David Nelson Nelson's Blog, page 12

The Psychiatrist

The Psychiatrist
Lately Trixie has been driving me nuts with all of her shenanigans.  So much so that I had to see a psychiatrist for help.  I’ll tell ya it was either that or ride off into the sunset.  We live near Knoxville, Tennessee in the Smoky Mountains.  It was in Knoxville that this story occurred. 
I was way too focused to notice the beads of sweat dripping from the brim of my University of Iowa Hawkeye cap.  Sitting in the office parking lot of my psychiatrist with the top down in my Miata MX-5, I was on a mission.  Last night I bought a Bose, Mie2i Mobile Headset and was bound and determined to use it while I waited for my appointment with the shrink forty minutes hence.
Sweat ran down my spine soaking my new red golf polo shirt.  My glasses turned to 3-D vision as they were covered with moisture.  Bob Marley was singing “Songs of Freedom” through my SmartPhone over the Pandora station.  It sounded great coming through my stereo, but I wanted more- and I wanted it now!  Those headphones were to be my answer.  Stereo with reggae music in my ears would make my shrink session the best ever!
Like a boy of eight or nine ripping open his first Christmas present of the year, I tore into the molded plastic with my arthritic fingers, but nothing happened!  I used my car keys to see if by chance I could create a crack in the barrier.  That didn’t work.  I put the edge into the glove compartment and slammed it shut to see it would crack.  That didn’t work!  I was upset I clipped my fingernails the night before and they were of no use now.  Finally, in desperation, I bit down with the caps on my teeth into the plastic.  The son-of-a-bitch would not budge!  I was soaking wet and felt something warm on my mustache and chin.  With my glasses now on the seat next to me, I tilted the rear view mirror and saw it.  Blood!  It was running like a faucet out of the corner of my lower lip. 
‘Shit!’  I thought.  It was the Plavix blood thinner I started last week.  I tried pressing my hand against the unchecked flow.  That didn’t work.  I used my forearm near the wrist for greater leverage.  All that did was to create a reddish smudge on my chin and arm.  ‘Screw it!’  I thought.  ‘I’m getting this thing open one way or another.  Scissors– that’s the answer.’  I said aloud.
Maria, Dr. Kitty’s receptionist, had that deer-in-headlights look when I entered the lobby.  The blood had formed a neat triangle between my neck, and my chin, and my ‘stache.  My ‘stache was only half gray at that point, as the other side had a pinkish hue now from the blood.  My shirt was soaked in the front and back.  My Hawkeye cap had a wet ring at the base.  I was hyperventilating from fighting the damn plastic mold, and my temper.
It was no wonder she was hesitant to meet my request of demanding a pair of scissors.  After all, I was a psychiatric patient.  She probably thought the psychotropic drugs were not working.  When I told her why I needed them, she nodded in understanding and nearly hurt herself cutting into the four-ply plastic container.  And it was with great pride that she handed me the contents wrapped again inside a plastic bag.  That, I knew I could open.  I told her I would be in my car and left the lobby.
‘Oh, yea!’  I said five minutes later listening to Bob singing “One Love”.  First my right ear, then the other, and at times, both resonated with such a great beat.  The product offered all that was advertised.  Cool!
Before my appointment with Dr. Kitty, I figured I had better clean up a bit, and went to the restroom.  After using some two dozen-paper towels to dry my baldhead, wipe blood from numerous body parts, and be generally be “presentable”, I returned to the lobby to read the instruction book.
Just as I was announced, I read the part about there being three different sized earpieces.  ‘Oh, shit!’  I thought as I walked to the treatment room.  I fumbled in my pockets and looked for the plastic bag.  It was gone.  And there were no earpieces to be found!
“Shit!”  I said aloud as the doc asked me what was wrong.  “Oh, nothing.  I think I lost something.”
“Well, that gives us something to talk about today.  Let’s discuss your inability to focus.  This will be a nice session,” she said.
Focus, my ass!  All I could focus on was where the missing earpieces went.  ‘This thing cost $150 and now it won’t work,’ I thought to myself as she talked about the importance of putting all my energy into only one thing at a time.
The session ended with me focused on finding the missing pieces.  Instead of leaving, I retrieved the day’s edition of the Knoxville Sentinel Newspaper and went back to the john.  Maria must have thought I ‘had to go’ and needed some reading material while on the throne.
My motive was different.  Constipation comes with being pissed- off and I was on a pissed-off mission.  After all, wasn’t that what I just learned from Dr. Kitty?  Being in healthcare I know what is meant by “universal precautions”.  You treat every open would as if it is contagious with the worst imaginable virus.  You do the same for ANY bodily fluids.  I did not care much for getting AIDS from some fluids that might have been in the ten-gallon wastebasket in the Men’s Room.
I laid out the newspaper on the floor covering some ten square feet.  Using clean paper towels I lifted the metal can and dumped everything on the newspapers.  The can slipped out of my hand and made quite a racket as it slammed on to the tile floor.  There was quick knock at the door as Maria asked, “David, are you okay in there?”
I startled her when I opened the door, she did not hear me as she was too busy looking past me at the garbage spread all over the men’s room.  She left and I continued to focus.
I checked every single piece of discarded trash and there were no friggin’ earpieces to be found.  I became more constipated!  I didn’t notice the two guards by the water fountain when I opened the door to leave.  I was still focused on my mission.
I did feel a slight pin prick in my arm as Dr. Kitty injected me with a needle.  I really did not mind it, as I love anesthesia, and enjoyed the fall into the guards’ outstretched hands.  When I woke three hours later at the psych hospital I was told I had been admitted for abnormal behavior!
Bullshit!  I was on a focused mission- just like the doc taught me.  After a night’s stay and great drug-induced sleep, I was free to go.  At the desk, a sweet young gal emptied the contents of my pockets from a large yellow envelope.  Out fell my Miata keys, my billfold, three dollars, a set of headphones, and the ear pieces.
“Son of a Bitch!”  I yelled.
“You don’t have to be vulgar,” The little gal said.  “Have you found Jesus?”“I didn’t know he was missing,” I responded walking out the door, looking at my newfound treasure.  The first thing I did was tune to reggae, popped the earphones in, and read my billing slip before driving off.
The billing code reported “anxiety-induced constipation from compulsive spending.”  Worked for me!

