK was assassinated, the voices started, and though I told no one, terrible thoughts haunted me: I was sure I was to blame for the president’s death. I was supposed to be invulnerable. I was not allowed problems so I didn’t let on that my world was falling apart. My grades suffered under the fears and pressures of public junior high so I transferred to a private school, without Lynnie. There I experienced a brief reprieve, but soon withdrew from extracurricular activities and refused to talk unless it was absolutely necessary. In one class, instead of conversing in French as the course required, I replied to direct challenges from the teacher with the words: Je n’ai rien a dire, “I have nothing to say”...and I remained mute the rest of the hour. Nothing got through to me. They called me The Zombie. But my parents couldn’t see that I was in trouble. They interpreted my difficulties as an adolescent phase, mere “acting out.” It took an overdose in college and five months in the hospital before they acknowledged something was seriously wrong.

CAROLYN:

In junior high Pammy stopped being someone to look up to and became weird, withdrawn, “out of it.” She didn’t shower or change her clothes until I reminded her; as her twin, she made me look bad, she embarrassed me. Then in college when she fell apart completely, I came together. In the past, looking at my future meant looking around Pammy. In her unexpected absence, I challenged myself, became “smart,” became her, went to medical school, went beyond.

People often assume that I went into psychiatry because of my sister’s illness, but the truth is I went into psychiatry because I loved it and I knew I would never be bored.

But, in my eyes, Pammy was still the brilliant twin and, for many years, I saw her as a threat to my accomplishments, even my separateness. It was only a matter of time before she would reclaim her position in the family and expose me as a fraud. I was in my twenties when she confided in me about the Japanese living inside her apartment walls, about Brother Luke, the spirit who guided her, and about her role in the Kennedy assassination. I was twenty-eight and a psychiatrist myself before I realized that Pammy’s oddness in high school, her multiple hospitalizations in and out of college and her adult quirkiness, her bizarre and “antisocial” behavior were symptoms of chronic schizophrenia. Chronic.

Gradually I told these things to my family and in the 1990’s Mom started to help me buy Pammy food, clothing, supplies. But Dad still refused to deal with her.

In 2004, Pammy became dangerously suicidal. Her medication would have controlled her psychosis, but because it caused a huge weight gain, she refused to take it. She was hospitalized for months at a time, restrained frequently and endured countless medication changes. Though I visited often, it was never enough. Finally I was made her conservator and did one of the hardest things I have ever had to do: I authorized ECT – shock treatments – against her will. I thought she would never talk to me again. Instead, she got better. Later, she thanked me for making a decision she could never have made herself.

For the first time, the family rallied to support her and one day that summer Dad walked into her hospital room and back into her life as if he had never left.

Since then, we have finished writing our joint memoir, Divided Minds – the story of how we fought and how we beat schizophrenia. Pammy isn’t cured, no, but we’ve won, because she and I and our entire family have been healed.