Category Archives: Health

Trying to Hold it Together: Doing Art To Save My Life

What the voices tell me to do, set myself on fire...In art therapy I was supposed to just play with the paint, do a blob and a line to get started. I got carried away with the child's paints and this is what resulted...
What the voices tell me to do, set myself on fire…In art therapy I was supposed to just play with the paint, do a blob and a line to get started. I got carried away with the child’s paints and this is what resulted…

 

I also finished a good drawing of a house in Tuscany, Italy and a painting of a child I started a long time ago, which I will post here. (The house drawing is at the framers, where it is being matted because it is too large for a precut mat. I am sorry that I have posted the painting with little faked watermarks on it, but I do not like the fact that people can simply print out my pictures otherwise and not have to pay me for the prints or the paintings…)

Acrylic portrait of African American Child in red watch cap and lavender sweatshirt...
Acrylic portrait of African American Child in red watch cap and lavender sweatshirt…

As for the rest, I am coping, that is all I can say. I try to “fake it till I will be able to make it” — meaning that I do not tell people how difficult it is, most of the time, because that only makes it harder. If I can try to ignore as much as possible what is going on that is all for the best. And when I cannot, I stay by myself and try to deal with it. Or i see someone, my therapist or a person I have hired to stay with me. Or I simply tough it out as best I can. Things could be worse. After all, I am not in the hospital and I have to keep telling myself that! 8)

 

In the meantime, I don’t have a lot to say. Doing art takes all my time and energy, and the rest is spent simply dealing with things and coping. Forgive me. I will be back. I just wanted to post this to allay anyone’s fear that I was back in the bin.

Healing Art as I go down the Rabbit Hole…

TIm, my best Gay Boyfriend, eating watermelon.
TIm, my best Gay Boyfriend, eating watermelon.

 

And now for something really different. Cartoons that tell you about my life these days.

Pam's Having Car trouble
Pam’s Having Car trouble

 

Hope you can make out the text okay…It is a little difficult,. granted. But I tried to photograph the pages clearly as possible.

The next morning she retrieves the car
The next morning she retrieves the car and finds the same problems remain…Why?

 

She's GOt all the dates Wrong
She’s GOt all the dates Wrong and so much more…

 

Fear is ONLY an Almond...the amygdala in the brain is the NUT that makes us nuts!
Fear is ONLY an Almond…the amygdala in the brain is the NUT that makes us nuts!

 

Gargantua is the name of a book, and a character in the book. In it someone says, Appetite comes with eating. It helps me to think about that when I find i cannot find a way to put food enough in my mouth to keep going…I need to eat on schedule if only to keep my strength up.

 

It cannot be Pam Pam Pam al the time. No, he has to start to share of himself or the relationship is off. She CARES about him and it isn't all about HER!
It cannot be Pam Pam Pam al the time. No, he has to start to share of himself or the relationship is off. She CARES about him and it isn’t all about HER!

Meanwhile I am not in a good state at all. Bill wanted to talk about an email I sent him saying as much as the above, but I am much too shaky to be able to deal with it. I just cannot use him to talk TO alone…I have friends with whom we have shared equally all along, and so I do not feel a burden now when I am in trouble. But Bill has ceased talking about himself a long while ago, and I am to blame for letting him withdraw. I felt slighted but felt that perhaps he was reserved and saved his intimate moments for his girlfriend…But no more. I cannot be using HIM as a pair of ears and feel that he shares nothing back. THen I feel guilty and a selfish user! That isn’t fair to me let alone to him…It won’t happen. It won’t be. Not any longer. Hear that, Bill? YOU are an important part of our friendship, as a person,. and if you don’t want to be a person, I do not want a NON-person as a friend.

 

Enough. I feel like I am going to die. And now even the doc doesn’t want to suggest that I take even a sliver of Abilify now that I am off it…So I am really up a creek..Up a creek because I dunno how long I can tolerate this. I smell rot rising inside me, smell it for real., Like my body is rotting from within…Where is it coming from? I brush my teeth several times a day (unusual for me!) but still the rot smell persists!

 

I am not a praying person, but I know many of you are. I am in such deep shit. I will be going to art therapy today, perhaps that will bring some relief. in the meantime, if you feel prayer can help, pray for me…?

 

Thank you , all of you, for hanging in with me. I am NOT a quitter, I am not a quitter!

 

 

Antipsychotics Block Pleasure in Life: It’s All About Dopamine…

It has always been about Dopamine, but they never told us that impeding our dopamine receptors would impair our ability to feel pleasure and the high of "reward" -- No wonder our "negative symptoms of "not wanting to do" so many things! The drugs blocked our native dopamine flow! (Decades ago they knew that it has NOTHING whatsoever to do with schizophrenia, but they persisted in the lie nevertheless...
It has always been about Dopamine, but they never told us that impeding our dopamine receptors would impair our ability to feel pleasure and the high of “reward” — No wonder our “negative symptoms of “not wanting to do” so many things! The drugs blocked our native dopamine flow! (Decades ago they knew that it has NOTHING whatsoever to do with schizophrenia, but they persisted in the lie nevertheless…

To explain the picture/letters above, I was practicing some lettering, briefly, and did not know what I was writing until later…which makes what I wrote all the more interesting a message from my subconscious.  Clearly I agree with almost everyone else I have ever heard from: Haldol is the drug from hell!  About the rest of it, well, Psychiatrie macht frie derives from the sign that was posted above Auschwitz and other concentration camps during WWII, Arbeit macht frei, or Work makes (you) free. So this transposition is meant to suggest (sardonically) that psychiatry will free you in just the same way… NOT!

What particularly sickens me personally is the damage the fiction called the Dopamine Hypothesis  — how an excess of dopamine causes schizophrenia — may have done to the millions of people like me who have taken antipsychotic drugs for decades, unknowingly buying into the medical model and this notion that we somehow had too much dopamine coursing around in our brains.

Life is ALL about dopamine, LIFE has always been about dopamine. Here are some of the human functions to which dopamine is essential

  • movement
  • memory
  • pleasurable reward
  • behavior and cognition
  • attention
  • inhibition of prolactin production
  • sleep
  • mood
  • learning

Why on earth would anyone deprive another human being of the one neurotransmitter that allows us to feel good about things? It would seem to be a diabolical plot, if anyone actually did such a thing, right? And yet, for decades right on through today, that is what doctors want us to do, block the transmission of dopamine to the brains of those of us diagnosed with schizophrenia. They know, of course, that it is impossible, that the brain up-regulates the flow of dopamine in such a way as to thwart at least in part the antipsychotic receptor blockade. Homeostasis will be re-established eventually, even if at abnormal levels due to the drug’s presence.*

No one can live without dopamine, after all. But to understand the necessity of dopamine, and that they have known for years that an imbalance of dopamine metabolism is NOT implicated in schizophrenia, and finally to “grok” that they have nonetheless perpetuated the lie that is the “dopamine hypothesis” just boggles the mind with its enormity. How can we believe anything they tell us about negative symptoms, now, when  as one website informs us:

“Low D2 receptor-binding is found in people with social anxiety or social phobia. Some features of negative schizophrenia (social withdrawal, apathy, anhedonia) are thought to be related to a low dopaminergic state in certain areas of the brain.”

The atypical AP drugs induce a D2 receptor blockade as a matter of course. After all, if you don’t feel any reward-sense from your life and living, your normal dopamine being in an antipsychotic blockade, why would you want to change your clothes, or take care of yourself, much less bother to go to work or even think? But we have been led to believe that such negative symptoms are part of schizophrenia and NOT part of the drug treatments for it! No one told us they were taking away all our incentive to do anything, to even move or think. They told us they were helping us, not hurting us, not destroying our lives!

Even more diabolical, to my way of thinking is the idea that some doctors actually add an atypical antipsychotic onto the treatment of mere depression. Can you imagine how you would feel if you were taking an SSRI (which is ineffective) and which already deprived you of sexual satisfaction or any sexual feelings at all, and then you are given an adjunctive antipsychotic that subsequently deprives you of dopamine? It might add twenty to forty pounds or even more in no time, up your cholesterol and blood sugar, and then deprive you of any feelings of reward or pleasure…Ah but it will boost your antidepressant’s antidepressant activity? J’en doute fortement… I doubt it highly!

What do the doctors care? Either they bought into the drug company’s literature and haven’t read anything independently since med school…or they are on the take themselves from Big Pharma in some fashion and don’t give a damn.

We need to be on the look out for ourselves, because god knows the doctors are not on our sides, most of them. They cannot be. This is their bread and butter, folks esp the psychiatrists and if they cannot prescribe pills, what will they do? They won’t be “real doctors” any more and their prestige will plummet yet again…OH NO! The fact is, they need to learn to do psychotherapy again, or get out of medicine because they cannot prescribe pills that do not work, and there are none that do! None that do reliably and well or better than placebo. In fact, except for the occasional use of a benzodiazepine, and the judicious use of cognitive enhancers for the proper people, and meds for sleep, I am convinced that precious few drugs in the psychoactive armamentarium are worthy of anything but the dustbin.

I think most are ONLY placebos, if they do anything at all. Frankly. And I say this despite having once written testimonials in praise of Zyprexa and other drugs…I dunno, I dunno. How could Zyprexa be anything except a placebo? It is a dirty drug that hits nearly every known neurotransmitter of importance…And yet we do not know how it does what it does…and it has horrendous side effects. That much we know. Since we do not have any reason to think  it is the action on dopamine or serotonin that is the “antipsychotic” activity, in essence we cannot say why or if it does anything at all. ALL the AAPs drugs work on the neurotransmitters in a more or less dirty fashion. In fact the OLDER drugs were less dirty, being more specific to just dopamine!

I reiterate, there is no “chemical imbalance” in schizophrenia, or bipolar “illness’ or in depression. No one has ever proven or shown any such animal ever. Only after patients have taken a drug to “treat” such conditions is there ever an “imbalance” and this imbalance is a direct result of having taken the drug. PLEASE remember this and question your doctors next time they warn you that if you stop your meds your “chemical imbalance” will reassert itself and make you sick again. Ask, “What chemical imbalance and where did it come from? What chemicals and what is the normal level I should have?” I know I know, the doctor will say, dopamine, if you “have” schizophrenia, or “serotonin” if you “have” depression. Lord knows what she will claim if you “have” bipolar tendencies of one sort or another, as so many millions upon millions of Americans these days have been told they now do…But it isn’t true. Not even if they claim it is. There has never been any proof of altered neurotransmitter levels and in fact it is the opposite: drug-naive people with schizophrenia and depression, that is to say, those who have never taken any medication, have been shown to have the exact same dopamine and serotonin levels as anyone else!

As for those who suffer from the condition called “bipolar” — You know, it used to be a very rare condition,  manic-depression. Now, you see “bipolars” coming out of the woodwork everywhere. One used to have to have been crazy-manic at least once, to the extent of having been hospitalized to qualify for the diagnosis, and this made sense as it was restrictive and not a broad umbrella. Given that the illness was considered a very serious one, no one wanted to bring too many within the definition. Now, with so many drugs used to “treat” (ha ha ha) the condition,  and with the help of DSM IV and 5 to bring patients to the drug companies’ financial assistance, you need only complain of a garden variety “depression” to be counted as bipolar…

But remember: 1) the drug companies treating bipolar etc only want to make money, 2) the drugs treat something — a neurotransmitter imbalance that doesn’t exist 3) bipolarity is a fiction that keeps lengthening, like Pinocchio’s nose, with every newly expanded definition…

Think about malaria, a real illness. It doesn’t make more people ill just because it gets redefined. Malaria is caused by a protozoan (injected through the bite of a mosquito), and it sickens people who are vulnerable to the ravages of that organism inside the body…in the same way each time. You don’t “get” malaria more because a financially- interconnected organization of doctors/drug companies decides to change the definition of what constitutes malaria. No, you  get malaria the way people always gotten malaria, largely through not using mosquito nets and other preventive measures…i.e. via a mosquito bite.

Ay, this is NUTS! It should not be so fricking easy to fit everyone into a diagnostic category of mental illness.  Emotions are NOT illnesses by definition, they are normal and necessary, even excessive emotional reactions are quite normal; they happen every day to everyday normal people. Some cultures define themselves by their emotionality! It behooves us to remember this and not pathologize it.

