celebrities

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Bipolar Disorder Beyond the Headlines

Author’s Note: It has been brought to my attention by an insightful reader that this post could be perceived as presenting psychiatric maxims and advice. I want to be clear for anyone reading this that I have no psychiatric or medical training. This post is written purely from the perspective of a layperson with bipolar disorder and is not intended to diagnose, treat or judge any illness or disorder. I apologize retroactively for any lack of clarity on my part.

In a recent Crasstalk comment thread, I made the mistake of writing the sentence “Catherine Zeta Jones is pretending to be in rehab for bipolar disorder.” Although it was certainly not my intention, my very poor choice of words made it seem that I was flippantly saying that Ms. Jones was faking her illness. Perhaps my comment is even worse considering that I do know much better than to make light (even unintentionally) of serious matters.

In hindsight, I know that I should have clarified my point by writing, “Catherine Zeta Jones’ publicist says that she is in rehab for bipolar disorder.” The point I was trying to make is that for an A-list actor, the stigma of admitting to treatment in a psychiatric facility is far greater than the stigma associated with going to rehab. My theory is that drug addicts – regardless of the severity of their addiction – can always say their behavior was a result of temporary weakness, whereas people with mental illness are often viewed as inherently and irrevocably defective. Chemical imbalances in the brain that must be treated with medication are deemed far worse than chemical imbalances in the body that require medication.

Ms. Jones has been diagnosed with bipolar II disorder, which is markedly different from bipolar I. (Bipolar II is characterized by more lows than highs, and the highs are rarely manic. Bipolar I is characterized by less severe lows and intermittent manic highs.) But I think the media lumps the two together because it’s more “exciting” to potentially have a manic-behaving celebrity, as in the case of Britney Spears’ paparazzi-fueled meltdown and hospitalization. But regardless, I think that arguing over degrees of mental illness is both missing the point and enhancing the stigma. I also think that the media’s tendency to publicly “out” people as being bipolar – even if they are exhibiting clear symptoms of the disorder – is victim-shaming at its worst. (Charlie Sheen comes to mind.)

Not every celebrity can be as open as, say, Carrie Fisher, who publicly talks about taking 8 different meds to manage her bipolar I disorder. I can understand a famous person not wanting to be painted with the mental illness brush. I think Catherine Zeta Jones is to be admired for acknowledging it. Of course, the extenuating circumstances of the personal stress she’s been under have clearly been a factor, but she could have instead chosen to say that she was suffering from exhaustion and face far less public scrutiny.

The brouhaha which my crass comment regarding Ms. Jones created in the comments has made me rethink my own situation. Despite my ebullient friendliness online, in many ways, I am a private person. I didn’t want to offer up as a defense for my remarks the fact that I have bipolar I disorder, because I didn’t want to be perceived as (1) insane, (2) self-hating or (3) unsupportive of other bipolar people, none of which is the case at all. I was merely recognizing the social stigma of the disorder – a stigma so great that it leads to inpatient psychiatric care being euphemistically referred to as rehab, and creates a hierarchy between “good” bipolar (II) and “bad” bipolar (I).

Having dealt with bipolar disorder consistently for eleven years (I was diagnosed a decade earlier) I can tell you that it’s challenging at times, but as long as I’m on top of things, I can consciously forestall circumstances spiraling out of my control. I take only one medication and manage my moods and thoughts quite diligently. Sleep is the best leveler I know of, and I make a concerted effort to keep my body healthy and balanced in all other ways as well. Bipolar disorder does not have to be a dramatic, violent life-interruptor, although mania is often portrayed that way on TV and in movies. It helps to have supportive people in your life; everyone close to me is well aware that I am bipolar, and my family and closest friends don’t judge me for it.

It is my intention to clear up the misunderstanding I created by offering a piece of my personal experience. It is obviously my hope that those reading this will open their minds to the possibility that bipolar disorder – and mental illness in general – is not the death sentence many people have been led to believe. There are varying degrees of the disorder, and I know that I am fortunate to have a milder version of bipolar I. Rather than look at it as a curse, I prefer to look at it the way Jimi Hendrix did: “Manic depression is touching my soul.”

UPDATE: bens made a fantastic — and crucial — comment that deserves to be in the body of this post. He offered some explicit clarification regarding the connection between drug abuse and mental illness that I had completely missed. Here is his comment in its entirety:

Drug addiction is a mental illness. You are mentally ill if you are a drug addict, plain and simple. Not everybody who goes to rehab or goes to a psychiatric facility for “drug addiction” is a drug addict, but for those who are genuine drug addicts there’s no way you can say its not a mental illness.

