I got a new job! It's in Trenton, so the Mircat family will be moving from New York City soon. I'm not sure of when exactly. I know they want me to start on March 31, but Trenton management will negotiate with New York management about my actual start date. If anything, I'll start in Trenton in April, go to Kansas City for a two week training course, then come back to New York for the month of May, then go back to Trenton. All this time, Glaucia and the kids will steadily occupy New York City while the school year finishes.
After all that madness, we'll be on the house hunt in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. With the housing market in the slump, we might have an easier time finding a home that fits our family. It's shaping up to be a crazy year, with lots of transitions for the whole family. I also canceled my classes that I had scheduled through June. I may even have to forget doing school in the summer also. I've been doing full time college for two years now, only taking a break last Summer. I was planning on getting my bachelor's by this June, but I think I'll have to delay it to hopefully finishing my degree in December. That's ok, because I'm glad to be going through this transition.
This move is also going to be great for my mom, who lives in Philly. She's very happy that we'll be much closer. I'm glad we'll be closer to her to. She's been through plenty these past couple of years and it will be great for her to have some solid family nearby.
Well, I don't want to spend too much time writing. I've got plenty of homework this week. I also need to get writing for Graffiti's Writer's Guild. I have to send the other members some form of a story to get critical feedback on my writing.
Fab's Adventures
Chronicling the crazy life of Fab
23
Aug
2007
Following is a copy of a paper I wrote for my English class last year. It was very difficult to write and very personal. It leaves out many details because I was limited to a certain amount of words for the assignment. At the end of the story, I'll append a little update.
Peace will come when he dies. While he lives, I live in fear. I love him too much to see him suffer again. I am afraid my brother will disappear again, becoming someone else - someone terrified, screaming to God and humanity. Watching someone you love be tormented is worse than being tormented yourself.
At age 22, Lawrence is 8 years younger than me. He and my mom were visiting. I love their visits. Lawrence and I talk about life, spirituality, and science. I admire my younger brother. He is a quiet, intelligent young man. He is very humble. He stops any activity to listen to my talkative 4-year old son. A conversation with Lawrence is wonderful. He intently listens, rarely disagreeing and always amazed at my worldview. I am equally amazed at him. During our deep conversations, all the world’s problems are solved right in my living room.
Lawrence began his transformation Monday morning. He, known for always sleeping, barely slept the entire weekend, yet was wide awake with endless energy. He paced around as he rambled excitedly about thoughts running through his head, many of which confused me.
That night, Lawrence and I went to a Bible study at the Underground Church – a church for the societal outcasts of NYC. During study, he became even stranger. He was very interruptive, which is highly unlike him. He was sitting in front of the heater and said it was making him cold. He moved to the colder side of the room, across from me, and took off his jacket. At one point, my heart broke as I saw tears filling his eyes. He looked like a scared little child lost in a dark, lonely place. During prayer time, I silently prayed that God would reveal His love to Lawrence. Lawrence began weeping then ran outside. I let him have some time to himself before leaving.
Outside, Lawrence was sitting on the concrete. I sat down next to him and asked him what was wrong. He said strange things about how he would be responsible for Jesus’ second coming by submitting himself to let Jesus take over his body. Just then, Austin, the pastor of the Underground Church, came outside. Lawrence wanted us to pray for him. As we did, Lawrence began shaking violently and breathing heavily. He tightly held my shoe, screaming, “You don’t know what you ask of me!” I had no time to wonder what he meant. I just looked into his eyes and prayed silently with every ounce of myself. His eyes were wide open, staring back at me. His face was foreign and frightened. I felt that I was reaching into a dark place, attempting to pull Lawrence back into reality. As I prayed, he kept saying, “Thank you, Fab. I can feel it.” Abruptly, he stood up and said, “I can’t do it.”
The next morning was even worse. I awoke to Lawrence’s ear-piercing screams. He was curled up on the living room floor screaming, “GOD, HELP ME! JESUS, HELP ME!” as though he was cast into hell. I just held him and prayed. It was all that kept him calm. He began to speak at me, saying things like, “Jesus, I see you in Fab.” He opened his mouth like he was going to bite my arm, saying, “Jesus, you said ‘Take and eat,’ but I don’t want to hurt Fab.” I told him that it was spiritual food and not physical. He smiled nervously and exclaimed, “I don’t have to eat Fab!”
Madness ruled that day. One minute Lawrence is terrified, the next he’s on top of the world. Everything was unpredictable. I had no idea who he was any more. All I knew was he needed a doctor. He would not leave the house. He said he had to wait for the Father to come home. Then he refused to take a shower, because he would be ready for “Dad” and none of us would be. He became paranoid, imprisoning me with a constant demand for my attention.