Christmas On The Range

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Creative Adult Is The Child Who Survived

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Creative Adult Is The Child Who Survived: "You are a no good, dirty son-of -a- bitch. You'll never amount to a damn," Dad said to me almost every time he beat with a be...

The Creative Adult Is The Child Who Survived

"You are a no good, dirty son-of -a- bitch. You'll never amount to a damn," Dad said to me almost every time he beat with a belt. My beatings began at age eight and ended at age seventeen. Whippings from the belt landed at random on my body. Raised welts slowly expanded the skin on my face, back, legs. Any place at all. And every place.

Those snaps and cracks from the belt were like a bull whip. It was not unusual to receive punishment like that at least once a week. Then there was the constant pressure and anxiety that arose from wondering when the next kick from a boot, a twisted ear or slap in the face might knock me to the floor. I once was locked in a blackened stairwell that connected our cellar to the outside. I had no food, water or bathroom privileges. The spiders, cockroaches and stifling heat were what I remember most about those eighteen hours during that hot Iowa summer. I was eight years old.

My parents were alcoholics and my mother was mentally ill. I had no nurturing as a child. I was alone. By the time I entered the seventh grade, I was street smart and had lost all childhood innocence. Hell, I never had any innocence from the beginning. There was no maternal nurturing. None.

Child Abuse takes many forms and occurs for many reasons. Some types of abuse include sexual, physical, and emotional - among others. They can come from the hands of others who, themselves were abused as children. The abuser can be mentally ill, an alcoholic, or drug addict.

There is no such thing as child development in these cases. There is only survival. Children have a fantastic resiliency for physical and emotional survival. Years of continued stress and anxiety do, however, create many health-related problems as adults. For me it has been a life of depression, anxiety, constant need for control, and PTSD.

My abuse also created a driving force to succeed. My mantra has been those words that I was a no good dirty son-of-a bitch and would never amount to a damn. Therein, is my silver lining. I spent my entire adult life proving my dad wrong. I am one of the fortunate survivors who became successful in society. I am in good company with my lifelong depression. Others who functioned well despite depression included: President Lincoln, President Teddy Roosevelt, Sir Winston Churchill, Sir Isaac Newton, and creators F. Scott Fitzgerald and Charles Schulz (creator or "Peanuts").