And then you get to the problem whereby many different mental illnesses mimic symptoms. You could be doing drugs because you’re depressed, have bipolar disorder, have a geniune addiction to drugs, because you’re self medicating anxiety symptoms, etc. There’s a lot of overlap and misdiagnosis.

The first thing anyone will tell a patient seeking help at a rehab is that “you can’t easily put the toothpaste back in the tube.” Its something that doesn’t go away.

For CZJ, she probably went to a dual-diagnosis rehab, to get the appropriate level of care. She’s most likely abusing substances, hence the rehab. Just going to a psych facility not tailored to treat her addiction would only be treating part of the problem.

Twitterama, April 15, 2011

The magic of Twitter is that it gives us regular folks a chance to see into the randomized musings and utterly mundane details of celebrities and, well, everyone else, filter-free.  Unleashed from the restraints of their PR flack and armed with a cell phone, famous folks can tell us what they had for lunch, or when they pick up their dry-cleaning.  Just kidding.  Rich people have someone do that for them.  Otherwise, they might be forced to mingle with people who work for a living.

The thing with Twitter is that it’s moved beyond real people.  Fictional characters have Twitter accounts now (more on that in a second).  Hell, celebrities make up accounts for their dogs, which is dumb.   I’m looking at you, Ice-T.   For crying out loud, I have friends who set up an account for their 6 month old.  If you guys have that kind of free time, perhaps you should look into doing something useful, like teaching the kid Chinese, or, better, picking up my dry cleaning.

Or, if you want to spend that much time on Twitter, try checking out the accounts of people who might actually have something interesting to say, like Lord Voldemort, who gives us some advice on how to make it through the weekend:

 

Seth McFarlane gives a new perspective on the Charlie Sheen situation:

um…. maybe?

Continuing on the Charlie Sheen track, the always awesome George Takei has his own ideas;

In another area of the entertainment industry, Roger Ebert gives his opinion on the Atlas Shrugged movie:


NPR, as always, is quite servicey:

 

When I was in college I took a stand-up comedy class.  I honestly think it was a humanities course and not an elective, but I can’t be sure – it was many years ago.

In any case, our professor told us that even if your joke elicits a groan, it’s still a decent joke.  My professor was also about 120 years old, so take that however you wish.  Regardless, I think this may fall somewhere in the groan-worthy category.

 

And even more groan-worthy (with a side of giggle), Albert Brooks delivers:

Writer Seth Madej, friend of the author, gives tips on how to sound smart at parties (follow this guy, he’s entertaining):

This Twitter account is not for the religiously sensitive.  For the rest of us – hilarious (and true!).

 

Death Star PR is always full of good questions:



And finally, Seth McFarlane again, retweeting a nonexistent Twitter account that should actually exist:  

Right on, Seth.

Anyway, enjoy, and I’ll try to keep up on this the best I can.  In the meantime, if you want to recommend some entertaining people to follow on Twitter, please do!

Question of the Day: Who’s the Celebrity You Most Resemble?

Welcome to the Crasstalk Question of the Day. Each morning we ask you a different question and you the Crass Nation provide an answer.

Today’s question is for you vain, vain people.

Who’s the celebrity you most resemble?

Now, you don’t actually have to look like Corey Feldman or Li’l Kim. You just have to resemble them more than any other celebrity. In fact, you don’t even have to say “I’m a poor man’s…..” We already assume you’re not quite as dashing as George Clooney or stacked like Pam Anderson!

I think my CIMR would have to be Brian Austin Green. Yeah, he’s way better looking than I’ll ever be, but I’m fairly sure I could rap better than him.

Crass Gossip: Thursday Edition

The world is a little less glam today, but time and snark stop for no one.
  • He’s really milking the attention thing. (Dlisted)
  • Tears of a Spice Girl. (Lainey)
  • Aren’t we done with these people yet? No? Well then, Snooki found my bathing suit from 1993 and it fits her only slightly worse than it did me. (The Superficial)
  • I really want #17 to read, “…because learnin’ English has been so much fun. Y’all.” (Us)
  • I love that Ellen and Chord are each modeling different eras of Bieber hair.

Meeting Katharine Hepburn, A Memory

My Grandmother and I took road trips together. Our first was when she took me to NYC in 1969 to see The Rockettes perform at Radio City Music Hall. I was four years old. This was the trip where we discovered that I couldn’t tolerate heights.