I came up with a plan to get him to a hospital. I told him that we should drive around and see where God leads us, so we can pray for people. He loved the idea and wanted to clean himself so he could be ready for the Father. When he was in the bathroom, I left a voicemail on Kareem’s cell phone; Kareem is a social worker friend of mine. I was hoping that Kareem would return the call while out with Lawrence. Lawrence exited the bathroom within two minutes in his underwear. He said he was filling up the tub because he wanted me to baptize him before leaving.
“You are buried with Him in his death; raised to a new life with Him in His resurrection.”
Lawrence jumped from the tub, gleaming with joy, ready to invite the world to my house to wait for the Father. He suggested that I pray before going anywhere. Just as I prayed that God would guide us, Kareem called. I told Lawrence that God was guiding us to meet Kareem. To Lawrence, every word proceeding from my mouth was gospel. Taking advantage of that mentality, I could bring Lawrence anywhere. He joyfully followed me to meet Kareem. Then “God guided us” to the hospital. “God led us” to the psychiatric ward of the hospital, where Lawrence said it was his Father’s house.
I remember driving to the hospital, seeing how happy Lawrence was, thinking about how terrified he was that morning, wondering when he would be terrified again. I had a disgusting thought in that moment. The way Lawrence was talking and acting, it would not have surprised if he jumped out of the car. I thought to myself that it might be better for him if he jumped out and killed himself. At least he would die happy and I would never have to worry about him being cast back into his petrifying hell. I still hate that I could think such a thought.
While Lawrence was in the hospital, I nearly had a mental breakdown. I was exhausted. I was tired of being misunderstood by friends and family. I barely slept. I visited Lawrence daily. For days, I had no time to myself, spending hours on the phone or meeting doctors and social workers. I went to work one night to gain a sense of normalcy. Alone in a room, I wept uncontrollably for over a half hour.
“Give me his fear. Give me his pain. Torture me. Leave Lawrence alone.”
Lawrence was released a week later, highly medicated, diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Upon returning to Philly, he stopped taking his medication. Within three days, he went into another episode, running into the middle of the street, yelling at cars to help him. Police brought him to a hospital, which sent him to a psychiatric hospital for two weeks.
He is with my mom now, taking medication, but has no medical insurance. It is only a matter of time before he runs out of savings. It is nice to talk to him on the phone, but when he sounds energetic I cringe. I live in fear of him going back to that mental torture. I see his face clearly, looking frightened at this world as though he’s never seen it before. If possible, give me his mental disorder. Do not make me watch him suffer.
Peace will come when he dies. While he lives, I live in fear. I love him too much to see him suffer again. I am afraid my brother will disappear again, becoming someone else - someone terrified, screaming to God and humanity. Watching someone you love be tormented is worse than being tormented yourself.
At age 22, Lawrence is 8 years younger than me. He and my mom were visiting. I love their visits. Lawrence and I talk about life, spirituality, and science. I admire my younger brother. He is a quiet, intelligent young man. He is very humble. He stops any activity to listen to my talkative 4-year old son. A conversation with Lawrence is wonderful. He intently listens, rarely disagreeing and always amazed at my worldview. I am equally amazed at him. During our deep conversations, all the world’s problems are solved right in my living room.
Lawrence began his transformation Monday morning. He, known for always sleeping, barely slept the entire weekend, yet was wide awake with endless energy. He paced around as he rambled excitedly about thoughts running through his head, many of which confused me.
That night, Lawrence and I went to a Bible study at the Underground Church – a church for the societal outcasts of NYC. During study, he became even stranger. He was very interruptive, which is highly unlike him. He was sitting in front of the heater and said it was making him cold. He moved to the colder side of the room, across from me, and took off his jacket. At one point, my heart broke as I saw tears filling his eyes. He looked like a scared little child lost in a dark, lonely place. During prayer time, I silently prayed that God would reveal His love to Lawrence. Lawrence began weeping then ran outside. I let him have some time to himself before leaving.
Outside, Lawrence was sitting on the concrete. I sat down next to him and asked him what was wrong. He said strange things about how he would be responsible for Jesus’ second coming by submitting himself to let Jesus take over his body. Just then, Austin, the pastor of the Underground Church, came outside. Lawrence wanted us to pray for him. As we did, Lawrence began shaking violently and breathing heavily. He tightly held my shoe, screaming, “You don’t know what you ask of me!” I had no time to wonder what he meant. I just looked into his eyes and prayed silently with every ounce of myself. His eyes were wide open, staring back at me. His face was foreign and frightened. I felt that I was reaching into a dark place, attempting to pull Lawrence back into reality. As I prayed, he kept saying, “Thank you, Fab. I can feel it.” Abruptly, he stood up and said, “I can’t do it.”
