Donald Trump: An American Extremist and How “Making America Great Again” is Exactly What ISIS Wants

Now please, bear with me. I try very hard to keep politics out of my writing in fear of ostracizing some of my readers, offending people close to me, or even losing followers. Unfortunately, in a world where your success is often measured by how many people like your work, writers, artists, and politicians often censor themselves in order to appeal to a wider audience. However, I am beginning to realize that there is a very fine line between “censoring” and lying by omission. And in some cases, being a silent bystander can be nearly as damaging as being an outspoken bigot.

Now, some of you may be thinking, “But Jocelyn, I thought this was a mental health blog.” And you’re right, my darling inquisitive reader, it is. While I usually focus on my own personal mental health, today I will be approaching a much broader set of issues. There is an enormous, terroristic threat facing the mental health of America. That threat is chronic bad hair day sufferer and self-proclaimed multi-billionaire Donald Trump.

When I first heard that Trump was entering the presidential race in June of 2015, I thought it was a joke. After all, I knew him as a rude, fairly creepy, misogynistic businessman with a tendency to get himself into debt and tweet angrily. Thinking back on it, I now wish that that was all he was.

Trump quickly gained support and wide-spread media coverage through a blatant disregard for human decency. His campaign trail has been blazed largely by personal attacks on his opponents, political stances that differ greatly from his well-documented opinions prior to his campaign, and vague, unrealistic plans to “make America great again.” Trump is a master-manipulator whose seemingly thriving political career is based primarily on his ability to propose ideas that soothe his fragile supporters’ irrational fears, which include Muslims, Mexicans, and Obamacare. Trump appeals to the prejudices and insecurities that are rife within a republican party that is increasingly less and less logical. The combination of ignorance, fear, bigotry, and the desperate search for a scapegoat mirrors the perfect storm of traits that allowed Hitler’s rise to power in pre-Holocaust Germany.

Because Donald Trump’s mouth is an eternal volcano of filth, this post could quickly become my longest blog entry if I were to attempt to address every inconsistent, discriminatory, or hate-fueled comment he has made, so I’ll just cover a few.

Upon his campaign announcement, Trump said that he would build “a great, great wall” in between the United States and Mexico, later adding that the construction of the wall would be funded entirely by Mexico. His rationalization for this plan was revealed in a statement in which Trump claimed that the Mexican government is intentionally “forcing their most unwanted people into the United States,” continuing to say that illegal immigrants from Mexico are “in many cases, criminals, drug dealers, rapists, etc.” Now, I don’t think that anyone is pro-illegal immigration. It is, after all, illegal. That’s pretty much the only problem that I have with illegal immigration though. The difference between my views and Trump’s views on the issue lie there. Instead of focusing of the undocumented immigrants’ illegality and the issues surrounding that, Trump chooses instead to focus on the alleged immorality of the people who are entering the U.S. by way of the Mexican border, basing his claims on widely-disputed statistics and individual cases that he tailors to support his “great wall” plan.

Much like the average tween girl, Donald Trump is an avid Twitter user. With 6.6 million Twitter followers, he is certainly no Katy Perry, who has the most followers at over 83 million. However, he tweets incessantly, covering topics from Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson’s relationship to Obama being the “WORST EVER president”. Trump often takes to Twitter to bash people that he disagrees with. His most recent attempts at middle school-esque cyber-bullying have been directed at Mitt Romney, the former presidential candidate that recently spoke out against the business mogul, encouraging republicans to vote for anyone other than Trump. Despite having tens of millions less followers, Donald Trump has posted more than a whopping 31,000 tweets in his Twitter career, which is thousands more than Kylie Jenner and Barack Obama combined. If that isn’t an automatic red flag, I don’t know what is.

In a post-9/11 America, under-educated citizens are quick to point fingers at Islamic religion as a whole, villainizing all 1.6 billion Muslims worldwide, which accounts for about 23% of the global population. Believing that all practicing Muslims are hateful terrorists because of the actions of extremist groups like al-Qaeda and ISIS is exactly the same as labeling all Christians as hateful terrorists because of the actions of extremist groups like the Klu Klux Klan and individuals like Timothy McVeigh (the Oklahoma City bomber who grew up in the Catholic Church and received his last rites from a priest just before his execution). One of the primary goals of the KKK, as determined early on in the supremacist organization’s history, is to “reestablish Protestant Christian values in America by any means possible.” This objective eerily reflects the goal of ISIS, which was described as “filling the world with the truth and justice of Islam.”