After the 11am show, we had several hours to kill before our bus back to Syracuse would leave. Nonnie had planned to take me to the Empire State Building, which was three years away from being eclipsed by Tower One of the World Trade Center as the tallest building in the world. I had never been higher than a hayloft. It was a relatively quiet day in NYC; there was no wait for the elevator to the observation deck on the 102nd floor. She picked me up and held me up to the window to see NY and beyond. Nonnie shortly found herself holding an unconscious four year old that had wet herself.

I’ve experienced a repeat of this several times since and can tell you exactly what happened even though I have no memory of that specific incident. My perception shifted, shooting out and increasing the distance between the ground and myself exponentially. (This phenomenon strikes me as unnecessary.) My head started spinning, my bones turned to water, and I passed out. Thankfully, the wetting myself part has never reoccurred in subsequent episodes of vertigo.

As Nonnie told it, there was an emergency phone next to the elevators and she called for help. I came to, still on the observation deck, while someone, (a medic? an elevator operator?) was explaining to my grandmother that it was probably a reaction to the height. I made a run for the elevator. It was apparently quite a race to see if they could beat me to the ground floor. After getting me cleaned up the remainder of the outing was uneventful.

I am actually writing about another trip. It seemed important that I remember that my trips with my Nonnie were rarely unmarked by bizarre occurrences.

 

In the late summer of 1979 my Grandmother and I took a road trip to Connecticut to visit her brother. I don’t recall what we spent most of the weekend doing, probably drinking coffee and playing pinochle. Uncle Fran and his family wanted to show the area off and on Sunday took us to Essex in the afternoon to have brunch at the Griswold Inn.

Essex is your typical coastal New England town; it looks rich in the summer and poor in the winter. There is also no place to park on a busy day. We found a spot or lot a few blocks from the inn. We walked along the waterfront shops, peeking through the storefront windows and catching an occasional glimpse of the sound and the shrimpers between buildings.

We passed a teahouse only a block or two from our destination. I looked past the lace curtains and saw her. I almost fell down. My legs refused to move and were undecided as to whether they would continue to bear my weight. Nonnie asked me what was wrong. I told her in a stage whisper, as I was ducking underneath the window, “It’s Katharine Hepburn!” She told me that it was not and to hurry, we were already late for our reservation and Uncle Fran was afraid we’d lose our table. I peeked over the edge of the window once more, expecting my eyes to tell me that it was not Katharine Hepburn that my imagination had run away with me. Well it was her. There was no mistaking that profile. I had seen every movie she had ever done many times over. She was (is) my hero and, damn it, it was her. I allowed myself to be pulled along to the Griswold. We were to wait a few minutes for our table. (‘Late’ to my uncle was fifteen minutes early. He was a quirky pessimist. I wish I had a written copy of his eulogy, written and delivered by his daughter, it would rival any comedic stand up routine in hilarity.) My mind was racing and the urge to run back to the teahouse was almost overwhelming.

We were seated and our bloody marys were ordered. Everyone stood to take their place in the extremely long buffet line. I excused myself saying that I needed to visit the ladies room and would then go through the buffet, meeting them back at the table. As soon as I was out of sight of the table, I ran out the door and up the street.

I peeked through the window to see if she was still there. She was. I took a deep breath and walked through the door into the teahouse. I was asked how I could be helped and managed to croak, “Tea, please.” My seat was two tables away and I was sitting roughly parallel and facing in the same direction as Miss Hepburn. It was not my intention to impose or presume. I simply wanted to be in her presence. I sat there facing resolutely forward while my eyes were shifted as far to the left as they would go, a posture that anyone who has shaved their armpits can attest to as being extremely uncomfortable. I’m sure I was visibly shaking, just as I’m sure the tea-lady knew what I was up to as she set a cup of tea in front of me that I didn’t seem to order.

I listened to Miss Hepburn’s low rumble as she spoke to her tablemate, the individual words were lost, but I could hear that peculiar tremble in her voice. In casting my eyes her way, I was looking almost directly, if obliquely, at her companion. This did not go unnoticed and I can only assume it was brought to Miss Hepburn’s attention given that she abruptly turned her head and looked directly at me. I dropped my eyes to the cup of tea in front of me.