So too, think of this: depression frequently is just sadness, folks. We used to know the truth of the saying, “This too will pass…” There are problems in living that are just problems in living, and I think that some people for whatever reason are simply miserable, without having a mental illness. They would not do better being labeled with an illness or being treated for one. In fact, I have seen people in states of abject misery do a great deal worse under the burden of a label…

I have had it. I do not trust a drug company or a prescription at all, none of them. The foxes are in charge of the chickens and they are up to no good, no good at all. So this weekend I am OFF all Abilify. HURRAY! After that I start cutting out the Geodon…(I have already halved the Ritalin simultaneously with the decrease of Abilify. I had to, I simply don’t need the Ritalin as much, as I am not as sleepy. After Geodon, there is only the Topamax, which I take for seizures and migraines.. Have to decide about that one. I want to be off it, I really do. But can i?**

*Note that although some of these conclusions are my own, I drew most of the research I have based them on from my readings in Robert Whitaker’s fine books MAD IN AMERICA and ANATOMY OF AN EPIDEMIC. I highly recommend reading both of them, which can be accessed through the link I provide at the top of the page in my blogroll. The link goes directly to ANATOMY but MAD can be found easily through there. Good reading! And please do let me know what you think at any time. (Adding this note at a later time, very much the same information can be found in Dr Joanne Moncrieff’s books — a British psychiatrist who came to similar conclusions as Whitaker. Her book on antipsyhcotics is THE BITTEREST PILLS, and her book on psychtherapeutic drugs in general is THE MYTH OF THE CHEMICAL CURE.

**writing in Dec 2017 i have never been able to get off the Geodon or the Abilify, nor the other drugs, though i have cut the Geodon in half somewhat successfully. (I am unable to speak at present, but i do not believe the two are linked, as i dropped the Geodon/ziprasidone dose more than a month ago and the muteness started less than a week ago). That said, i still do not believe they help me. I just maintain that once you have been on these drugs for literally decades as i have been, more or less by force, then your brain changes in response and ends up “imbalanced” and in that sense alone does need the drugs.

Trauma and Connection: You Need Not Be Alone

When Monica Cassani posted this video (see below) on her wonderful blog, BEYOND MEDS.com today, I was not sure I would watch it, mostly because I often do not have the patience to watch videos, no matter who recommends them. (Sorry about yesterday’s recommendation, an hourlong one no less, but it is vitally important to me and my topic…I still highly recommend it, if you cannot read Anatomy of an Epidemic…). Nevertheless, something about a video on treating trauma, perhaps the face of McElheran on Youtube, perhaps just my mood at the beginning of this day, impelled me to click on the little triangle that started it playing. I was pulled in almost at once. In fact, I was soon in tears, because McElheran may speak to us all, but most importantly she spoke to me…her words on trauma included me, personally, for once.

That she did so, moved me beyond words, because at that moment she validated my own manifold experiences of trauma, which were mostly NOT of potentially mortal events, even if I may have believed them to be so (when paranoid or psychotic). I will embed the video here, so you can watch it now, and come back to my blog post afterwards if you so choose. Or watch it whenever you like. It is — truly! — only 16 minutes long, and very compelling, so do not worry that it will take a lot of time.

Something about what she talks about reminds me that “Nothing human is alien to me…” We are all capable of everything, and anything, given the proper circumstances. Her compassion for human behavior is astonishing and moving beyond words.

I need to say this because no one who “knows me” thinks I am “capable” of things like calling people such vile names as those I called the aides and nurses regularly at YNHPH, or of stripping and defecating and smearing feces without even thinking or considering the consequences… But those are important words: “without thinking” and “without considering the consequences” because they indicate that I was behaving wildly impulsively, as indeed I was. Think about the situation: Six to eight people, some of them security guards (self-professed former police officers) had just violently and brutally assaulted me, thrown me onto a bed, held me down (causing physical pain to the point that I screamed in reaction) and pulled down my pants, giving me three intramuscular injections into the buttocks, then holding me down some more until they felt “safe” to let go…(One of them actually telling me they would press charges for my kicking her in the stomach while she was restraining my knees!)

Once i was freed, I made a dash to get out of the room, wanting to “do laps” around the “square” hallway that gave the Washington Square 2 unit its name. No deal. They physically prevented me from leaving the small single room, that had nothing in it but a hospital bed and tray table. I recoiled, enraged and manically in need of doing something, anything! Suddenly, I felt my bowels engage, roil, want “to go.” But the bathroom was down the hall…No matter, what the F—! Who gives a shit, in fact.

Without thinking a second thought about it, I simply pulled down my pants, squatted, and unloaded on the floor, to not so silent on-lookers astonishment and incredibility. Then I removed my clothing altogether. But another WTF moment seized me, then. The steaming pile of sh-t was there, and suddenly I “knew” what to do with it…and I did not give a sh-t that this meant using my hands or getting it all over me or anything. I just didn’t give a flying femtogram. I do not know why. I didn’t even smell anything. I just picked up handsful of the feces and smeared it across the walls. But not blindly and wildly, no, I was writing something, I remember now, I wrote something on the walls with it, though I do not know what any longer. And I do not think anyone took the time to read it. I do not believe anyone bothered to notice that I was not merely smearing but writing in shit...

The point is, I did this as a response to trauma, small as you might say it was. I felt traumatized. I felt brutalized. And I felt and was out of control as a result. This is not to say that my impulsive behavior served any purpose other than venting rage and sheer revenge at my abusers. It certainly won me no friends and no compassionate understanding from anyone. It could have, someone might have understood it for what it was, and seen that what they were doing to me was in fact brutality and  traumatizing…They had after all diagnosed me with PTSD, so WTF did they think they were doing?

It doesn’t help, frankly, that “Dr Angela” believes that they were “on my side” and “doing their best” and “actually helping me” all along. I do not agree. I do not believe that. I think they were hidebound in their determination to break me, and if they could not see that they were perpetuating harm, they should have.

Okay, okay, okay Pam. Calm down. Calm down. Remember you are practicing forgiveness, not worrying the sore into an infected mess! 8)

This is hard. It is so difficult to forgive and let go of harm that no one admits to having done, one, and two, claims was actually for my own good. To help me!

Bull feathers! I still have exquisite backside piriformis muscle pain when I move in certain ways or even sit down on my right hip. And if I take off a T-shirt with the usual crossed arm movement, it causes agony in my deltoid muscles from the injections they gave me there too.

But forgive and move on, forgive and move on…I need to take a deep breath. Think about other things. Get ready to go out for coffee as I have made a date with an old friend of mine I haven’t seen since that debacle at the Institute of Living last winter. We always have great talks. It will be good to see her!

 

Yes, I will leave this on that note. The fact that I do not isolate myself, but that I have lots of friends and do things to keep myself busy and fulfilled and purposeful in life. Trauma and memories and flashbacks of trauma may still get me, and they get me in the gut a lot, but they haven’t got me completely over a barrel the way they might have. There was a time when I was more isolative and friendless but not any more. Not anymore.

I Will Not Be Sick Forever…Schizophrenia is Not A Life Sentence!

In reality, my doctor is a woman, and would never sleep on the job..So i wonder what this picture means unconsciously...The following one is turned upside down so you can read the book's title!
In reality, my doctor is a woman, and would never sleep on the job..So i wonder what this picture means unconsciously…The following one is turned upside down so you can read the book’s title!
Title Revealed: Natural Treatment of schizophrenia is what I want and need...But will anyone listen to me?
Title Revealed: Natural Treatment of schizophrenia is what I want and need…But will anyone listen to me?

Dear Everyone,

 

I spent more than three weeks at Yale’s psychiatric hospital in August being tortured, if not by seclusion and mechanical restraints (my PAD restricted the use of those and at least at Yale they listened) then being held down by armed security guards (only their guns removed) and injected innumerable times with a multi-injection cocktail of drugs: Haldol 10mg, Ativan 2mg, and Benadryl 50mg, despite my objections that I have a paradoxical reaction to the last one. They said I could not refuse because I would have side effects to the Haldol without it. Understand this please: They deliberately injected me with a large enough dose of Haldol (without any basis to know I needed any more than the usual 5mg or even 2mg) as to knowingly cause side effects, side effects they knew in advance would be so distressing as to not allow me to refuse medication for them before they even happened!

 

What sort of dastardly drug is this that it hurts as much as it “helps”? Ah, yes, let me remind you, lest you have forgotten, that Haldol is the medication political dissidents in the 1970s were given in the Soviet Union to subdue them after they were diagnosed conveniently with “sluggish schizophrenia,” an illness “everyone” in the West “knew” didn’t exist except in the Soviet political playbook, designed solely for the dissidents. The American Congress, Democrats and Republicans alike objected then vehemently to Soviet treatment measures, calling Haldol injections the dissidents were given nothing less than “torture.” None of the members of congress ever mentioned the widespread use of Haldol in American mental hospitals, though, for that wasn’t torture, was it? “Those people” – American “schizophrenics” need Haldol, they were told by establishment psychiatry, “they aren’t like you or me and don’t feel the same way when they take it…”

 

Now, I ask you, how can a drug torture one group of human beings but be a decent and humane treatment for another group? Answer: It cannot. Haldol IS torture, pure and simple, for nearly everyone who takes it. Just ask people! You cannot label one group tortured by a drug and the other “humanely treated” who endure the exact same effects. In truth the only group of humans who like Haldol are hospital personnel, who no doubt appreciate the fact that it in fact it does subdue patients into docility…usually. This means they have less work to do and thus they consider it an effective “treatment.” (Alas, in my case, I confess I was more likely to respond to forcible Haldol injections by stripping naked, defecating on the floor and smearing feces on the wall as by becoming more pliant or compliant. Why they managed not to see the resultant worsening of my symptoms and do something about it I do not know but they persisted in “treating me” and made things worse and worse…Indeed, I screamed more each day than not, for most of the three weeks-plus that I was at Yale New Haven Psychiatric Hospital this past August. So how good a “treatment” was Haldol? Aside from causing me exquisite mental and physical torture, I mean? In point of fact, despite megadoses, no injection made me more compliant, made me into a “nicer,” better patient, and easier to handle. The Haldol, even when probated and regularly forced upon me, didn’t work to their purposes…I was an impossible patient for most of the three-plus weeks I was there, Haldol notwithstanding. So what was the point? And why couldn’t ANYONE see that they were making things worse?

 

However, that is over with, and what I want now is to tell you that things are going to change, and change radically. I may not have your support in all of it, or any of it, perhaps, but I an attaching the video below as a link  because the book it is related to was deeply influential both on what I wanted and did not get at Yale, and on what and why I am doing what I am doing now. The book, as I have mentioned before is Anatomy of an Epidemic, and the video gives a good hour long summary of it. It is a good place to start if you have difficulty reading  a whole book on the subject or simply would like an idea of what you are getting into.

 

But first of all, the video doesn’t tell you this, “Mad In America” does — Robert Whitaker’s earlier book on the treatment abuses of the mentally ill in America — the foxes are guarding the chicken house. What I mean by this is: the Big doctors, by and large the influential ones who affect how our doctors treat us, are in cahoots with the Big Pharma drug companies in developing and promoting drugs that never worked and basically never had a chance to “work” because they were pushed into production and sales before any real research was done.

 

Maybe you don’t know this but listen: Thorazine was never a real “anti-psychotic” drug. It was a tranquilizer, a major tranquilizer. That’s what they used to more honestly call it. It calmed and tranquilized patients so they were more amenable to hospital treatment or the lack thereof. This was good for all, because the fact that patients were quieter meant that the nurses and aides got to show their kinder, nicer, nursier nursing sides to these “sick” patients, and the “drugged up” patients stopped fighting and finally appreciated being taken care of. It seemed a better situation for all, all ‘round, at least in the big state hospitals where megadoses of Thorazine were routinely handed out to “chill” patient populations into complacency. Less violent/resistant patients meant that the nursing staff could act a bit more like their job descriptors.

 

But now, suddenly, because someone was calling Thorazine an “anti-psychotic” drug as a marketing ploy, as if it treated the actual psychosis itself, they began to believe that it did something “anti-psychotic,” which in fact it never did. Not really. Not if you asked anyone who was treated with it. It never really helped anyone’s core symptoms. It just dulled you so profoundly you didn’t give a damn, or worse, it made you so mad with akathisia that you forgot how crazy the voices could make you feel, because you were literally wild with internal restlessness and other “antipsychotic” side effects and you had to pace all day or rock in your chair or do other “really crazy-looking shit” the doctors told you was just a part of your illness. Once Thorazine was thought of as a treatment drug, rather than as a behavioral modification drug, it changed the game altogether. It changed everyone’s thinking about schizophrenia (and by extension all mental illnesses) in a way that seems to have altered the course of American history itself. Certainly it changed American psycho-active drug-manufacturing for good, though I can only wonder at those involved with the actual design of drugs and how they can do what they do, surely being aware on some level that what they do has no foundation in science whatsoever. Let alone in honest research…

 

What am I talking about? Well, if Thorazine, which was originally used for anesthesia, was really just a behavioral modification drug, really, honestly and truly, and did not, if truth be told, treat or remediate any so-called schizophrenia symptom, then what the hell was all this dopamine hypothesis and research all about in the first and the last place? Because any supposed honest research started with Thorazine’s mode of action on the neuron’s dopamine 2 receptors. Supposedly, said those brilliant researchers, looking to explain how chlorpromazine/Thorazine “treated” schizophrenia symptoms so effectively, the drug works by blocking D2 receptors on the post synaptic neuron (Don’t worry if you don’t know what I am talking about…just keep reading).