During a visit to the largest Christian university in the U.S., Liberty University, Donald Trump promised that he was “going to protect Christians”, claiming that they are losing their power in America, a country that was originally invaded and colonized in pursuit of religious freedom. Trump describes himself as a Protestant; a Presbyterian much to the chagrin of my 83 year old grandmother, a life-long member of the First Presbyterian Church USA. In 2012, Trump said, “I think religion is a wonderful thing. I think that my religion is a wonderful religion.” The second sentence in that statement is key. His religion is a wonderful thing.

If there is one religion that the republican front-runner thinks is less than wonderful, it’s Islam. The irrefutably illogical generalization that all Muslims are dangerous is encouraged by various claims and plans that Trump may or may not stand by if elected to office. Shortly after the ISIS-led terrorist attacks occurred in Paris, Donald Trump declared that as president, he would implement a series of database systems in order to track Muslims in the United States as well as keep close surveillance on mosques. The proposed database system has been compared to the Nazi’s tracking of Jewish people and the requirement that Jews wear patches on their clothing. To up the ante from suggesting that America mimic prewar Germany, Trump also endorsed shooting Muslim terrorists with bullets dipped in pigs’ blood in order to deter them. And as if that wasn’t appalling enough, Trump has proposed a temporary ban on Muslim immigrants entering the country, calling for “a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country’s representatives can figure out what the hell is going on.”

A Donald Trump presidency is, without a doubt, the most effective thing that Americans can do to ensure anti-Western extremist groups like ISIS a thriving place in the modern world. Ironically similar to the Trump campaign, ISIS relies on pure fear to motivate people to support their cause. This fear is driven by ISIS’s claims that the Western World, the United States in particular, does not welcome, respect, or protect Muslims. No one proves this point better than Trump and his followers. Hate crimes against Muslim individuals (or individuals perceived to be Muslim), mosques, and Muslim-run businesses have as much as tripled in recent months. These attacks include assaults, vandalism, arson, and murders. The spike in hate crimes as well as increasingly disparaging remarks from American politicians, especially Trump, only validate ISIS’s motives and the terror of Muslims internationally.

My main message is this:

On behalf of the worldwide community, if you find yourself in a voting booth about to cast a ballot for Donald Trump, please, turn around, go back to your log cabin in the woods without running water, organize your gun cabinet, turn on some Kid Rock, and make love to your 18 year old cousin because chances are, you are exactly what is wrong with America.


Can You Hear Me Now?

On the first of this month, I was discharged from Lancaster General Hospital’s psychiatric unit. I was there for two weeks. It was my twelfth psychiatric hospital stay. Like many people who suffer from long-term mental illness, especially those with chronic suicidal ideation, I am tired. Tired of hospitals, tired of medications, tired of therapists, tired of groups, tired of relapses, and tired of hurting.

This hospitalization was prompted by a drastic increase in the frequency and volume of the voices that I hear in my head. I have had this blog since May of 2013, but despite the voices being a constant part of my life, I have often strayed away from talking about them here. I guess it’s about time.

I first heard them when I was 12 and in sixth grade. I don’t remember much from that time because of the frequent dissociation that clouds a lot of my childhood, but I remember thinking that I was possessed. Many of my friends were devout Christians and my mother worked at a church, so I had quite an extensive religious knowledge and very little education on mental illness. The combination of those two factors led me to immediately believe that the man’s voice I heard was the voice of the devil. I heard it as clearly as I hear the music playing from my computer right now. At first, it was a singular word in moments of stress: kill. Since I had developed self-destructive tendencies early in life, I usually interpreted the voice as instructing me to kill myself. However, for a brief period of time, my thoughts turned homicidal before a suicide attempt that I thought would protect my friends and family from my uncontrollable mind.

