My writing is inspired by the comfort I feel from reading articles about living with mood disorders. That kind of catharsis is priceless, and the way that information resonates with me means the difference between giving up on life and sticking around to see if I can create a healthier way of being.
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Over the past year I think we have seen some amazing accomplishments achieved by women. As a woman I encourage and applaud every facet of a women's progression in our world. With that being said, women's health is also very important to me.
I love getting the chance to examine and start conversations about art in any capacity, and thanks to a history of working with the differently abled community (and theater companies that focus on stories by/for the differently abled), I enjoy putting a spotlight on shows that explore their stories.
There is a problem. An epidemic, a sickness fragmenting our societies very fiber and woefully little is being done to eradicate it. This debilitating problem, plague to sanity, endangers over a third of the world’s population; the end is not nigh. I’m of course talking about the disease of the designers.
It can be argued that the sole purpose of a designer is to constantly create and destroy, which in turn creates a correlation with the individuals who purchase, use and discard what’s been generated. What the affluent designer assumes is needed for the community becomes implemented and unless a thorough user and market analysis is researched and taken into account, a flawed product becomes born. However, the imperfections of this bastard product (product of urban plans by architects, social structure by the lawmakers and government) at times become overlooked and instead scapegoated towards the ‘imperfections’ of the individuals who use them. I repeat, there is problem and it is with the ideology of the designer and their flawed product that alienates their users.
Those words, like a festering wound, would echo through my being and cause a mental pang that left me enraged and unsettled.
I guess some would say that I was oversensitive – I mean they were just words. Silly, stupid words that I should have been able to let roll off my back. At least this is the coping advice I was given my whole life (drastically easier said than done, mind you). The memories however, the ones that crawled into my mind when I heard such words, were unavoidable and couldn’t be easily forgotten. What are you really supposed to do when words such as these, are used to define your differences?
All of my disabilities, foibles and peculiarities feed into the process.
My years of jerking cars from wrecks and hauling them across San Jose produced the mundane side of Hooker.
My being overweight, love for cooking and caring for others shows up in Dolly the dispatcher.
My year spent in a wheelchair during college shows up in the retired detective.
When we say TBI, the general public sees helmets - battles and football. But I did neither. Mine comes from some accidents, and a lot of getting smacked in the head with a big stick many times over the eleven years. I did medieval broadsword fighting.