 

The point is, Thorazine and dopamine have been inextricably linked for and to the next four decades of schizophrenia research, and all subsequent drug development stemmed from that link. Once that connection had been made, ridiculous and wrong as it was (schizophrenia and dopamine being related, or even correlated, simply was never shown), the stage was set for the “revolution” in brain illness research that has brought us such travesties as “bipolar infants” as young as 2 years old, and the H-Bomb-mushrooming of ADHD cases that threaten themselves to cluster-bomb into more bipolar disability cases than the country can conceive enough SSDI for…And thence to such further travesties as doctors using a brutally potent “atypical” “antipsychotic” (which is in truth no more “antipsychotic” in action than thorazine) like Zyprexa for “off-label” uses like anxiety disorders. Why? For fear of using benzodiazepines, perhaps, but just as often in conjunction with those drugs from hell. Drugs like Ativan and Xanax and Klonopin that are prescribed for people with “major mental illnesses” and the walking wounded as well, both like water, prescriptions that cause devastation in their wake and much more anxiety than they resolve.

 

It seems to me that for every MD who knows never to prescribe a benzo for anything but occasional use and refuses to, there are 40 who say, “take this three times a day and don’t call me unless you have problems”…expecting no calls.

 

But I am side-tracked a bit. Or have never quite gotten to my subject, which as you know is me, my own “illness” and my own future. I do not know frankly what was done to me in the past vis a vis these drugs, that is, what was caused by what. As my good friend Josephine says everyone now says, It is what it is and you can’t change it…So I am me, with whatever I am or have. But  at the same time, i cannot continue to accept the premise that medications are the only and best way to treat me.

 

After all, I take meds every day and you all know that I have ended up in brutalizing hospitals regularly, quite despite this. I was hospitalized just this past August, in fact and this past winter too…So what good has been my taking meds, including 2, not just one but two atypical antipsychotic drugs, if they do not work to keep me out of the hospital? Not much, I venture to say. Not much…

 

Well, but…If they have enabled me to do art and write poetry (when I did that) then they were very good drugs for me indeed. For that is my fear: That I can only do art or write, even if just in my journal, when I take these medications. If so, those would be two very good reasons for me to feel it necessary to keep taking them. I cannot live without something worthwhile to do, and I have no family, no children, no purpose, no career, nothing else but art and writing to live for…

 

That said, what is the proof that my medications are what make me ME? That they make me write and do art? Essentially and absolutely? None at all. And there is much suspicion that the meds can do harm both in the short and long-term. Nothing at all is known about what happens when people take these drugs for decades. I am not sure I want or need to be that particular guinea pig. Now, “Dr Angela” is, as you may or may not know, a psychoanalyst as well as a psychiatrist, so I told her that I wanted essentially what Joanne Greenberg’s “Hannah Green” got from “Dr Fried” (in reality it was Frieda Fromm-Reichmann, the renowned psychoanalyst who successfully treated Greenberg’s schizophrenia) in I Never Promised You A Rose Garden…No promises, perhaps, no rose gardens, but at least the opportunity for cure, recovery, and an end to treatment. And NO MORE MEDICATIONS, WHICH WOULD TIE ME TO HER PERMANENTLY more or less.

 

I am off the first drug, Zoloft, and have been for more than a month. But it is not easy. I am bone-weary and feel like crying every day. Feel like I have never NOT been tired, never not fought off hopelessness and the feeling that if I were told I had leukemia I would cheer, “Finally! Thank god it’s over!”. That’s the truth, people. I sit in my chair, the same one I sleep in, and I sit in it virtually all day long. And though I am not addicted and do not need to (most of you know how easily I quit smoking when I need or want to) I occasionally smoke a cigarette just to ease the pain…which is physical as much as it is mental and emotional. I may not seem depressed to those of you when you see me, because I rarely “let them see me sweat” and would never burden you with me if I can help myself. But there is also the fact that if and when I see you, just that fact cheers me, lifts my spirits, thank god, and is a rescue and a blessing, so thank you for that much! The nights are hard, but sometimes the days are harder…Nevertheless, Dr Angela has agreed NOT to speak to me of going back to the Zoloft, not unless I ask for it, because she understands that I want to tough it out, and that i believe that antidepressant drugs cause more depression than they cure. I believe if this is a relapse it is solely or largely because I started taking Zoloft again in 2007, when forced to at Mt Sinai, even though I told them I was grieving Lynn L’s death and because of Joe C’s illness and they ought to let me grieve! If I had been taken off it promptly, or never put on it, maybe I would not be such an easy prey to despondency now.

 

Nevertheless I am going to go on the record of the past predicting the future, and NOT take Zoloft (as of now) and “get through this somehow…”  because despite everything, I haven’t died yet, not of despair, and while i have done a lot of damage to my body, I have managed NOT to kill myself so far…Chances are, then, that I will not. Of course the future is unknown, but all I can say is that I do not want Zoloft or any AD drug at this moment, and can take the pain.

 

I have cut down on the Topamax, to 200mg but because of recurrent migraines need to keep that where it is for now. The next drug to go will be Abilify. I would rather we stop the Geodon next, but I do not think I can tolerate taking Abilify sans Geodon — not without being incredibly irritable — whereas Geodon without Abilify basically does nothing for me. A steady reduction, not too slow, but not so rapid I cannot tolerate any symptoms that develop. The whole point, in the end, is that should I develop symptoms (and that is not a certainty) we are supposed to be able to deal with them in therapy and not go running to the hospital or back to some drug.

 

(Okay, this is the point in the argument where even I start getting nervous. But I am determined to do this…I want it, I want it, and I need to try it ONCE in my life before I die. I need to know what I know, what I can know about what I need and do not need in terms of psychoactive medication, if that is even possible… Some much depends on placebo effects you know, and on influences of that sort that I wonder if any of it can be sorted out, and how much is going to be sheer determination?)

 

Oy, it is getting late, or I would continue. But I need to sleep and so do you. I am certain there is much more I ought to have said or explained and did not. Feel free to ask questions or query me about your own concerns if you have them…I am open to any thing, except anger.

 

Thank you all for your love and concern and if for nothing else than for simply being there to listen and read this.

 

 

Robert Whitaker’s Anatomy of an Epidemic video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgS79hz1saI

 

Love,

 

pam

 

 

Two Pages from my Art Journal: pain and mess are facts of my life

Piriformis, the muscle you never heard of, can be a real pain in the butt...literally, but at least the problem is neuromuscular, and not in the bones. It turns out to be related to all the forced Haldol injections they gave me at Yale, and something as well to do with this deep piriformis muscle and the sciatic nerve...Dont understand it all, but it all adds up to a huge amount of excruciating Pain with a capital P!
Piriformis, the muscle you never heard of, can be a real pain in the butt…literally, but at least the problem is neuromuscular, and not in the bones. It turns out to be related to all the forced Haldol injections they gave me at Yale, and something as well to do with this deep piriformis muscle and the sciatic nerve…Dont understand it all, but it all adds up to a huge amount of excruciating Pain with a capital P!

I ended up at the local non-hartford ER on Monday/Tuesday morning, in the very wee hours, in so much exquisite agony i could not move off the chair i sleep on.

 

What do you expect? I sleep in the same chair i eat and read and draw in mostly...and now i am imprisioned in it in pain, why shouldnt i live in filth?  It isnt actually the dirt or not that bothers me, but the constant chaos...i would prefer orderliness, but cannot keep things in any state resembling it, so chaos reigns!  I do not worship the great god Chaos, but no one could guess that from the constant state of affairs chez moi...the drawing i did in my journal doesnt even begin to depict the truth. In fact, i dont know how to do so. It is incredibly difficult to draw the mess and chaos and disorganization of my room. One must define something toi draw it, so by necessity you bring an order to the room in culling it of unnecessaries that it does not have in the realness of my unbeautified life. Pretty as a picture my room is not!
What do you expect? I sleep in the same chair i eat and read and draw in mostly…and now i am imprisoned in it in pain, why shouldnt i live in filth? It isnt actually the dirt or not that bothers me, but the constant chaos…i would prefer orderliness, but cannot keep things in any state resembling it, so chaos reigns! I do not worship the great god Chaos, but no one could guess that from the constant state of affairs chez moi…the drawing i did in my journal doesnt even begin to depict the truth. In fact, i dont know how to do so. It is incredibly difficult to draw the mess and chaos and disorganization of my room. One must define something to draw it, so by necessity you bring an order to the room in culling it of unnecessaries that it does not have in the realness of my unbeautified life. Pretty as a picture my room is not!

 

One thing you notice in this definitely unprofessional picture is the presence of a single crutch. I hated being at the ER but if I hadn’t called 911 (after pulling my emergency cord and wondering if anyone would ever come to my door…and finding out that someone had actually called 911 for me after the loud buzzer over my door had sounded for at least 1/2 hour…). When I hear someone’s emergency buzzer, I always knock and try to go to the person, find out if I can help them in any way. i dunno who called 911, but why they couldn’t at least let me know they were doing so I dunno. i felt so alone all night, and then at the ER. it was almost worse, because of course I  was treated like an hysterical psychiatric patient largely, and ignored. Truth to tell, my hip pain was not going to kill me, and apparently the testicular pain of the young man in the other part of the cubicle, could have killed him (so says Dr C, but according to her it would kill via “shock” so she means because of the degree of pain…So I am skeptical. I think the reason he was getting so much attention was because “Everyone knows” that testicle pain is horrendously awful and  shockingly painful…”everyone” because of course MEN have experineced it and let us all know how bad it is. Women have experienced childbirth tearing them literally apart for eons but no one goes on and on about how that pain needs to be attended to at all costs. No we just let them scream…SO, ditto me versus the young man with a testicle that did not apparentlhy need surgery but who was, I admit, the subject of a sadistic surgeon’s ministrations, and manipulations, even as the man denied that the young man needed his help. I mean, why stand there, holding a guy’s twisted ball in your hand, manipulating it in such a fashion that you kmow you are causing breathtaking agony, everyone who hears the sucked-in choked-off breaths of the patient knows it, why do that, what are you odoing? when you then in the next breath announce that this testicle is FINE, nothing that needs YOUR attention as a surgeon, in fact, you cannot understand why it is still causing the man so much apparent pain. But it is…The young man is nearly comatose with pain, and the surgeon doesnt’ even apologize. Only says, Well, you are fine, nothing here that needs me. I will check in with you later, but you are not a surgical candidate as far as I am concerned so you are none of my business.

 

But what I was saying was, sympathetic as I may have been with respects to the  doctor’s sadism and disregard for all human feeeling. Nevertheless, it was apparent that the entire ER had sympathy for testicle pain, and youth, little to none for hip agony in a 60 year old bag of a woman with scars on her legs and arms and face…It was a matter of appearance and what and who was appealing, and I was nothing of the sort. Who did they want to root for or give a damn about? I was just a title 19 patient with nothing to offer, and since I had brought nothing but a key to get back into my aprt with  me, I could not prove otherwise. Could I? Nothing to tell them I was worth anything but scorn and disgust, which they gave freely.

 

I knew in the end, that is., after 12 hours and very little had been done past a CT scan that showed piriformis inflammation, that I had to prove that I could function well enough to be discharged from the ER. I knew it would involved exquisite agony but it had to be done or they would keep me in the hospital because they would claim I could not function independently. SOMEHOW I had to prove I could get my own jeans back on, and dress myself. I knew that if I could do that they could not keep me, and I was desperate not to have to stay there any longer than I had to…which meant in practice that I wanted to leave ASAP.