That brings me to today's title, "The Creative Adult Is The Child Who Survived." Many survivors of child abuse use creative skills to combat the ghosts from their own darkened cellars of the past. Writers, actors, comedians, politicians - and even those of us 'common folks'.

There is something healing to the soul when we create. For me it's proving those words wrong that my dad said so often to me while being tortured. It made me a good physical therapist during my forty-year career. The satisfaction I received from helping my patients also healed me. My patients helped me as much as I did them. The joy I receive from the crowds during my storytelling shows across America proves my dad wrong. The laughter washes away any negative vibrations in my soul when I perform my "Cowboy Comedy Show." I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. This honor was given to me by our Governor and the General Assembly.

The satisfaction I felt the day I carried the Olympic Torch before the start of the 1996 Atlanta Games proved my dad wrong. I had been chosen to carry the torch because I created numerous free health programs in my community. I am an over-achiever. When I hold a piece of stained glass art work that I create, I feel a sense of calm and pleasure.

Survivors use all sorts of creativity to heal themselves. Like many, I now write and my books are related to my experiences. My book, "The Shade Tree Choir" is about success despite abuse. Many of stories in my books, "PALS: Part One" and "PALS: Part Two" are pretty funny. And some are not - just like real life. Some survivors write poetry, novels or short stories to heal. My friend in Texas, Dan Hays wrote one book titled "Freedom's Just Another Word" and he is currently creating another.

Escaping the anxiety and depression for an hour or a day on the stage, playing music, working in a wood shop or just giving back to mankind can all heal the survivor.

The creating adult helps the child inside who survived.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: A Christmas Story: To Decorate or Not To Decorate

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: A Christmas Story: To Decorate or Not To Decorate: “A Christmas Story: To Decorate or Not to Decorate” I haven’t decided if I will decorate for Christmas this year. ...