As a particularly stressful year passed, one voice chanting kill turned into four voices saying a wide variety of things, all negative. I identified one of the voices as being my father’s, who emotionally and sexually abused me for over ten years. His voice almost always said things that I had heard him say before, while the other voices, which were both male and female, littered my head with insults and instructions to hurt, starve, and kill myself. When my mom found out about my self-harm, she took me to a psychiatrist. After a few questions about my mood, he asked me if I heard or saw anything unusual. I told him that I heard voices telling me to do bad things, which was the first time that I had revealed the voices to anyone. He immediately diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder with psychotic features and prescribed me Prozac and the atypical anti-psychotic Seroquel. The appointment in total lasted less than 15 minutes.

Fast forward seven years. The voices have continued to multiply, to the point where each time I hear one, it sounds a little different from the last (with the exception of my father’s). They still tell me to hurt and kill myself, but have evolved to give step-by-step instructions on how to do so, formulating hundreds of self-harm and suicide plans. They get particularly loud at meal times, often urging me not to eat or to throw up what I do eat. They have also recently taken to commentating on what people are “thinking” about me during conversations (things like “They think you sound stupid” or “they’re looking at your stomach”). Psychiatrists have continuously prescribed me different combinations of antidepressants, anti-psychotics, and anti-anxiety medications in attempts to quell the mental health symptoms that I face daily, with the voices usually being at the top of the priority list. People often give me the same advice, the most common being something along the lines of “Tell them to fuck off.” I cannot tell you how many times I’ve gotten that from friends, staff members at hospitals, and even therapists. If only it were that easy.

During my most recent hospitalization, my psychiatrist took me off of any anti-psychotics, agreeing that the voices are unresponsive to medication and are most likely caused by Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in the hopes that they will settle down with the right trauma therapy. For now, that means that I have to wait until I am stable enough to engage in trauma treatment, which proves as a hard task with the voices still at large. I am usually able to function despite the voices without engaging in self-damaging behaviors, although I do slip up from time to time.

From that first time I met with a psychiatrist until now, I have learned time and time again that the voices are extreme and often startle people when I talk about them. Despite my frequent hospitalizations and group therapy experiences, I have met only a handful of people that also admit to hearing voices, many of whom are shocked at my openness about them. It’s easy to feel isolated and judged with psychiatric symptoms that provoke words like “psychotic”, but I think that’s all the more reason to talk about it.

A Poem From One Suicide Survivor To Herself

Sometimes when the numbers

get you down and you start to doubt you

just try to remember that 14 is farther

than he ever could’ve gone without you

And even though you didn’t save him

you’re still not an awful friend

You improved his life the best you could

No one could stop him in the end

And it’s scary to admit

that there’s no more you could’ve done

And as far as changing his action goes

he was the only one

to make that last decision

to live or just to die

And that now leaves you the choice

to fight the truth or just to cry

Because sometimes just crying

is all you can really do

when all the hope in the world

has really just fallen through

And when your best friend in the world

is turned into ash

you start to look back on

what you used to look past

And you question all of the things

that you did or didn’t do

and question if each moment

was one you should’ve seen through

And why weren’t you the one

to bring him a little light

and remind him of all the good things

and that it is still worth the fight

And then you remember

that that’s not the message you sent

And it doesn’t even matter

how many countless hours you’ve spent

trying to convince him

that he doesn’t need to cause harm

Because even as you said that

he watched the scars grow on your arms

And he watched the tears run down your face

as your pain overtook you

So how could he have felt hopeful

when you were there and drowning too?

Because you were the closest to him

and you were both lost at sea

so he was surrounded by the pain

and you both longed to be set free

But still it’s not even remotely your fault

that he didn’t see a point in trying to live

because you exhausted all of your options

You gave all you had to give

Because as awful as it sounds

and as much as the words sting with tears

the night after he ended it all

was the best rest you’d had in years

And while you can’t seem to decide

if it hurts more to focus on the good

than it does to think about the bad

and obsess over all the shoulds

there was more good in those five years

than there was in all eleven that came before

And nothing can ever take away that joy

of that you can be sure

Though he tried time and time again to leave you

he still promised he never would

And you have to admit you realize

that there’s no way he ever could.