It cost me more pain that I can ever express. I literally had to suck in my breath and flrce myself to “break my own hip” or feel as if I were doing so” in order to put my leg inside the pants and then manage to pull them up and zip the zipper. But I did it. SOmehow I did it. It felt as if I were literally stabbing myself in the abdomen each time I forced myself to do any abrupt movement like putting my right foot into the pants leg and pulling them up. But it would do not good to go slowly. A slow agony would never do and would only prolong something I could never tolerate. So I did the “white hot poker routine” of forcing myself to make abrupt changes in position and get things over with. And I managed to get dressed and eventually I was discharged and my dear friend Josephine agreed to come pick me up after she was through with her last housecleaning job, which was just then…

 

But where am I going with all this? Piriformis Syndrome, you can look that up. It is all very mysterious and not very common. But curable or at least temporary usually and treatable. So I am not dying and not even very ill, though the pain is mentionable! All I have been writing about, basically, is the pain, the dismissive attitude, and this, what finally transpired: I saw my doctor’s office’s APRN, Sara, who is very wonderful and while young doesn’t make me feel old and despised. She put me on a difficult drug to take but one that promises quick pain relief, if I can tolerate it: prednisone. And Soma for a muscle relaxant, which may or may not work. I will start the former tomorrow morning and try the latter as soon as I finish this blog post and can justify inducing sleepiness. She did not minimize anything, and I felt taken at my word and seriously. Neither as if things were being exaggerated for my benefit nor dismissed for the same reason.

 

I apologize that this blog post has been so boring. I am halfblind with sleepiness, because i have been up since 2:30AM, one, and two, the hospital lost my two pairs of glasses with prisms in them so I am using glasses that do not prevent double vision at the moment. Trying simply to see the screen and the keyboard is an effort that defeats me more often than not. You can imagine the effort to be eloquent or anything else is beyond the beyond.

 

But mostly I think I am just plain overtired, which makes it triply difficult to focus my eyes on any one object, let only make doubled images fuse into a single image. So I will stop for now. Take the Soma and go to bed. Thanks for your forebearance. If I promised an email to anyone, I will try to get to to. Remind me if you want to. I meet with my siblings Martha and Philip tomorrow so I may be busy for ao while but I hope to be in less pain and more able to get back to people who have written me about things.

 

Ciao! Cheers! Shalom!

The Voices in my head: Collage art made At Yale Psychiatric hospital 2013

 

But in truth I screamed all three weeks and never stopped. I am still hoarse!
But in truth I screamed all three weeks and never stopped. I am still hoarse!

I just was released from the Yale New Haven Psychiatric Hospital and i regret to say that it was far from the kind and gentle “soft place to land” in a crisis that i remembered. Partly this was my fault, for wanting to not take the meds that i already knew would be forced on me, quite despite Dr Milstein’s assurance to my outside psychiatrist that he would never force meds or Zyprexa on me as “it doesnt work.”

No, I did not know that meds would be FORCED on me…Not until Robert Ostroff MD took over my care and made it clear he did not give a damn how I felt. He decided to punish me with massive doses of Haldol when I refused Zyprexa, and I know he is of an age to understand what he was doing. One, he is a Yale Physician, so he knew of the hearings in Congress back in the 70s where the Russian dissidents were complaining of TORTURE by Haldol injection, and where Congress actually decreed that the drug was in fact an instrument of torture when use on Russian citizens…He KNEW what he was doing to me, PUNISHING me. He just had the power to do it and could. So he did. He NEVER saw me to talk to me, NOT once. No, he just oversaw torture, and while Robert Milstein, MD (basically a good guy, if deluded into believing that psych meds are good for people) was supposedly on vacation, he too was available and did nothing to stop this. For that I do not forgive him…Or, I forgive him, but will never trust him to treat me again. No, I will never go back there.

In fact, I’m here to say that no hospital psychiatrist can be trusted when they promise not to force you to take drugs…that is what they are paid to do and are largely paid to believe in. It did me little good to try NOT to sound like i was ranting and raving esp when attempting to persuade either doctor or social worker in hospital to read Robert Whitaker’s ANATOMY OF AN EPIDEMIC or even borrow my copy of his MAD IN AMERICA, both books i find life and mind changing in a major way, even a year after i started reading them for the first time.

I dunno what to do though, in terms of meds. I function fine in between times in hospital, mostly. And so are the Abilify and Geodon helping or simply not Not preventing a relapse when it comes? There is reason to think that Geodon may be damaging my heart, slowly but surely. My EKG said something Dr Milstein refused to explain about a “probable infarct” but was that me, my heart or some general info on the EKG sheet? I wasnt allowed to look at it long enough and NO ONE answered my questions about it. Probably fearing i would stop taking the offending medication, which was true and i did anyway so they ought to have talked to me honestly.

But honesty is not a general policy in brutal psychiatric units where they restrain you, holding you down and bruise you to give you injections of Stat meds that are really ordered only because someone with the power to order them got angry and resentful…

I cannot sugarcoat my own demeanor during this stay. I was not a pleasant patient to anyone most of the time. And at the worst times i was likely considered horrendous. I screamed daily at the top of my lungs, i resisted their treatments physically and violently, i defecated on the floor of my room and even put handsful of shit across the walls, and apparently i even threw a cup of coffee at someone…though i do not remember doing this and the report may have been distorted by second hand information about me, coming back to me. But i was a horrible patient and one aide even called me, every chance he got, a dog, a pig, a swine….in covert secret ways, audible and openly but when no one else was around to hear him except the other aide who would back up his story that it never happened.

On the other hand, there were a few kind and compassionate understanding people who did not throw my smearing shit in my face or even take my calling them horrible names (bestowed on my vocabulary by a former friend who called me them) personally.

I need to enlist just such people for private duty help for the next relapse, if it should happen…but how? Ads on hospital cafeteria walls? How to vet the sign-uppers, so i do not get attendants that will abuse me in my own home? How to trust, and when, what they or references tell me? So many references are positive and therefore lies that they are tantamount to useless unless secretly negative!

Decisions decisions….must be made well before anyone is needed to help me at home….one to one, constant observation-plus!

Well, i am still recuperating, and worried about deep hip pain though seemingly improving is scary, reminding me of the avascular necrosis bout i had about five years ago. Was it meds induced? possibly because it healed magically in a month post radiographic dx, with a stay in psych hospital and change in those meds. But if i dont withdraw abruptly from, say, topamax or geodon, but slowly, will the hip pain continue, or evolve into worse than just, say, pain, but real bone destruction ans disability? Can i take any risks at all at age 60 with drugs that have no proven track record research wise, and seem to help me but may only being doing harm?

Stop making yourself unhappy

I thought jill’s post was marvelous. She succeeds at a lot that i only aim at…but i should not put myself down. I have not achieved nothing, have i?. Nevertheless, i wanted to reblog her thoughts because she stated something so brilliantly, i just thought you should hear it from someone, even if it is not from me.

Jill's avatarJill's Experiences with Mental Health , Stigma, Alzheimer's Disease, Grief & Grieving & serenade2seniors

14357367-seamless-vector-smileys-in-different-colorsA long time ago, I attended a support group entitled; Stop making yourself unhappy. And it left an indelible impression on me. We all go through times of sadness but there is a difference between experiencing a period of sadness or not coming out of it.

  • I learned that I had to move forward.
  • I learned that life does not automatically give me what I wish for.
  • I learned to believe in myself and to give up the idea that I could control my destiny.
  • I learned how to smile and enjoy the scenery on the way to wherever I was going.
  • I learned that we all make mistakes sometimes, and although I might feel that things might be running smoothly at present, it won’t always be that way.
  • I learned that failure is part of growth.
  • I learned that worthwhile goals take persistence and a great deal of work.
  • I…

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My Challenge to the IOL: Stop Using Restraints and Seclusion NOW

Well, how did it go yesterday? All in all, I would say it was a very successful meeting. Certainly it went better than I expected, and better than the disastrous meeting a year ago at Middlesex Hospital with Dr Grillo et al. I fear I irritated Dr Mucha a bit at least at first. Why? Because I think he felt defensive and tried to tell me how much he did on my behalf and my mobile facial features (I don’t hide my feelings behind a good psychiatrist poker face) let him know at once that I didn’t believe him. Why should I? One, it was completely self-serving for him to tell me — as if he had been some sort of knight in shining armor behind the scenes — how much good he had done for me, when he let them restrain me day after day for many many hours at a time, and keep me in what he himself acknowledged was on-going seclusion for the majority of the hospital stay. How dare he tell me how much he did for me, and then when I said they “tortured me” actually scoff, “Restraints aren’t torture!”

Ask my brother, Phil, an extremely humane psychiatrist who would disagree, and would rather die than be restrained, but I went one better. I quoted Juan Mendez the Special Rapporteur to the Human Rights Council at the UN who just this past March spoke/wrote specifically about psychiatric patients and how the use of solitary confinement of any duration and any use of restraints, forced medication and forced ECT is torture. He didn’t say tantamount to torture he said that are torture, period. And I would remind Dr Mucha and Mrs. Blair that until you have experienced these things — and I defy you to try any of these modes of your so-called treatment– you have no way of knowing. All you have to do is look at the expression on the face of the woman in the picture I did yesterday.

From the way I was treated, under Dr Mucha’s supposedly magnanimous supervision, at the IOL (depicted in that drawing) anyone could tell that the people “caring for me” did not consider that I was truly human or “felt” their torture in the same way they would have. Because if they had believed that, they never would have done what they did to me, unless they really did deliberately, maliciously want to torture me. I don’t know which it is. Dr Mucha and Mrs Blair say the Donnelly 2 South unit staff are good people who wanted to help me….So which is it? That they didn’t consider me a real person, just a diagnosis and not really human, so they thought I didn’t feel the torture (this despite my exquisitely lucid PAD that spells everything out in detail) they inflicted, or they were actually malevolent and wanted me to suffer? I tremble to have to choose between the two!

Either way, the torture was inflicted and despite numerous calls to Carmen Diaz, the patient advocate, (another name for the Hospital employee who works FOR the hospital not the patient, really) no one, not a soul, came to help me. I called outside sources too, but except for my advocate at the dept of Protection and Advocacy, who is not a lawyer and has little power besides that of complaint, there is not an agency or organization in this entire state of CT that can or would help me. Not a legal aid group or a lawyer besides the court appointed one to fight commitment that would even come in and talk to me about what was happening. I was ALL ALONE, yet Dr Mucha’s knickers got in a twist because I didn’t praise and thank him for all his work behind the scenes on my behalf.

Well, I am sorry, but 1) Dr Mucha is the Director of the IOL and he is IN CHARGE. He did not need to work behind the scenes. He could have spoken to Dr Taylor about her treatment of me at ANY time. If he thought she was not treating me well or using restraints in an unnecessary or wrong-headed way, he ought to have spoken out at once, openly. Period. 2) I needed someone on my side OPENLY. I needed someone to come to me and tell me that they were going to stop this nonsense and get me some real help that no one was going to restrain me again. That they knew my advance directive was meaningful and that things had GONE TOO FAR.

None of that happened. None of that happened. And while plenty apparently did behind my back, I am not responsible for what I was not told and did not know. Though I do appreciate it now that I do know. For instance that Bev, the voodoo princess, who I was terrified of, not because of her voodoo, but because she was dangerous to me as a staff member, having taken an intense dislike to me, indeed such a hatred of me that she was conspiring to kill me…she was removed from D2S unbeknownst to me for as long as I was there. Simply because I had expressed such intense fear of her. That was something I did not know about, but I am very grateful they heard me and did something for me in that regard. Took my fear seriously rather than tortured me with her presence. On the other hand, if only, if ONLY they had told me that she would not be back for the duration, I would have slept better! Why not tell me? For nights I slept fearfully, since I had no way of knowing she would not be on the night shift!

I wish Dr Mucha et al would look into the Open Dialogue method of dealing with psychosis. It will never be implemented in full in this country, and certainly not in hospitals. It is not a hospital-based method in any event. In fact, it is anti hospital and empties hospitals rather quickly. But some parts of it would be eye-opening, such as always including the patient in treatment planning, how that helps bring clarity to even the most disturbed person. How it involves their being NO secrets, nothing hidden, not even disagreements between treaters as to how to proceed. How wonderful it would have been for me to have actually heard Dr Mucha in conference with Dr Amy Taylor et al discussing the use of restraints or seclusion…Do you really think anything would have continued to happen, or that things would have proceeded apace if I had been included in those case conferences about me? I highly doubt it! Oh, if only I had been….I could have told them so much, but of course they didn’t even think to include me when talking about me! How stupid of them, how completely stupid. But I wasn’t a person, just an animal, just a diagnosis.

Anyhow, at the end of our meeting, which did go well after we got off the torture topic, Dr Mucha asked me if there was anything I wanted to end on. I thought a minute and said, “Well, you know, I want to go back to the subject of restraints and seclusion. You continue to use them because you won’t stop using them. You say it is a slow process, that it takes time. But it isn’t a slow process. You cannot stop using them as long as you allow their use at all. All it takes to stop using restraints and seclusion is to STOP USING THEM. Period. Once you don’t have the notion that, Oh, well, we can always use restraints on that unruly patient, so it’s okay, we don’t have to plan in advance about how to deal with her or him if things get out of hand…once you can’t resort to restraints at all, then you must think imaginatively in advance about how to deal with patients and you will find a way. You always do. Necessity is the mother of invention.”