I looked up when the woman from her table touched my arm and said “Miss Hepburn and I can’t help but notice you looking at her.” I nodded, horrified that I had been discovered. “Would you care to join us?” She picked up my teacup and turned back to her table without waiting for my response. I sat between them, Miss Hepburn on my left and her secretary, (explained during the introduction), on my right. I shook Miss Hepburn’s hand. She asked me questions;

KH: “How old are you?”
Me: “14, ma’am”
KH: “What grade are you in?”
Me: “9th ma’am”
KH: “Do you get good grades?”
Me: “Yes ma’am”

I eventually regained some control over my brain and began answering in complete sentences. She asked how I came to be at the teahouse. I explained about the road trip and visiting family. I told her that they were all down the street at brunch. She gently advised me that perhaps I should get back to them before they missed me and began to worry. She shook my hand again, telling me that I had a good firm handshake, and that it was a pleasure to meet me.

I left and returned to The Griswold. I was very pleased with my conduct. I did not gush. I did not impose. I did not spill anything. Not that I ever touched my cup of tea, things just seemed to tip over in my presence. My grandmother had always felt that I was a precocious, (read mouthy), tomboy. She spent years and not a little money making sure that I had ‘manners’ and would not embarrass her in public. She would have been so proud.

I filled my plate in the buffet line and took my seat with my family. They did not question my absence. I estimate that the entire escapade was less than twenty minutes. The only remark made was on my uncharacteristic silence. I admit now that I was being selfish and spiteful. I was unwilling to share it with anyone. If I had opened my mouth to speak at all, I would not have been able to contain it.

Katharine Hepburn was, and remains, my idol. She was the epitome of self-sufficient womanhood, living life on her own terms. She could easily have ignored me at my table until my family came looking for me or I decided to feel foolish and leave. Miss Hepburn exhibited charm and grace far beyond the experience of my backwoods upbringing. She is the sole reason I gave in when my grandmother decided to send me to ‘finishing school’ later that year to grind off my rough edges. I wanted to learn how to be a ladylike tomboy who doesn’t compromise her principles. I’m still learning.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

This memoir was first publish in my mostly hidden, now defunct and inaccessible, Livejournal in 2002. I have made some minor edits. Full disclosure: I have no idea what show my grandmother took me to in 1969. My Nonnie is long gone and my Mother does not recall.

Not Exactly in Defense of Chris Brown


Full Disclosure: I have experience with domestic abuse. I personally hate the terms “victim” and “survivor” so, let’s just say I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of habitual beatings. I’m not defending the actions of Chris Brown. I am saying, in comparison with other convicted famous domestic abusers, he has been grossly mistreated by American media.

I’m calling bullshit on the media’s continued social lynching of Chris Brown as The Worst Man Alive (Yeah, I used the “L” word).

Chris Brown is not a good guy. But by my standards he’s a pretty average variety of bad guy with worse judgment. A variety of bad guy so average that if he were white, his new album might be in the iTunes top ten by now and yesterday’s GMA performance might have been outside and accompanied by a throng of screaming fans and no questions about his battery of his ex-girlfriend.

There is something rotten in media land (what’s new?).

The inequity in media coverage of Chris Brown versus oh, say that colossal grade A asshole Charlie Sheen, (who has shot one woman, allegedly beat a UCLA student for refusing to have sex with him, beat and threatened to kill a porn actress he was dating, threw furniture at and threatened to kill ex-wife Denise Richards, threatened to kill ex-wife Brooke Mueller twice and terrorized another porn actress in the famous Plaza Hotel incident) is stark and startling and it has dramatically colored the public’s opinion of the two characters.

A number of great blogs have covered the contrast in coverage between these two total bastards, calling out TMZ in particular for their imbalanced coverage, but recent events demand a revisit.

Chris Brown went on GMA to shill his latest album. He performed and then sat down for what any other artist, not matter the level of scandal they were currently embroiled in, should have been a perfunctory and largely b.s. interview. GMA claims that they cleared all the Rihanna-centered questioning was approved by Brown and his people. Honestly? That seems like a pretty tall glass of bullshit. “Bad Boy” hasn’t been profitable for Brown and any PR flack worth his cell phone minutes would never have ok’d that line of questioning.

Was his temper tantrum and window breaking unacceptable? Absolutely, but part of me wonders how patient and mature I would be if I was still being publicly flogged for some of my more considerable fuck-ups?

ESPECIALLY when a dude, who has by all accounts done a lot worse was about to embark on a sold out one-man show.