Meredith’s Double Rainbow

The day was overwhelmingly blasé. Icy rain dribbled down from the fluffy grey tufts that lined the sky. It seemed fitting for the news we had all gotten that day. I watched the clouds get mutated by wind on the other side of the glass door. The more the clouds were distorted, the more greenish the sky became.

My brother stood up and left the room wordlessly. We were all wordless. I looked at two of my best friends. One sighed, and the other returned a sad gaze in my direction. Time seemed to stop then as we began to sink into reality.

She’s gone. There was an accident, and she didn’t survive.

We say for what felt like an eternity, only interrupted by the occasional “I can’t believe it” or “This can’t be happening”. We had just gone to her graduation party.

I heard a thud come from outside my house and suddenly realized that my brother had never returned to the room. Mildly concerned, I forced myself to move again and walked out onto the back porch. My friends followed.

“Joey?” I called out.

A voice came from above me, “Jocelyn?”

I turned my attention upwards and saw my gangly brother crouching on the roof of our house with a Minolta in his hands.

“What are you doing?” I yelled up at him, not in the mood for his antics.

He pointed to something behind me and started to line his camera up for a photo.

I spun around to see two bright, shimmering rainbows running across the sky parallel to each other. My friends and I exchanged glances.

“There she is, guys,” I whispered in awe, “That’s Meredith.”

Bigger Sauron The King


Halloween has been a hard holiday for the past 3 years since my best friend passed away on October 23rd, 2012, but this year I decided to participate in celebrating Halloween as well as my life.

Friday night was trick-or-treat night. I know what you’re thinking; I am twenty years old. There’s probably a party I should go to dressed as a sleezy cat or something. right? Wrong. I got together with my girlfriend and a friend from high school and took my autistic step-brother trick-or-treating for the first time.

I talked about Cory a few entries ago, explaining that he has a disorder called tuberous sclerosis. His favorite holiday is Halloween, and we’ve been counting down the months, weeks, and days until Halloween since last year. He is 23 years old, so in my opinion, he was long past overdue for some trick-or-treating. He picked out his costume after deciding that he wanted to dress up as Sauron from Lord of the Rings, who Cory calls “Bigger Sauron The King”.

I expected to go to the next door neighbor’s house or a couple houses down and then need to head home because Cory would be done with the idea by then. However, he made it all the way up and down our street before we returned home. He said “trick or treat” at just about every household and he said thank you after taking each piece of candy (with some reminding of course).

I was amazed by both Cory’s stamina and the support of my friends, all of whom were excited to hear that I was taking my step-brother trick-or-treating. This was my first real outing with Cory without my mom or his dad also being there. It’s a boost of confidence to know how well the night went. I’m proud of Cory, my friends, and myself.

A Pick and A Pain

This Friday (October 23rd), will mark the three year anniversary of my best friend’s death. When I was 17 and he was 14, Isaiah ended his life.

Shortly after his suicide, I took all of the things I could find that had to do with Isaiah, and I put them in a box. For months, I have tried every night to go through the possessions in my “Isaiah box”, but I never get very far before I need to stop. Today, all I managed to look at in the box was a guitar pick. I felt sick as I reached down and held it in my hand.

Isaiah and I both owned guitars even though neither of us knew how to play. We decided that we would learn together and poured over dozens of YouTube videos to try to learn the basics. Neither of us got very far with it. As I held the pick, I realized that it represents all of the things that Isaiah and I wanted to do together and all of the things that he will never get to experience. The hopes, the dreams, the bucket list ideas, they all seem to fall apart without Isaiah.

Suddenly, the weight of the guitar pick was too great for me to handle, so I watched as it fell out of my hand and onto the floor.

My heart hurts now, so sharply that I can hardly breathe.

It’s going to be a rough week.

Post 100

What you are reading is my 100th post on this blog. In honor of this occasion, I will explain the beginnings of ATB.

Accept the Bullshit began as a few hand-written pieces of paper that I passed around Brooke Glen Behavioral Hospital’s adolescent ward to keep my fellow patients laughing in May of 2013. My first entry was tastelessly named “My Life Is Like A Holocaust Joke – It’s terrible, but funny” and recalled the story of my escape from Brooke Glen which had taken place a couple weeks earlier. The link to that post can be found HERE.