So that is my challenge to the Institute of Living. Stop dillydallying around and pretending that you are reducing the use of restraints and seclusion. Don’t tell me that you are only using them in the geriatric population to reduce falls, because that is not true and that is not really the sort of thing that I am talking about and you know it. You don’t use seclusion and restraint to reduce falls for “an hour” anyway…THree times a week is not a reduction. Once a year is a reduction! But I want you to NEVER use restraints or seclusion again. I want you to understand that to restrain a patient or to use a show of force is to torture someone. Get this one thing straight, to deliberately frighten a patient with a “show of force” is an act of  terrorism and has no place in a hospital. (In a prison, maybe, though I would argue against treating any human being like that even in prisons…) And when you torture someone esp a patient who is already suffering and frightened, you make her or him worse, sicker and likely to be MORE violent and less predictable and traumatized, with the subsequent behavior that is known to result after trauma. NOTHING good comes from treating a patient with violence.

I don’t know if the IOL will listen to me, a nobody, a nothing worth less than the paper I am printed on. Not worth a red cent or a paper nickel. No lawyer gives a sh_ t about me, I am not worth their time or effort because I am not worth a stinking dollar. So why would the venerable IOL pay attention to anything I have to say? (I am not stupid for all that, but genius IQs are a dime a dozen, alas… and Mucha and Blair too are no slouches, even if they persist in the delusion that to treat patients with violence is acceptable, and not torture, really.)

LISTEN to ME, LISTEN TO ME! I know what I am talking about. if you don’t you will continue to cause more harm than good. If you do, you will break new ground and start a revolution that cannot but do good. That’s all I have to say.

Open Letter to the Director of the Institute of Living, Dr Theodore Mucha, and Ms Ellen Blair, Director of Nursing

Dear Dr Mucha and Ms Blair,

Forgive me if I must read this instead of simply speaking extemporaneously, but while I may seem collected to you, inside I’m shaking. Indeed, every time I recall what I recall, or reread the nursing notes about what was done to me this past winter here at the IOL, I start crying. I need to stay in control in order to retain some credibility and so I have written this out in advance in order to make sure that happens.

Thank you for meeting with me today. Ever since I was discharged from the IOL in February, I have felt the need to come back here to speak to someone. Yet because of trauma-induced amnesia, it is only now that I have acquired my records and learned the details of what happened that I’m finally able to do so. But at the same time, I wonder why I bother, since it is not as if I expect you to do anything or say anything that will make a difference. You won’t. You can’t. No one ever does, not even when faced with the reality of the most egregious abuses.

 Before I say anything further, I want you to know that I believe that I have been harmed by the treatment I received on Donnelly 2 South, and that what the staff did to me was not only unethical and cruel but that it crossed the line into illegality more than once. I was told to assure you that I do not intend to sue or cause trouble. I do not, not at the moment. However, if I don’t feel that I have been properly heard at this meeting I may in fact file a formal complaint with the Department of Justice. For now, I just want you to listen carefully and hear what I have to say.  When I am through, if you are so inclined, perhaps we might discuss ways in which things might have gone differently and how they might change in the future, for others even if it is no longer possible for me.

Please understand that I know I was a difficult patient. I was loud and upset and hard for some staff to deal with. That is precisely why my Psychiatric Advance Directive was written out the way it was, and why I made my medical and psychiatric history online so available. When ill, I am frightened and paranoid, which makes me easily roused to irritability and hostility. I know this, from a distance as it were. But knowing this now does not mean i was in control of my behavior. I am by nature neither temperamental nor prone to temper eruptions or throwing things. In addition, I am extremely modest, hardly one to disrobe or urinate in public. My friends and family have at times variously labeled me  “stoic” and “peacemaker,” which should tell you a lot. But that I did all these things on Donnelly 2 South both horrifies me and concerns me because these behaviors point to something going on distinct from psychosis: they point to abuse and trauma.

Let me make it very clear that I have behaved in such outrageous ways before, yes, but only in response to extreme circumstances – as when i was subjected over and over to restraints and seclusion in a horrific and sadistic fashion at Manchester and Middlesex hospitals in 2009 and 2010. It is too bad that when Amy Taylor took it upon herself to violate my HIPPAA privacy rights and investigate my previous admissions, without asking my permission (which I never would have granted) she failed to make the connection between their abuse, and my subsequent behaviors there…It turns out all she drew as a conclusion was that if those hospitals could use restraints and seclusion ad libitum, well then, so could she. It didn’t seem to matter to her that in 2009 and 2010 those measures not only didn’t work, they made things worse when Dr Taylor followed their examples, the same results ensued, just as my PAD predicted.

I was admitted to Donnelly 2 South, and I came in with the very detailed Psychiatric Advanced Directiveas as I said. I made it very clear that my online electronic medical record  was available. It included documents such as my narcolepsy diagnostic consult and special documentation proving my need for a higher than usual dosage of Ritalin, written by my former sleep specialist who was also my psychiatrist from 2000-2009. Included as well was a letter she wrote to my present psychiatrist, Dr Angela Cappiello, explicitly stating her conviction that I do not have a personality disorder, borderline or otherwise, and never did.

According to Dr Sanjay Banerjee he read every page of documents that I brought with me. That is what he told me. Moreover, when he spoke with Dr Cappiello, he brushed off my concerns about anyone misperceiving me as having a personality disorder. My brother, Philip Spiro, MD, himself a psychiatrist brought the same matter to the fore again when in discussion with Laurie Denenberg, but her response was much the same: Personality disorders are not a part of the picture here. We intend to honor her PAD. We are glad that she has had the foresight to prepare such an document. If this was so, then how did it come to pass that Amy Taylor wrote on my discharge summary that I have a “long history of Borderline personality disorder” and herself diagnosed “Personality disorder NOS with borderline traits”? I was being treated for four weeks for an active psychotic disorder. She would have no way of knowing whether or not I had any personality disorder, given the axis I diagnosis and you know it. She did too.

Dr Mucha and Ms Blair, you were not there on the unit or in the quiet room with me, so were you even aware of what happened half the time? Did you know for example, that on Februrary 6, I walked away from the quiet room, strolled down the hall, looked out the window and slowly retraced my steps back to the quiet room. But when I arrived I I was confronted by a cohort of staff who proceeded to 4-point me, even though I was quiet and put up no resistance? Not wanting to give them any reason or justification, I passively lay down on the bed and placed my own limbs out for the restraint cuffs, saying, (I quote my journal entry made later that evening): “For shame. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I am not and never was a danger to myself or others.” Their response was “ You refuse to follow directions so we do not know what you will do. This is not punishment, Pamela, this is what your behavior brings on every time.”

Were you aware that they always restrained me, spread-eagled, so tightly I couldnt move a muscle? That they never permitted bathroom breaks or even let my hands free to eat? That I would fall asleep rapidly after three injections  –whether calm or not, it was a routine punishment needle in the buttocks: Haldol, Ativan and Benadryland they would invent reasons to maintain me in restraints even after asleep for hours? Or when I woke, groggy and hardly dangerous to anyone, they would grill me with questions that I could not answer, and they would use my inability to respond as reason not to release me?

Later in the evening on Jan 6th, for the second time that day, they restrained me, for throwing half a graham cracker at the wall. Then, as usual, they left me like that for six hours, even after I fell asleep. In point of fact, I could never earn my way to release from restraints by good behavior or quietly, calmly asking for release. Of course not, because I hadn’t done anything to earn my way into them in the first place. They always refused to release me, ALWAYS, until I literally cried, “Uncle” when they told me to.

 

As to those vaunted shows of force what did you expect? Presented with a cohort of threatening staff personnel I saw one thing: an impending assault.  I know they anticipated my panic; it said as much in my chart. Isn’t that the point of a planned “show of Force” – to induce fear and panic? Why else do it? So why should it be any surprise, when I defended myself as they grabbed me? When they stuffed me into a body bag and were trying to tighten the straps, surely you can understand why anyone would bite the hand of an attacker whose digits came near. It was a matter of life and death!

 

But none of it should have happened. My PAD explained in exquisite detail exactly what to do and what I respond to better than fear tactics and force. in fact, It is beyond me, knowing that one of the admission diagnoses I came in with was PTSD, how you  Dr Mucha, could possibly approve in advance, the emergency abrogation of my PAD and a “just in case they are needed” use of restraints and seclusion. Why not counsel the person asking for this advance “right to restrain” to do all in his power NOT to restrain me and to work with the PAD instead?

 

Here’s what SAMHSA the substance abuse and mental health services administration publication has to say on seclusion and trauma:

 

 “Studies suggest that restraints and seclusion can be harmful and is often re-traumatizing for an individual who has suffered previous trauma…

 

“Further, there is a common misconception that seclusion and restraint are used only when absolutely necessary as crisis response techniques. In fact, seclusion and restraint are most commonly used to address loud, disruptive, noncompliant behavior and generally originate from a power struggle between consumer and staff. The decision to apply seclusion or restraint techniques is often arbitrary, idiosyncratic, and generally avoidable.

 

“Moreover, some studies indicate that seclusion and restraint use leads to an increase in the behaviors that staff members are attempting to control or eliminate.

 

I have been traumatized, and not just by hospitals. I was date-raped three times in my twenties and experienced traumatic domestic abuse by a long-term roommate. The cover sheet on the PAD made very clear that due to these trauma issues, I could not tolerate being secluded or restrained without serious consequences: regression and serious worsening of symptoms. Unfortunately, as soon as the staff saw fit to use physical methods of coercion and control on me, read punishment, from the first time a staff member grabbed me, all bets were off as to how I would behave. I certainly ceased improving, and my symptoms went downhill. Did they really think they were being kind and compassionate? Violence begets violence….

I tried to get help even when on the unit, at least I tried when I was free to make calls or leave my seclusion, err, forced-voluntary time-out two-week-long stay in the quiet room last winter. I made I do not know how many, but many, calls to the patient advocate office, but the sole time anyone made contact was when Carmen Diaz came to hand me some paperwork – I believe I was actually in 4 point restraints at the time — papers  I could not read about the forced medication hearing. I needed her advocacy, but she never responded to my panicked calls in any way that was helpful to me. I wanted her help, but she never came by to ask me what I needed. She was less than useful, the fact that I had to go through her, and her refusal to respond contributed to my ongoing panic and desperate feelings of aloneness and depression. No wonder Dr Banerjee tried to force me into ECT.

 

And where did the ECT discussion come from? My PAD states in no uncertain terms that  I would refuse ECT under any and every circumstance. My brother would be my conservator if Banerjee had sought to go down that road, and he would never have made any decision to counter my wishes on that subject. If Banerjee really read my PAD, he would have known that, and you too. Because he implicated you, you know. He told me that “Dr Mucha and I have made the decision to force me to have ECT.” Oh, I know, the chart talks about having “discussed the possibility of ECT with me” but that is not how it went down. I recorded the conversation in my journal directly after it happened and Dr Banerjee presented it as a discussion that you and he had, and a decision that you and he had come to, not one that I was privy to. And he presented it as one that I had no choice in.

Nevertheless, let me ask you this: regarding ECT and my so-called depression, were you fully cognizant that Banerjee had stopped my 75mg of the antidepressant Zoloft during the first or second week I was there? “Do you really need that?” he had asked, “You don’t seem depressed to me.” Obedient, and in any event glad to get off any medication at any time, I shook my head, assenting to the change. I remembered having trouble getting down even to 50mg quickly at Natchaug the summer before, I dared not mention this and frankly believed it had been a fluke, the opposite of the placebo effect in a sense…So I went along with Banerjee’s decision to summarily cut the Zoloft and hoped for the best. At least, I thought, if things go haywire, it will not be due to self-fulfilling prophecy, a doctor looking for symptoms he expects to find and conveniently finding them. And at least he will know the reason.

A week later, instead of reinstating the Zoloft, Banerjee blamed my sudden “depression” on my refusal of Lamictal, a drug I had not taken in months. Now he was applying to force me to take ECT, something I was terrified of, and to have calculated brain damage.

It was this threat, and the brutality with which the decision was handed down, that started the downhill course of my IOL stay.

