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D. A. Boxill

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psychology

When Pigs Are Given a Badge – My Mother, Sister and I are Currently Facing Federal Charges in Trinidad & Tobago


sad in this day and age

THE ZEN PROJECT

On Thursday, June 20th, my mother, sister and I left New York and landed in Piarco International Airport in Port of Spain, Trinidad & Tobago around 2PM. Upon receiving my baggage, a verbal altercation began between myself, my mother and a customs officer at the airport’s exit. Such occurred due to the officer’s blatantly rude treatment. 

Suddenly, a man ran up to me and grabbed me by the shoulder/neck area, hit me and shouted at me for “inappropriately speaking to a customs officer”. Everything happened so quickly, most things are a blur. But my mother, maternal instincts fully kicked in, screamed and cried and struggled to get me away from this man. She assumed he was a robber or some sort of madman. Later on we learned that this man was a plain clothes officer. Please note, this man ran up to me from behind, so I hadn’t seen his…

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“I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother” Thinking The Unthinkable


by Liza Long

In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.

Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.

“I can wear these pants,” he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.
“They are navy blue,” I told him. “Your school’s dress code says black or khaki pants only.”
“They told me I could wear these,” he insisted. “You’re a stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!”
“You can’t wear whatever pants you want to,” I said, my tone affable, reasonable. “And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You’re grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school.”
I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.
A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7 and 9 year old siblings knew the safety plan—they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.
That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn’t have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.
We still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He’s been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.

Born to Die by Daniel Boxill


…and sorrows run down your face,
onto my shoulder,
into my heart.
I share your pain as we embrace

Crimson stains spread,
dyeing my love with increasing fear.
Regrets drip from the handle bridging our abdomens.
The blade buried in you deeper than my love could heal.
Gladiator games we played, distractions;
an empire crumbled, burned,
as we fought ourselves.
Drunken orgies of flesh and glass;
Cocaine showers, toxic habits became routine.

cycles…

tears, shampoo showers,

soap suds sex, tears ,

slap, scratch, scream, tears…

cycles…

…and we knelt at a burning altar.
We snorted our vows.
Powdered pledges
We wed in elevated bliss, smoky rings of Mary Jane exchanged.

Red and blue flashes;
Sirens pierce the silent summer heat.
Curious eyes and gossiping tongues are drawn into the street.
Our burning passions set fire to fragile suburban utopia.
Lost souls prostituted to addiction in search of happiness;
Minds possessed by paranoia,
You became the demon I tried to fight
And I think I became yours.
Cocaine showers help toxic seeds to bloom.

cycles…

tears, demonic highs,

possession and visions, tears ,

slam, slap, scream, tears…

cycles…

…and I cut my wrists
You die. I die
You are my life!
I clutch your body to mine as everything around us burns.

You and I,
We were born to die.

 

© Daniel Boxill 2012. All rights reserved.

Theory: Music underlies language acquisition


 

—by B. J. Almond

Contrary to the prevailing theories that music and language are cognitively separate or that music is a byproduct of language, theorists at Rice University’s Shepherd School of Music and the University of Maryland, College Park (UMCP) advocate that music underlies the ability to acquire language. “Spoken language is a special type of music,” said Anthony Brandt, co-author of a theory paper published online this month in the journal Frontiers in Cognitive Auditory Neuroscience. “Language is typically viewed as fundamental to human intelligence, and music is often treated as being dependent on or derived from language. But from a developmental perspective, we argue that music comes first and language arises from music.”

Read more at: http://medicalxpress.com/news/2012-09-theory-music-underlies-language-acquisition.html#jCp

 

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