A Christmas Story: To Decorate or Not To Decorate

“A Christmas Story: To Decorate or Not to Decorate”
I haven’t decided if I will decorate for Christmas this year. Last year on December 24th, I promised I’d never do it again.
The seven-foot tree that cost me nearly $100 lost lots of needles driving home from the tree-getting place. Earlier that day, I’d spent two hours dragging boxes of ornaments, tinsel, lights and the tree stand from the attic. Twice I slipped on the pull-down stairs and cut my ankle in two different areas. The extra large Band-Aids stopped the bleeding.
It was already dark when I pulled my pick-up into the driveway. The motion lights illuminated my path to the garage where the stand was ready to accept my Douglas fir tree. I loosened the four screw-like holders by turning each one no less than fifty-seven times. They were in the closed position so the stand could fit into the original box. My tennis elbow flared up a bit.
Singing “Silent Night,” I walked back to the truck to slide the tree base into the stand. Crap, I thought. It didn’t fit. The tree’s circumference was too large for the base. I had to trim my seven-foot tree to a spot where the diameter would fit the stand.
My head hit the door jam in the crawl space under my shop when I was looking for my chainsaw. Something wet started running off my bald head and down the side of my face. I had cut my head entering the thirty-inch high opening. I wiped my face and smeared something red onto my shorts. The stain was a brighter red than the previous blood trails from my ankle injuries earlier. I used another extra large Band-Aid for my head.
Back at my pickup, I kept walking over to the motion lights so they would turn on and I could see exactly where to cut the tree. After some fifteen attempts to start that damn chainsaw, it finally cranked. My tennis elbow became more painful and my shoulder began to throb from my rotator cuff repair earlier that year. My fingers nearly stuck together from the sap and I had difficulty releasing them from the trigger on the saw.
A thump was heard when eighteen-inches of tree fell to the driveway. I shimmied. I pushed. I wiggled that five and a half foot tree into the stand. The tree base was so close to fitting into the stand. The ball-peen hammer dented the bottom of the stand slightly when I finally hammered it into place.
The throbbing in my left thumb from where I’d hit it with the hammer was tolerable. That pain was nothing compared to my elbow each time I turned the screws into the tree base. My shoulder didn’t hurt at all dragging that tree down the sidewalk into the front door. That’s because I’d used my other arm. There was a carpet of needles on the sidewalk behind me and into the living room. It sure enough smelled like Christmas.
Ten minutes later the scent of pine needles was replaced with the smell of 10% ethanol gasoline. I washed my hands in it to eliminate the sap. There was a little poof when I lit a cigar. The singed hair on the back of my hand fell to the floor and I noticed a small burn spot on my hand. Another Band-Aid covered the blister. I figured if I was going to be dumb, I had to be tough.
I spent the next two hours in the garage untangling lights and testing each one trying to locate the dead one. When one light goes out they all go out. I sipped on bourbon and smoked my stogie.
My wife, “Trixie” met me in the middle of a three thousand light string. The very last one was loose. She plugged the string into the electrical outlet and stood back up. “What happened to your eyebrows? They’re gone.”
More singed hair fell to the garage floor as I wiped my barren frontal bone. Oops. Moments later I looked into the bathroom mirror and smiled. I was void of eyebrows. Now, there was a bloodstain on my face and side of my head, an extra large Band-Aid on my baldhead, and another on the back of my hairless hand. I thought it was pretty funny.
The Christmas CD of the group, Alabama must have comforted out cats. They came out from under the bed and into the living room to help us decorate. I got another glass of bourbon.
Initially Trixie and I asked each other where one ornament and another was purchased during our twenty-five years of marriage. We took our time and talked of trips we had taken across America. It was our tradition to buy Christmas ornaments wherever we visited. The throbbing in my left thumb and the blister on the back of my right hand intensified. I sipped more bourbon.
The damn cats kept lying on the ornament boxes and shredding the worn out tissue paper that protected the trinkets. I managed to break three ornaments when I lost concentration while pushing the cats off the coffee table. It seemed like the Christmas music got louder.
After some forty-five minutes Trixie and I stopped talking about our special ornaments and were more focused with hanging them on the tree. I turned off the blaring music. Three times of hearing the same songs was enough. Twice I had to pull tinsel from the cats’ paws. “Peaches” scratched my hand and forearm. Darn it. I was bleeding again in more spots and I was out of the extra large Band-Aids. There were now two medium sized on my left forearm.
Then the critiquing began. We walked around the tree at least ten times each. Following our Christmas tradition, Trixie pointed to the tree’s bald spots. I didn’t care. I bumped my throbbing thumb and drug my blistered hand across branches to hook ornaments in places that Trixie said were barren. And then I quit. I sat down and glared at Peaches. She ran off into the bedroom carrying a small wooden ornament in her mouth.
 No fewer than nineteen times I must have heard the following statements. “How does this look? Is this straight? Do you see any empty spots?”
I rubbed the top of my head in disgust and made it bleed again. I sat on the couch giving pressure to the wound with a paper towel. My shoulder pain intensified and my elbow hurt from pushing down on my head. The other cat did a dive off my legs and I was scratched and bleeding in a new spot. I didn’t care. I finished my bourbon and fell into a trance.
Trixie turned off all the interior lights and went outside to admire our work. I tagged along. It was a pretty sight. I noticed how quiet it was walking on the sidewalk over the bed of pine needles.
We returned to the inside, turned the lamps on and Trixie’s eyes were fixed staring at the tree. She looked at me and said, “The tree is crooked.”
Our divorce is final in two weeks.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or Yuk

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or Yuk: The Christmas Fruitcake © I like all kinds of traditions. I especially like the Christmas tradition of standing in...

Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or Yuk

The Christmas Fruitcake ©
I like all kinds of traditions. I especially like the Christmas tradition of standing in long lines at the post office to mail packages that have a high probability of getting lost ordelivered six months later. The term Postal Service is an oxymoron. I like watching television reports of people standing in long lines outside closed stores, in the middle of the night waiting for the store to open. I enjoy the news showing the rush of people fighting, punching, and kicking to buy some toy that the media convinced us we should own. I wonder if that’s what is meant by tidings of good cheer? One tradition I don’t like is paying off my credit card in January.
I like food and I like to eat. I like the tradition of preparing treats that are only made at Christmas. It’s fun to re-invent the learning curve because I forgot how to make an item during the past year. It’s also fun to learn the same thing new each December. I think that might be one definition of insanity. The added holiday stress is something my Type A personality enjoys. So does my pharmacist because I have to load up on anxiety medications. My heritage is German and Norwegian. We talk a little funny but we enjoy our Christmas foods.
Each year at Christmas my family makes potato bread and a cookie. The bread is called lefse. It’s a large round flat piece of dough. It’s warmed in the oven, covered with butter, rolled up and vigorously chewed with every bit of jaw strength one can muster. And that’s just to bite off a piece. The Norse god, Odin, first had it served to the souls of slain warriors because it would last an eternity. My brother, Richard calls it reindeer hide. He doesn’t like the stuff. But he’s not much of a traditionalist. Lefse is a Norwegian version of beef jerky. It can last forever. Krumkake is a Norwegian waffle cookie that takes a long time to make. Each cookie is made by hand one at a time. The first bite crumbles the cookie into hundreds of tiny pieces. As a kid I always liked watching adults make a mess. Uff-Dah!
There is one tradition I do not like - that is the re-appearance each December of fruitcake, the most disgusting food item ever created. Fruitcake was discovered by accident by a Greek fella named Imus Disgustus.
He was sitting around one day fully crocked on some fermented apple juice and felt creative. You probably don’t know this, but he was the first person the see a chicken lay an egg. There he was, soused to the gills and saw what appeared to be a white oval-shaped thing fall from what he thought was the chicken’s butt. He scratched his head and pondered. “Hey, we can crack that thing open and eat it.”
Later that day, ole Imus was out of his happy juice and was scrounging around his bachelor pad trying to find more alcohol of any type. All he could find was dried up raisins, hardened cranberries, crusty blueberries, chunks of cherries, fermented figs, dehydrated apricots and he finally came upon some brandy. He thought he’d have some fun.
He decided to cook something during his drunken stupor. He mixed the five-year old, dried up ingredients with some flour, sugar, baking powder, allspice and baking soda. He tipped some brandy into the mess for good measure. And presto! He created the first fruitcake. The year was 1170 AD. There are still edible pieces of his original cake displayed in Athens at the Martha Stewart Museum for Aged Products.
I got to thinking. Who in the world should be given this disgusting, vile, repulsive food as a holiday tradition? Politicians should be given fruitcake. The descriptions of the food and the profession are the same. An added benefit might be their inability to swallow and thus hinder their ability to talk. We could all prosper from that. When a politician isn’t talking, there’s no lies being told.
I think we should give one to our judges each December. Surely, they would write a court order of protection that no normal citizen could be within a half-mile of fruitcake. Those folks waiting in lines in the middle of the night at closed stores would be exempt from that order because they are not normal anyway. Plus the name itself pretty much describes those people – fruitcakes.
I gave a loaf to my neighbor last year. He owned a dog that barked constantly. The neighbor fella must not have liked my fruitcake. I saw the thing thrown out into his back yard. He probably figured the dog would eat it. That dog has been trying all year to eat and swallow the stuff. Ah-ha. I just noticed there has been no more barking.
Workers in the pharmaceutical industry should be given fruitcake and forced to eat it. The side effects include constipation, upset stomach, difficulty swallowing and nasty residual taste, inability to speak for hours, loss of sex life (because all they are too busy chewing), painful jaws, and seventeen others.
I sent one last Christmas to some prisoners sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. I figured it would take them that length of time to eat my gift. After all, fruitcake does last a lifetime. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Some dentists set out trays with bite size morsels in their lobbies. This stuff will chip or loosen a perfectly good tooth after just three bites. I figure it’s good for the dental business. But then, maybe some of the dentists just want to use their new reciprocating saws they bought at Home Depot. I found that to be the best tool to cut this stuff into pieces.
There is one time a person should never eat fruitcake. Never attempt to consume this vile concoction if you are scheduled for a colonoscopy in the next six months. The ingredients will still be embedded inside and can appear as radioactive polyps. Then your medical insurance rates will increase because you will have a new diagnosis.
Lastly, I don’t know of a single person who claims to like fruitcake. If I hear of someone who claims to enjoy fruitcake, I can never locate him or her for an interview. Trust me, I have tried. They are nowhere to be found. That’s like the people who were supposedly asked questions in a national survey or a political poll. I’ve lived a long time. I know lots of people and never met a person yet who claims to have been a part of some survey.
If you do ever meet one of those folks, they are probably lying. I’ll bet they will tell you that they like fruitcake also.
David Nelson Nelsonwww.davidnelsonauthor.com

The Shade Tree Choir: Reduce Holiday Stress

The Shade Tree Choir: Reduce Holiday Stress: Managing Holiday Stress  Did you ever find yourself being 'thankful' that the holiday was over?  Do you find yourself stressed ...

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