The very next day, all hell broke loose. When I entered the conference room, I pushed some important notes I needed Dr B and Laurie to read across the table in front of them. They refused, claiming that I threw the papers at them. Instead, Dr B proceeded to berate me, and told me how he had consulted with other hospitals and providers and had read my records against my instructions and Advance Directive, thus violating my HIPPAA rights. Moreover, he threatened me with a behavioral treatment plan that would not permit me to do art or writing unless I “behaved.” I hit the roof, telling him I would sue the hospital and complain to JCAHO, then summarily left, slamming the door, an act that stemmed from feelings of utter impotence, because I couldn’t actually say in words anything more effective.

It could have ended there. I could have been left alone, to cool down and calm myself. But no, Dr Banerjee had to write for stat meds again, and even though I was on the phone and trying to find someone to talk to, to calm myself, I had to be physically dragged off the chair I sat on, away from the phone and brought to the floor in a physical struggle (because they had attacked first, ie physically grabbed me, I defended myself, instinctually). They could have waited for me to finish the call. They could have waited to see if I calmed myself. I was NOT hurting anyone or even threatening anyone or myself  with harm. ALL that I had done, in terms of physical threats, was to throw a lightweight chair at the wall. And that, it was clear to everyone, was intended not as a threat to anyone. Furthermore, it was done and over with. I had left that area and gone to my room. I had then come back and now sat on the chair by the phone, speaking to my interlocutor on the other end. There was no need to pick a fight or encourage a struggle. A wait-and-see policy could have successfully guided the situation to a better resolution not only for the situation at hand but for the entire hospital stay. As the poem by Dylan Thomas goes: “After the first death, there is other.” Once they decided to use restraints, there was no going back. The first time broke everything, So they used them again, and again and more and more freely and without justification but for convenience and punishment.

Back to Feb 6, after sleeping for six hours, I was taken out of restraints just in time for a visit from Dr Cappiello. Observed by my 1:1 staff member, I could barely whisper and dared not tell my outside psychiatrist the full extent of the abuse that had been happening. Nevertheless, she took one look at Dr Taylor’s behavioral treatment plan posted on my wall, and told me that it would be impossible for anyone, even someone who was well, to follow it to the T. She was so worried about me, and about my ability to complete the requirements, even for a “mere 24 hours,” that she intervened. The next day was the single day that Dr Taylor planned to be out of town, so Dr Cappiello asked Dr Mehendru to evaluate me for discharge, telling her that she feared a power struggle had been set up that I could never win.

 

When Dr Mehendru came to see me, at first I was angry, as the chart indicates, thinking she was just another Taylor flunky, preparing to use more restraints and seclusion, But when she asked if I would like to go home, I took one look at her, saw sincerity in her eyes, and burst into a smile, ready to say yes to anything. Miraculously “cured,” I left the IOL that very same day, less than 12 hours after being released from 4-point restraints and not 4 hours out of seclusion.

 

However, I was not well.  And within two weeks time, I was back in the hospital, this time to be admitted to Yale New Haven Psychiatric Hospital, via their emergency room. Over the next 3 weeks I experienced an entirely different kind of care. At Yale I did not find a staff ready to fight or try to seclude or restrain me. This staff did not need their day to be hassle-free with drugged and cowed patients. Instead, they were trained to remain tolerant, calm and compassionate in the face of sometimes very trying circumstances. It worked. Even when I screamed and yelled and swore, they countered with compassion, and lo, I calmed, no brutality needed, not even IM medication. They had no need or use for cruelty at YNHPH. I felt they sincerely wanted only to understand and help me heal.

 

Appreciating the shock and trauma of my IOL stay, each staff member I dealt with did everything in his or her power to prove that hospitals do not have to be brutal or abusive. At the IOL they pretend to use “best practices” but in truth it consists only of coercion and control. Treatment at Yale was in fact the “best practice” possible, and it consisted mostly of being consistent. Consistent in being patient-centered, trauma-informed care, consistent in being not cruel and uncaring, consistent in being humane to each and every patient, consistent in extending a compassionate hand and heart to every patient and reacting in a different and more constructive fashion than did the staff at the IOL (or at Middlesex or Manchester etc).

And you know, though I was still the same person with the same problems, loud and angry at times, even “violent” to property in my frustration, and still psychotic, they never responded with a show of force. Why would they? At Yale it would be absolutely anathema to deliberately frighten a patient. What would be the purpose in that, they would think….  They also never showed up at my door with forced medication or pushed me into a seclusion room or strapped me down in punitive 4-point restraints, or any of the other ill-advised responses that my PAD  explains are the worst things to do to anyone who is struggling, scared and paranoid. In point of fact, Yale Psychiatric Hospital’s Washington Square unit does not have a seclusion room. They also have a “restraints-free” policy, so they didn’t use those at all either.

The IOL on the other hand with its “We only use restraints and seclusion if we have to policy, restrained me countless times, and for many more hours than was even legal. When I woke up that last morning I spent there, the room opposite me was occupied by yet another person in restraints! That is because, you know, once you allow a staff to use restraints a little, it only takes a little to use them a lot.  And once you sanction the use of restraints and seclusion at all, it is only time before someone abuses them and abuse becomes the norm.

 

Some final points:

CMS regulations on use of Restraint and Seclusion

 

 

Restraint or seclusion may only be imposed to ensure the immediate physical safety of the patient, a staff member, or others and must be discontinued at the earliest possible time.

 

(ii) Seclusion is the involuntary confinement of a patient alone in a room or area from which the patient is physically prevented from leaving. Seclusion may only be used for the management of violent or self- destructive behavior. This means that IOLs definition of seclusion as being kept alone in a room to which the door is locked is wrong. I protested that I had been secluded all along, for a good two weeks before they instituted formal seclusion. I was not violent or self-destructive, and certainly not imminently dangerous to self or others…NEVER was anyone in immediate physical danger.) Yet you allowed them to abuse me and seclude me because I was loud and made people uncomfortable…Instead of dealing with me, you let them torture and punish me. WHY? WHY? Why? I want an answer to this question.

“The highest price of all is the price paid by the people who are restrained: their recovery is stalled by a practice that can disempower them, break their spirit, and reignite a sense of helplessness and hopelessness…” from Recovery Innovations

 

Worst of all, using restraints doesn’t work to make either the patient calmer and safer or the unit a calmer safer environment to work in for staff. In truth, things only go from bad to worse once you restrain an unruly patient…Violence only begets more violence…Moreover, when I was at Natchaug Hospital, i was told by one of their mental health workers that she had wanted to experience the process of being four-pointed herself so she could identify with patients. She was told no, because as the aide informed me, hospital administrators feared it would be too traumatizing.

 

Where do we go from here? Well, I will never return to the IOL; inflexible IOL policies have no safeguards in place to properly protect patients. I came prepared, Dr Banerjee said so. And yet it did me no good, because all the preparations and advance directives in the world do me no good when staff is given carte blanche by their own director to ignore them.

So where we go from here is largely up to you. You can simply ignore what I have written, tear these sheets up, justify all staff behaviors and throw away my complaint as meaningless information. After all, Dr Mucha, you are retiring in a few days, so you can leave all this behind without a care in the world. Ms Blair, even you don’t need to believe my words, you can simply trust the superficial, documented words on the chart, and if necessary, the lies of staff as to what happened. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. But lies they are, and lies they always were, even as they told me what they were going to write in order to get away with restraining me as punishment. The problem is that not everyone was so clever as to cover her footprints, so once or twice the truth was written down and not corrected later. I will show you those pages if you wish to see the evidence I have.

The problem for you is not that I am going to sue you for malpractice, No lawyer is going to take my case on a contingency basis. No one in this country or anywhere in the world cares about a mental patient who was tortured in an abusive hospital situation but didn’t die. I would be worth money dead, yes, but not alive…Your staff knew this and that is why they knew they could get away with it…No, the problem for you is strictly moral, one of conscience. But if you can live with it, then I cannot change a thing.

The IOL could change, it could adopt a philosophy of patient-centered, trauma-informed care, as Yale has done, but that would require changes that would involve every aspect the unit. I doubt IOL administration has the ethical or moral fiber or the political will to do it.  I think you choose to remain a brutal, backwards and controlling institution because it feels easier and you believe it is cheaper, though both notions are mistaken. Sometimes it just feels easier to think mistaken thoughts than to challenge them and learn to think in new ways, absorb new paradigms. This is unfortunate because in the end the IOL would save money and patients would heal with less trauma, if you implemented changes that actually worked rather than resorting to the old ways of cruelty, coercion and abuse.

That is all I have the time and energy to say, for now.

Depressed, Disconsolate and Distressed…Why??? With updates

The Scream by Pamwagg © pamela spiro wagner All rights reserved
The Scream by Pamwagg © pamela spiro wagner All rights reserved

 

I feel like screaming, I am a human being, you effers, treat me like one! But of course, that is what I would say only to one group of people, the hospital personnel who so tortured me, and not everyone does that. Though I get this sense that a lot of people treat me like I am my diagnosis and not a real HB…if you know what I mean. As soon as they know you carry some sort of MI Dx, and I do not blab about that, but they find out, esp if they know the meds I take, then they suddenly do not trust me any longer, trust that I live a life that even remotely resembles theirs. Suddenly they seem to believe that I am not like them in anything that they could possibly begin to believe in. Or worse that they cannot “get into my mind” and therefore they assume that I live in some world that they cannot possibly comprehend either…

Weirdly enough, I live assuming the precise opposite, that our worlds are pretty much the same, that what I think, they pretty much think. I assume that whatever differences there may be, they are very small when it comes right down to it, and that they are miniscule in the larger plan. So it hauls me up short when I realize that they believe they cannot understand me. And are afraid of me and do not want to try to get to know me, because of that fear. And it makes me feel VERY MUCH ALONE.

 

You who are married or have relationships or have had them in the past, you do not know how lucky you are. I never have. I have never loved anyone, nor felt that I was safe with someone and not going to be abused or taken advantage or or simply that I was with a person I loved and was loved by and was their first priority. Not someone who was my peer. Yes, for 7 years I was, I think, my father’s priority, maybe his first priority, I dunno. I felt cared about and loved. But he was my father and he owed that to me. I ought to have felt that way all my life. All children should feel loved and cared for by their parents…no matter what.

 

I feel so alone, so alone. I do not know who to turn to or who to talk to. I do not know what to do or how to stop this juggernaut from sliding down into the abyss, taking me with it . It started with the headache all week, which went away yesterday but came back with a vengeance again today! I feel like no one in my family cares about me or even likes me except perhaps my brother, and he may do so on sufferance, I dunno. I do not trust anyone…

 

How can I? I have been so broken by people who said they cared about me and wanted to help me and then tortured me (hospitals) or abandoned me (my father) that I have no reason to trust or love…I do love my family, mind you. I even like them all. But it doesn’t even matter to them whether I love or like them, my like and love are meaningless to them, worse they are burdensome to them.

 

I sense that this is often the case, and it is why I have never bestowed my love on anyone: people do not want my love, not my real undying love. They would fear it and hate it. It would be a huge burden on them. So I haven’t burdened anyone in the world with my love ever. Because I would never do anything so evil to anyone, not even my worst enemy…though I do try to practice love thy enemy, as I have said, and I try to make my enemies my best friends. Nevertheless, I would not in fact give my enemy the worst burden of all, the loathsomeness of my heart. Who could stand it, who could tolerate it? I would rather die than think that I had so oppressed any person with something so intolerable.

 

But oh, how I cry to think that I am so loathsome, and why is it? Who and what am I that I am so disgusting? Why did I turn out this way? I always tried to do good, and to do it secretly so no one would be embarrassed or have to thank me…and now what am I but a disgusting turd who only oppresses the world with her presence. Whose love and heart would only horrify the person to whom she gave it…Not that I would dare do so, but that is because I understand the horror of such a gift-curse.

 

How did this happen? What happened? It will never change, I know that. It is a fact of my existence, of Existence itself. My father cared about me, but he also know how burdensome I was…He was glad to die and leave me, I think. Or perhaps he could handle my loathsomeness because he didn’t have to deal with me much…Who knows. All I know is that I am alone, alone, alone…and I will never be anything but alone. How can I go on, knowing that? Oh, I will. I will go on. But how do you? Faking it, always, pretending to people that all is fine and dandy, because no one wants to know how awful things are, NO ONE. If they did, it would only be another intolerable burden…

So you fake it and smile and go on…That is all anyone can do, right? Stiff lower lip and square your shoulders and pretend it is okay. Because you have to have people like you, or smile at you…or you will die. And unless you want to die and you do not, you need those fake smiles back at you for food to relieve the loneliness that nothing and no one will ever fill.