Which brings us to that sad piece of shit a lot of people apparently are willing to pay a minimum of $79 to see (some reports have tickets in the sold out Chicago shows going for as much as $514) to see spew insanity, Charlie Sheen.

Coverage of Charlie Sheen has focused on his substance abuse (Oh poor him! Won’t somebody SAVE him!) and his nonsensical verbal diarrhea (That lovable scamp!).  He has never had his feet held to the fire of a public flogging, largely because he’s been so successful at painting all the women who accuse him of misdeeds as gold diggers. Either despite the statistics that state one in four women have been a victim of domestic abuse the American public is more willing to believe that six women in a row are all gold diggers, rather than victims of a habitual abuser OR the media has done a good job of helping Sheen sweep his litany of misdeeds under the rug by focusing on his ” male need to kill and to win.”

Every interview Sheen does is a softball. Can you imagine if Brown had shot a woman? He’d be living under an overpass. Yet Sheen has shot a woman, beat up others and threatened to kill a few and has a million Twitter followers and tens of millions in the bank.

Anybody have any theories about the disproportionate and unequal media response that don’t begin and end with “because Chris Brown is a black man?” Honestly, if you do I am dying to hear them.

Racialicious

Bitch Magazine

Weekend and Monday Gossip Catchup

Allie done got herself an author account and she is just so excited to share this week’s gossip with y’all. So excited that she immediately put down her Evidence textbook and began writing this post for you. Since this post is coming late, I’m including the weekend’s gossip, and the top stories from today.

  • Shocker!: WB fires Charlie Sheen from CBS comedy Two and a Half Men. No word on whether production on the show will continue without Mr. Sheen. One and a Half Men doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, especially since that Angus T. Jones is ginormous now and is more of a Man than a Half-Man. Two Men and a Baby? Hasn’t that been done already? Anyway…(via TMZ).
  • Charlie’s Sheen’s response to being fired:

    “This is very good news. They continue to be in breach, like so many whales. It is a big day of gladness at the Sober Valley Lodge because now I can take all of their bazillions, never have to look at whatshiscock again and I never have to put on those silly shirts for as long as this warlock exists in the terrestrial dimension.”

    I get the sense we should be ignoring this guy for his own good.(Link via TMZ).

  • Lindsay Lohan is apparently upset that Miley took a few hits at her during her opening monologue on Saturday Night Live this past weekend. Lorne Michaels is like a “father figure” to her, blah blah blah. Sounds like someone needs to learn how to take a joke. (Link via Dlisted).
  • Here’s the clip that’s got LiLo all heated:
  • In other LiLo news, the jewelry shop sold the video footage of her allegedly stealing the necklace for around $25,000 to $35,000 depending on which site you read. AP bought the footage and it was quickly licensed out to ET. You can watch Lindz’s alleged thievery by clicking here. Sites are reporting that the prosecution is pissed as hell that the jewelry store sold the footage, since it makes the jewelry store owners look like money-grubbing famewhores trying to make a quick buck off poor Lilo.
  • Picture of the mini-fashionista Suri Cruise popped up with her with a binkie in her mouth. Suri’s nearly 5 years old, so this is a little weird for some people. I say let the kid enjoy her binkie, not like Tom and Katie can’t afford the orthodontics in 5 years. *Insert obligatory barley water joke here.* Link via E!
  • No big deal: Amanda Seyfried dated Alexander Skarsgård. In other news, Brad Pitt and I just grabbed coffee last week. No big deal. Via Dlisted via Elle
  • Ke-dollar sign-sha made a deal with Lifestyles to put her glittery face on condoms. Is her face on the wrapper or on the condom itself? Can we blow her face up like a balloon? And pop it? I task you all to report back to me! Link via TMZ.
  • Comedian Mike DeStefano passed away of a heart attack. DeStefano recently was among the top five finalists in NBC’s past season of Last Comic Standing. Bummer. Link via Punchline Magazine.
  • Rachel Green starred a commercial for Smartwater that involves all types of internet memes, including my favorite lip-syncing little guy, puppies, BABIES!, double rainbow guy, Brad Wollock getting kicked in the nuts, and Rachel getting seXXXy with some water. Video here!

If anyone else wants to get in on the gossip action, holler at your gurl (that’d be me). This is harder than it looks, I give fellow Crasstalk authors props! I pulled most of gossip from TMZ and Dlisted today, so if anyone has any good sites to recommend, please let me know in the comments. I know we had some interest for rotating gossip columns during the Writer’s Workshop, so let me know about this as well!