A “History of Mental Illness”

Art by Rob Goldstein

Blog for Mental Health 2015

In 2005 a woman with a history of mental illness threw her three children into the Bay.

She was a single Mother who was living in a homeless shelter with her children. She was ill with severe and debilitating schizophrenia. She told everyone that “God” had commanded her to throw her baby’s to the sharks and no one intervened.

No one removed those children from her custody and no one made the connection between her psychiatric decline, her refusal to take medication and the stress of trying to Mother three children without housing.

“Relatives of a mentally troubled woman from Oakland who reported hearing voices before she allegedly threw her three young sons into the bay to die said Thursday they had tried unsuccessfully to persuade Alameda County social service workers to help them gain custody of the children.

Members of the family of La-shuan Ternice Harris said they had…

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17 St. Phillip Street, Part Two

Dr. Manfred DelMonico
Young Dr. Manfred DelMonico

Miss Jennie was in the parlor watching All My Children when Bobby came home from his first day of work.

Bobby stomped into the parlor: “Loosey I’m home!”

Miss Jenny motioned for Bobby to sit down and pressed a finger to her lips.

Dr. Manfred DelMonico, the handsome young neurosurgeon at Oregon State Hospital, was on trial for the murder of his fiancee, former beauty queen,
Joan Kane.

Miss Jennie was sick with concern.

Bobby whispered: “I hope he gets off.”

Miss Jenny shushed him.

“Doctor DelMonico! Do you deny that on the night in question you threatened to kill Miss Kane?” The prosecutor was relentless.

“P-people s-say things,” said handsome Dr. DelMonico. “I was always threatening to kill her.”

“So on the night of Miss Kane’s murder you in deed and in fact threatened to kill her!”

“Yes! Yes! But I didn’t mean it! My God, man! I loved her!”

“He’s lyin Miss Jenny.” whispered Bobby,  “You can tell by the way he’s squirmin’.”

The prosecutor turned to face the jury: “Tell the court if you please, Dok-tor DelMonico, your reaction to your fiancee’s abortion!”

Miss Jenny and the Jury gasped.

“I said I could kill her!”

The jury muttered angrily.

“Humph!” Bobby said. “She shoulda killed him!”

This annoyed Miss Jenny: “Did you have somethin’ you wanted to say?”

Bobby blushed: “Well yeah Miss Jenny, seein as how I’m workin’ an all, an’ wid you havin’ a room comin’ vacant — didn’t you say the guys that lived here longest got the pick of the rooms?”

“If they’s quiet they might. Now shush!”

And Nurse Able took the stand.

Bobby left the parlor.

He climbed the short flight of stairs to Paul’s room and knocked on the door.

“Entree,” Paul’s voice was deep and his accent approximately upper class.

His room was bright and large enough for a king sized bed and a couch.

Bobby stretched out on the couch with his hands in his pockets.

“Paul? What’s that word you say when someone’s an outcast?”


“That’s it! I’m a pariah!”

“Not quite.” smiled Paul. “You know not to bother Miss Jenny when her shows are on. She’ll love you again by supper.”

I think she thinks I’m a pain in the ass. Do you think I’m a pain in the ass?”

Paul laughed, “I rue the day that I met you, but you’re here and there’s nothing I would change.”

Bobby closed his eyes and wondered if he should mention that on his first day of work he had charged a new wardrobe against his first weeks pay.

17 St. Phillip Street Part one

17 St. Phillip Street, Part Two and the Portrait of Dr. Manfred DelMonico (c)Rob Goldstein 2016 All Rights Reserved

Closing credits from AMC 1970 are public domain and found at the Internet Archive

“the dooth pattern” by Harsubagh Khalsa

A friend of mine on Flickr told me that he was toying with the idea of starting a blog for his poetry.

I invited him to post to my blog as an experiment so he can see how his poetry looks and feels on a blog.

Today I present “the dooth pattern” by Harsubagh Khalsa

tieing spirally laces


     lips summer from umbrella

         tieing spirally laces

     granting the filament

hard deep suggest then

     it doesnt matter stuff

       it doesnt matter when

   hearting cade

           river nance

         too much piruling

                 a scarry race

                       the scurry dance

                     delected dreams

                         mind beaming the

                             ridge patterns


Image and poem are the property of Harsubagh Khalsa.
(c) Harsubagh Khalsa All Rights Reserved