____________________________________

Sorry about this post, but i had to write it. I had to get it off my chest or I would have cried all evening. I promise I am working on the Liebster Aware, slowly but surely. I still need to get all the 11 blogs in order, and the questions written, but I plan to do that on the train to NC on Wed. Perhaps I will have it all done by the time i am back on the 17th. My apologies for the self-pity in this post. I try not to sit there, but I cannot always keep my head above water, or my arse off that pot. I’ll try to do better. But if I cannot be honest here, then I won’t continue to write. It isn’t worth it to lie here and have to lie about how I feel everywhere else as well. Okay?

 

Thank you for listening, if you did. Thank you from the bottom of my impoverished, dried up, lonely old heart.

 

Pam W

I wanted to add certain comments that were particularly to the point. Here is one or two from Lady Quixote:Dear Pam,
I liked this post, although I hate that you are in such pain, I like the honesty, I applaud the bravery, very very much. And oh yes I do understand, I relate with all my being, to virtually every word you wrote in this post, and in these your comments, too. Both comments.

As I’ve told you, I am writing a memoir about my similar history. I’ve changed the working title on my book a few times: From Here To Insanity, Healing From Broken, Growing Up Crazy, and some others. The working title I have now is my favorite. I’m now calling my book GOING CRAZY, a memoir of horror, hope, and healing.

The pain, the loneliness, the “shame” and isolation of having a been labeled Mentally Ill…. the label is a curse that hurts as much, if not more, than the disorder itself.

Here are the words I have on the cover of my memoir-in-progress, words that echo this post to the marrow of my bones. I have this on the front cover:
Mental illness seems to run in my family. (So does Protestantism and the tendency to vote Republican.) What causes mental illness: nature, nurture, or a combination of things? After a series of traumatic events, I had a “breakdown” at age 14 and was put in an insane asylum for 2 years. For the past 4 decades I have tried to forget my allegedly schizophrenic episode. But when I learned—in the midst of a family crises—that my first great-grandchild was on the way, I embarked on a Madness Marathon in search of answers.

And this is on my back cover:
Was I Cured of Schizophrenia? Do I Have “Complex” Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

MY MIND WAS BROKEN—DOES THE “LABEL” MATTER?

The extreme childhood trauma that caused my mind to shatter was painful. Being diagnosed with schizophrenia at age fourteen and placed in a state insane asylum for almost two years was even more painful.

But my most damaging experience by far has been the shame and isolation I’ve lived with for over forty years, caused by the demoralizing stigma of having been labeled “mentally ill.”

For most of my life I’ve tried to hide my history. Now I’m telling my story to help transform the hurtful prejudice borne of ignorance, into the healing mindset of understanding and compassion. Having recently become a great-grandmother, I feel compelled to write my memoir as a legacy of truth and enlightenment for my adult children and grandchildren, who have suffered so unfairly as a result of my emotional wounds. I am also sharing my story for anyone with a background similar to mine, to let you know you’re not alone.
………………………..
I’m sending you love and hugs and compassion in my heart and mind right now. I hear you. Loud and clear. I have stopped communicating with a sister who refused to honor my request to please stop passing messages on the me from our mother, particularly the “tell Lynda I love her” messages. NO, my mother does not love me. Her actions have proven it over and over and over again. I told my youngest sister: “I’m not asking you to agree with me or believe me, I’m not asking you to take sides. We can agree to disagree about whether or not our mother loves me, that’s OK with me. All I ask is that you please stop telling me that she does.” My sister said nothing, no response of any kind to my request. Then a few weeks later she posted right on my Facebook wall, on Christmas Eve of 2012: “Merry Christmas Big Sis, and Mom says to tell you how much she loves you.” I deleted that message off my wall, and my sister then deleted her account… so I deleted my account, for over a year, only coming back to FB a couple of months ago to keep up with my grandchildren.

I think we know when we are not loved, when we are not wanted, considered an embarrassment and a burden. I have grown nieces who do not know me, but they would post rude things on Facebook about me because I was locked up in an institution and diagnosed with schizophrenia 46 years ago. I was released from that place 44 years ago. I have had numerous doctors and therapists over the years tell me that I was misdiagnosed, I had PTSD or something else. But in my family of origin’s eyes, all but a couple of my relatives still treat me like the embarrassing crazy lady…. it HURTS. Yes it does. It EFFING HURTS. Worse than the pain and horror of “going crazy” in the first place. You SEE it in their eyes, you HEAR it in their words, their tone of voice, you DISCERN it in their body language, that “jumpiness” that 99% of the people get when you tell them, or they otherwise find out, about your MI Dx. It’s like a mask comes down over their face…. and you feel that ARCTIC CHILL, the deep-freeze of being frozen out.

Also, Pam, in a marriage the loneliness and the judgments, the raised eyebrows, the rolled eyes, the heavy sighs, the thoughtless comments, such as my now EX husband made to the intake nurse at Johns Hopkins University Hospital Psychiatric unit, where I had gone voluntarily hoping for HELP with my then-intractable depression. In describing the harrowing traffic in the streets of Baltimore as he had driven me to the hospital that day, my now EX quipped: “The traffic was so bad, I thought *I* was going to go crazy, HAHAHA.”

NOW I am lucky, NOW I am married to a man with severe chronic PTSD from Vietnam combat, a man who has spent time as a patient on a psych ward, so he UNDERSTANDS and does not hold himself above me or apart from me.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again and again and again until I die: The CURE for all types of mental illness labels must begin with CARE: Compassion, Acceptance, Respect, and Encouragement. Everything that is the opposite of the shunning, the subtle cold shoulder, the jumpiness that we can SEE and FEEL and HEAR because, yes, dammit, we may have a screw loose here or there, but we are not stupid, deaf, or blind.

And this:
Oh no, I just went back and reread my comment, and it’s full of typos. So sorry, I was writing in my emotional part of my brain, not in the editing part. Also I put that the message that made me go off FB for over a year was posted Christmas Eve of 2012. Obviously that’s wrong, it was 2011.

Brenda, I wanted to tell you that I appreciate the things you wrote, too, particularly the part about our need to be kind and loving to ourselves. So true. It’s also very true, what you said about hospitals being an unnatural setting, and that we cannot read minds, and there may be times when we are mistaken in thinking that certain people do not really like or love us. I do believe that is also true. However, that jumpy feeling you so honestly said you feel when you discover that someone has an MI Dx,,,, thank you for being so honest, and yes, that is an all-too-typical response, and it is THAT RESPONSE, that involuntary attitude of the general public toward people with certain mental illness diagnosis, that jumpy reaction is very easy to discern. And it may be involuntary and unintentional and even understandable, thanks in large part to how the media portrays people with serious MI labels, BUT.IT.HURTS, when YOU are the one being looked at and talked to like you are a freak, the boogie man, a strange and unpredictable creature from another dimension.

I am lucky to finally have my “certifiable” husband, whom I did not meet and marry until we were both in our 50s, and our sweet fur-baby Cattle Dog, who doesn’t know a thing about Mental Illnesses and couldn’t care less, so long as we feed and water and walk her and give her lots of back rubs. I worry about you, Pam, feeling so alone. Loneliness is a soul killer. I know, for I have spent the vast majority of my life feelings just as alone as you describe in this post, yes, even when I was married. In my experience, there is nothing more lonely than being married to someone who talks down to you and treats you like the worst of the personnel in the psych hospitals treated you. I don’t know why a man who looks down on the mentally ill would even want to marry me in the first place, when I had not ever hidden that part of my history from a potential husband. I can only surmise, based on how I was treated, that a man like that is looking for a woman he can control and verbally and even sometimes physically abuse, cheat on her and do whatever the heck he wants when he wants, and feel all justified about it and superior to her because, after all, his wife is “crazy.” I would rather live all alone under a bridge and eat out of garbage cans, to ever be in a marriage like that again!

Note to Lynda from pam: i looked and looked but just could not find any typos to correct for you…sorry. The date part i let you correct in your note, but the spelling typos just do not exist so far as i know or even that spellcheck can see. I know that there could be homonyms that were misspelled, but i did not detect any of those either. So there! 8) thanks for your brilliant addendum!

Migraine Continues….Fifth Day…I Feel Desolate.

20121223-000048.jpg As good a headache picture as any…

 

Sorry…I do get some breaks with Imitrex, but not complete and not for long. Then the pain returns in full and I cannot take another for 24 hours. Or at least 12 hours if I get desperate. I try to wait 24 hours though because I do not want to get a rebound headache.

 

Anyhow, I am still slowly trying to gather 11 blogs for the rest of the Liebster Award, so I haven’t forgotten that obligation. It is still in the offing, along with everything else in my life that gets put in abeyance when I get a monster migraine. Okay. It’s back to lying down and being still. Thanks for your support everyone. I’ll be back soon.

Have a MONSTER Migraine…

in the midst of a heat wave, with a broken air conditioner, which is why I haven’t finished the Liebster Award or anything else. All in due time, all in due time. Sorry but that is how it goes. The best I can do is post an unfinished painting of mine, which has nothing to do with anything but might partly express a migraine: a black widow spider gripping a brain (though there is no expression of pain on this face). Note that of course the Black Widow has a Biohazard sign on her back or belly instead of the usual hourglass. I was going somewhere with that, but the black paint took so long to dry that I got distracted and finally wiped it off and now it is sitting a shadow of its former self on my easel wondering what I am going to do with it now!

 

IMG_1066

In this godforsaken heat I have made myself a cup of coffee thinking maybe that would help my head, but now I cannot get myself to drink it. So I sit, without airconditioning, in the heat, with this terrible headache, feeling like crap and I really shouldn’t write any more lest I write things I will regret later. So, I will only bid you a pained TTFN (Ta ta for now).

 

Wagblog Nominated for the Liebster Award – Wow!

Note that this is a two part posting. First half is my Q and A part of the Nomination, and tomorrow’s will concern the nominees that I select for the Liebster Award. (I see no other way to do it, as I have already spent four hours on this and it is midnight now).

The Liebster Award is given to up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers. So, what is a Liebster?  The meaning: Liebster is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome. Isn’t that sweet? Blogging is about building a community and it’s a great way to connect with other bloggers and help spread the word about newer bloggers/blogs.

Here are the rules for receiving this award:
1. Each person must post 11 things about themselves. 

2. Answer the questions that the tagger set for you

First half is done here. Second half of the award will be done tomorrow in the post then.

plus create 11 questions for the people you’ve tagged to answer.
3. Choose 11 people and link them in your post.
4. Go to their page and tell them.
5. No tag backs!

FIrst things first.

11 Things about me.

1) I am a twin, most likely identical, though  there are some questions about it. I guess that has to be said first, though I am pretty certain it is not first and foremost on my twin sister’s mind much these days. In fact, I am pretty certain  that she cannot stand having me in the world.

2) I have never been able to work a full-time job.

3) I recently taught myself to use my left hand for a lot of things, including using scissors.  I write exclusively left handed, though I would be naturally right-handed.

4) There have been four miracles in my life, field botany, poetry, Zyprexa (an anti-schizophrenia drug) and art.  Each miracle involved my mind more than my body and each completely changed my life for the better in ways I could never have anticipated.

5) My idea of a great meal would be to forage for berries and greens and wapato tubers during day and prepare and cook up what I gathered that evening…

6) I love eating vegetables and fruits. I love healthy foods, like quinoa and flax meal, and amaranth and yes, brussel sprouts and jerusalem artichokes.

7) I am teaching myself Italian. Come stai? Sto abbastanza bene.

8)  Tuletko ouiman? (If I remember the spelling correctly, that should mean something close to “Do you want to go swimming?” in Finnish…but I am reaching into deep down memory banks because  I learned that when I was 16 and spending the summer with a Finnish family in Helsinki. That and “kitoksia palmin” or thank you very much, are the sum total of all the Finnish I remember from that summer of 1968.

9) I quit smoking two weeks ago. Blimey!

10) I like new shoes, though I never buy them.

11)  Generosity, kindness and honesty are my core values.

11 questions for the nominees:

1. What food do you eat that people around you find extremely weird and/or disgusting?

Sorry, I hate to be boring, but I don’t regularly eat much that is weird or disgusting, except maybe brussel sprouts. I love those….Yes, okay, I have eaten grasshoppers.  I even made a youtube video of that. 

2. Why do you choose to blog?

I was first asked to blog at schizophrenia.com. and I would still be there writing the original Wagblog except that they experienced a most unfortunate server crash which made the site go down for more than a year, devastating all their blogs. Wagblog was their first, and for many months the only one, so I had a great deal of traffic in the early 2000s – and to my knowledge, while the site is back up and running the blogs remain still only archives of their former selves.

I waited about 6 months, hoping that I could return to my schizophrenia.com “homebase” but no word ever came from the webmaster, so I decided to start Wagblog elsewhere, that is, here at WordPress.