The next morning was even worse. I awoke to Lawrence’s ear-piercing screams. He was curled up on the living room floor screaming, “GOD, HELP ME! JESUS, HELP ME!” as though he was cast into hell. I just held him and prayed. It was all that kept him calm. He began to speak at me, saying things like, “Jesus, I see you in Fab.” He opened his mouth like he was going to bite my arm, saying, “Jesus, you said ‘Take and eat,’ but I don’t want to hurt Fab.” I told him that it was spiritual food and not physical. He smiled nervously and exclaimed, “I don’t have to eat Fab!”
Madness ruled that day. One minute Lawrence is terrified, the next he’s on top of the world. Everything was unpredictable. I had no idea who he was any more. All I knew was he needed a doctor. He would not leave the house. He said he had to wait for the Father to come home. Then he refused to take a shower, because he would be ready for “Dad” and none of us would be. He became paranoid, imprisoning me with a constant demand for my attention.
I came up with a plan to get him to a hospital. I told him that we should drive around and see where God leads us, so we can pray for people. He loved the idea and wanted to clean himself so he could be ready for the Father. When he was in the bathroom, I left a voicemail on Kareem’s cell phone; Kareem is a social worker friend of mine. I was hoping that Kareem would return the call while out with Lawrence. Lawrence exited the bathroom within two minutes in his underwear. He said he was filling up the tub because he wanted me to baptize him before leaving.
“You are buried with Him in his death; raised to a new life with Him in His resurrection.”
Lawrence jumped from the tub, gleaming with joy, ready to invite the world to my house to wait for the Father. He suggested that I pray before going anywhere. Just as I prayed that God would guide us, Kareem called. I told Lawrence that God was guiding us to meet Kareem. To Lawrence, every word proceeding from my mouth was gospel. Taking advantage of that mentality, I could bring Lawrence anywhere. He joyfully followed me to meet Kareem. Then “God guided us” to the hospital. “God led us” to the psychiatric ward of the hospital, where Lawrence said it was his Father’s house.
I remember driving to the hospital, seeing how happy Lawrence was, thinking about how terrified he was that morning, wondering when he would be terrified again. I had a disgusting thought in that moment. The way Lawrence was talking and acting, it would not have surprised if he jumped out of the car. I thought to myself that it might be better for him if he jumped out and killed himself. At least he would die happy and I would never have to worry about him being cast back into his petrifying hell. I still hate that I could think such a thought.
While Lawrence was in the hospital, I nearly had a mental breakdown. I was exhausted. I was tired of being misunderstood by friends and family. I barely slept. I visited Lawrence daily. For days, I had no time to myself, spending hours on the phone or meeting doctors and social workers. I went to work one night to gain a sense of normalcy. Alone in a room, I wept uncontrollably for over a half hour.
“Give me his fear. Give me his pain. Torture me. Leave Lawrence alone.”
Lawrence was released a week later, highly medicated, diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Upon returning to Philly, he stopped taking his medication. Within three days, he went into another episode, running into the middle of the street, yelling at cars to help him. Police brought him to a hospital, which sent him to a psychiatric hospital for two weeks.
He is with my mom now, taking medication, but has no medical insurance. It is only a matter of time before he runs out of savings. It is nice to talk to him on the phone, but when he sounds energetic I cringe. I live in fear of him going back to that mental torture. I see his face clearly, looking frightened at this world as though he’s never seen it before. If possible, give me his mental disorder. Do not make me watch him suffer.
Update: He has not been on medication for all of 2007. He has been in a major depressive mood for over a year now. He is bitter about being hospitalized and believes that everyone forced him into the hospital when he was closest to God. The last time I spoke with him was last week. He was almost in tears, without much explanation except that he is tired of nothing getting accomplished in his life. I'm a little afraid of trying to help him, because he needs to depend on himself, not on me. I kept my words brief and only gave him small encouraging words. He has not spoken to a psychiatrist since January 2006. He was denied his Medicaid application because he had more than $250 in a bank account. I believe he really didn't want coverage anyway so that he can run out of the medication. He is probably hoping to return to his manic state, since he felt closest to God last time. I figure I'll just stay on the sidelines this time so he can, at some point, see that a manic episode is not always a spiritual experience. I'm just hoping he'll realize something, but how can I expect him to see rationally when a medical condition is making him irrational? Anyway... we'll see.
20
Aug
2007
This has been a week of research and blog installations. This morning, I created a new site (and registered a new subdomain - willik.mircats.com) for my six year old son, Willik. He loves to read and has been getting into writing. Glaucia (my wife) and I showed him Microsoft Word to introduce him to story writing on the computer. So I decided to make a blog for him to upload his little stories to. He's about to enter first grade and I'm sure that throughout the year, we'll see his stories improve and get a little longer. I think he gets tired because of how long it takes him to find the characters on the keyboard.
So, go check it out! He's got two stories already written and uploaded.
Willik's World
So, go check it out! He's got two stories already written and uploaded.
Willik's World