I know that’s only a partial answer. I could have chosen not to blog at any point even after they asked me to do so, and especially after that devastating server crash, but I have always, always been a writer, paid or unpaid, and it never occurred to me to quit just because I had no sponsor. I have never needed outside motivation to write. I write because things just need to get written down. Period.

3. Where do you get your inspiration for your posts?

Hmmm. Inspiration is a tricky word. I believe that if you need something as insubstantial as inspiration to trigger your writing or any other art, you are going to be on shaky ground and had better rely on something else for your bread and butter, better choose a different career. Not that I am anything like a career writer, or a professional journalist, I have no career or profession at all. But I do know that I can and could write on demand, mostly because I have practiced it. If I want to write on a subject, if I am asked to write on a subject, I know how to approach it and all things being equal, I can and will do an okay, and even a bang-up job most of the time.

That being said, I do pick and choose what I want to write about in my own blog, and I don’t write all the time or even regularly, mostly because I am too busy with my art projects. OTOH, I have plenty I could say and plenty to talk about. So I would never be at a loss for things to write. I guess it just feels like a weird question, The entire world is out there so how could there ever be a dearth of subjects to be “inspired by”?

As William Blake wrote in Auguries of Innocence:

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

That’s the key, that’s the mindset one must get into. Then everything is a source of inspiration, and you never again need to worry where the next blog post inspiration will come from because everything will inspire.

4. What was your favorite subject in school?

School? Yeowch, that was, what? 40+ years ago now…I can scarcely remember what I gave a damn about in school. In high school I was good in history, mostly because the teachers understood never to call on me, but to let me decide when I wanted to volunteer a comment or question. When thus permitted to choose, I would come out with something worthy of being said…I could not be badgered into speaking. In all other classes if called on, I would be mute, but the history teachers hit on the right solution, and so we got on okay. I did not know how much I would love ecology and botany at the time. Not until college. But I wish I had learned field botany in high school. I wish we had been introduced to natural history and ecology in my day. It wasn’t a subject of as much interest in the 60s..  Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” had come out, yes, and other books, but there were so many social ills and protests going on then that “eco – anything” was just one movement of many that needed attention. Plus, I was already getting ill and unable to attend to anything beyond my own little world. Eventually my own little world did include field botany and ecology, mind you, it just didn’t include much of the rest of the world in addition.

In med school, by the way, my favorite subject was probably hematology, but that was because it was a little like field botany and natural history, using my visual skills to identify blood on slides.

5. If you had a million dollars, and could NOT use it for charity, what would you buy?

Ah, what a lovely question to have to ponder…I would buy, I would would buy…I know exactly what I would buy: land somewhere in New England, with a big old house, nothing too fancy but with potential, and turn it into a eco-friendly Wholeway House and Healing Community for me and other recovering (or getting older) so-called “mentally ill” persons who need a permanent home. Ideally, it could be built into the side of a hill so as to take advantage of natural geothermal heating and cooling properties, or a would love to do that…and be as green as humanly possible.

6. Biggest pet peeve? You really shouldn’t ask me because I will only irritate people by admitting that “my biggest pet peeve is when” 1) people who should know better say things like, “I should have went” instead of “I should have gone” 2)  “I think I will lay down on the bed” instead of  “I think I will LIE down on the bed.” Oh, you know I am SUCH a language snob!!!!! Beat me, beat me, beat me with that wet noodle! 8p

But you know I cannot help it, I really get peevey when people say, 3) “I would have been rich too, if I would have had your luck…” instead of “I would have been rich too, if I had had your luck!” You know, it is only a matter of knowing the proper use of conditionals. But we don’t teach conditionals any more in this country, the US at any rate. I don’t know about England, but proper grammar seems to be a problem here – at least to my ears. No one cares any longer, maybe no one understands that there are rules in the first place.

Lordy, Lordy, where are the English (Language) Teachers of yesteryear?

7. Are you one of those people who keeps focused and organized, or are you one of those that keeps open and a bit messy?

Here are a few photos of my apartment, which should be answer enough.

8. One word to describe your blog. (I almost wrote “yourself” instead of “blog” but remembered that is the most cliche question EVER and that I absolutely HATE it!)

Enduring (I cannot think of the word, the one word I want to say to mean, “Not temporary” but one that has lasted…I started the first Wagblog in 2003, at schizophrenia.com and here it is, still going strong ten years later at WordPress.

9. First book you ever read (or remember reading)?

Black Beauty…I had no idea what it was about, and was disappointed when I found out it concerned a horse. Read it through to the end purely out of duty and a sense of competition with Los Bender, who had told me only that she could not put it down. She was an “equinomaniac” so to speak, so I should have anticipated the subject but having never read an entire book before then, I didn’t know that one could write nearly 300 pages about a single horse . (It is possible that I misremember, that this was not my very first book per se. But at any rate. it is the first book I recall being disappointed by, and that stuck in mind more strongly apparently than whatever the very first book was.)

10. Do you blog only when you want to, or are there times when you feel you need to post something to keep a routine?

I confess I do literally nothing by routine. I do not even eat on a routine or at regularly scheduled hours. Sigh. Oh, yeah, I do see my psychiatrist at set times, because she keeps a regular schedule of appointments, and I cannot exactly subject her to my sort of whimsical lifestyle, but otherwise I cannot think of a single thing that I do on a regular, literally routine basis, the same time every day, on my own by choice.

11. What is your real job? (Yes, the answer can be blogging, Mom or Dad, nothing, etc. No judgement, just curious)

No real job, alas. Not for pay since I suppose that’s what you mean by “job” is what do you do for a living…? I have been considered and designated officially “disabled” by ther federal government since 1980,  I believe. Since that time, I have been in and out of hospitals, halfway  houses and lousy apartments…until and even after, I landed here in this “safe” elderly, disabled HUD-subsidized housing complex. Very nicely kept up, 250 people or more live here. Community living in a way, though I keep to myself. And while I am not hugely unhappy here (I just used a figure of speech called a litote, if anyone cares) I do not like it, and want to move out someday if I can, before I am really too old to be able to…And I want to be UN-disabled before it is too late.

Truth is, I was always too ill to work, all my life until I became an artist five years ago by a stroke of happy accident. But now that I am able to do art I think I could actually earn some income from it, and in that sense earn my way and a living by hook or by crook, and get off some of these programs, if only I had a chance. It is just that so many people are worried that I would lose my actual living, housing situation and be out on the streets if I left here and couldn’t earn enough…As am I, as am i. I am too old to fend for myself as a homeless person. I never did have any savvy even when I was homeless. Luckily, I was always rescued and hospitalized by those who knew the street was no place for me…I was not someone who would have survived there, or would ever have preferred the street to the hospital…That said, I have had it with hospitals in CT and the abuse heaped on me here. And I do not want to be disabled any longer. I want to make it on my own. And regarding my last twenty or so years or however much time that may perhaps be granted to me, I would love to know that I  would have some freedom to use the time as I chose. That’s why, purely selfishly, if I had that Mythical Million I would buy a big house on land in New England, preferably Massachusetts or Vermont where there is universal health care already set up in a liberal state, and create a Wholeway House and Healing Community.

Therapy Puppets: An Art project

Traumatized Tiffany
Although all the puppets/dolls are handmade, and each takes four hours to complete from start to finish, Tiffany is the only one that is clearly in trouble. She has a black eye and is screaming in pain or outrage or something…She is also the only doll that I decided to leave unreinforced, though I may change my mind after I finish the others. For now, though, I have left her in the simple form, frail and fragile, utterly vulnerable…though for all that, it is only an illusion. These doll puppets aren’t easily breakable. You would have a harder time than you think, trying to tear the heads off.
Beatnik Bob- therapy puppet/doll from 4-6 inches high, like the others.
Therapy Puppet, Bob is completely handmade with a pliable bending body and an exquisite, handmade clay head with hair of embroidery thread.
 Beatnik Bobby, another view
Beatnik Bobby completely handmade with a pliable bending body and an exquisite, handmade clay head with hair of embroidery thread.
JailHouse Jummy
Jimmy is also completely handmade with a pliable bending body and an exquisite, handmade clay head with hair of embroidery thread. I have him fighting his way out of a jail made from a bingo counter bin. (Knew that would come in handy one day!)
Baseball Willy
I call this one BaseBall Willy only because of his cap, but he could be doing anything in his whites. You figure it out for yourself, because that is the point! Willy is also completely handmade with a pliable bending body and instead of hair, he sports a clay baseball cap.
TigerWoman
What else could I call her in such get up? I see this one as confident, even too confident…that’s the story I give her. What do you see in her? completely Like all the others she is handmade with a pliable bending body and an exquisite, handcrafted clay head with hair of embroidery thread.
What do you see in her?
She looks haunted but strolls the avenue like she owns it nonetheless…Or not? Tigerwoman is completely handmade with a pliable bending body and an exquisite, handcrafted clay head with hair of embroidery thread.
A Band of Beatniks
Cute, no? A Band of Beatnik therapy puppets, all handmade, each one takes about four ours to make, from start to finish. even each drum takes at least two hours to make.
Miss Whatsit
Although I did make this figurine female, as opposed to the more clearly male one, that is the only characteristic I gave her. Otherwise, she is supposed to be “blank.”
Female and Male Whatsits
The female has pink lips and the male has brown lips…Otherwise there is little difference. Skin tone is neutral and no race is specified.
He whatsit
Brown lips but neutral skin color, and no noticeable emotions or characteristics. completely handmade with a pliable bending body and a clay head, with recognizable but blank features.
Leather Drum
The drum was made from a piece of a roll that came inside a tube of plastic wrap. I cut off about an inch. Then I cut apart a used leather pocket book I bought at a thrift store and with a piece glued a small piece around the once inch round. Then I tucked the flaps inside on both ends. Finally I sewed a round piece with a running stitch, using a sewing awl, and after I attached it with glue to one side of the drum, pulled the black cord together like a drawstring. I glued a tiny bead to either cord end and voila, a drum for the beatniks to play.

 

 

I have created these small creatures, every one of them individually handmade, for use by therapists in counseling. They range from about 4 inches to about 6 or 7 inches high. I started with Beatnik Bob, just for fun, but when I actually found myself comforting the little green girl-like figure with the black eye, which I call for shorthand, Traumatized Tiffany, it was a revelation. It is hard not to want to play with them, in fact. That is what friends tell me when they see them. Weird, because we are all way way too old for dolls and playing with toys, and yet these figurines seem to elicit something in us that made me think therapists could use them in their work.

 

If any therapists or psychiatrists out there are interested in obtaining some of these creatures, please contact me to discuss fees and shipping. I can make them to specification sort of, but after that, each piece is unique and cannot be replicated. Let me know if you prefer characters or the hairless, non-specific Whatsit figures.

 

Breaking Icons

My second human sculpture, Dr John Jumoke, holds a prescription pad that reads,

Rx: Art, Poetry, and Music.20121223-000808.jpg

I think that is a pretty good first line defense for much of what ails the human condition. That and a good dose of empathic understanding from people who eschew employing violence, sarcasm and undermining skepticism in their efforts to help others. Too often people who are diagnosed, as I was, and still am, with “schizophrenia” are rushed into treatment that degrades and humiliates, even as it inflicts terrible effects, not to mention side effects…all without curing the so-called illness. I am not convinced that a person with “schizophrenia,” given the simple luxury of TIME, and a safe place with really good, caring, kind and intelligent people who know how to help without hurting her or him, would not heal better and more effectively than with any of all the so-called miracle anti-psychotic drugs our billion dollar medico-pharma industry has foisted on us. And I say this even though I still feel that Zyprexa was a “miracle drug” for me, once upon a time, (though also the miracle drug from hell…) and that it gave me a life I had never known before. I say this even though I take Abilify and Geodon and do more art and writing than I ever have…I say this even though I am better now than I have been in decades. I think the drugs are only fixing problems that the system largely caused. And had I had the chance, way back when, I wish I had had the chance to fight back without them…

If I could do anything to fix the mental health system, in Connecticut or this country or the world, one small thing, it would be to end ALL use of seclusion and restraints, period. Violence begets violence, in all cases. In ALL cases. In fact, get this, I would change the prison system as well, so that punishment qua punishment would be a thing of the past. Punishment is only a form of revenge and it does nothing to change a person or make them better. It only makes society feel better the way a bully feels better when he or she smacks a victim upside the head for smiling lopsidedly. I mean this. Sure, people can do very bad things. Yes. And certain people may be so damaged that they are too dangerous  to safely release into “normal” society. (I maintain that this is largely because of how we, as a society, treated them, either at large or in prison.) But prisons and penitentiaries, especially in America, should be seen as an abomination on God’s green earth.

They say a society is judged by how it treats its dead? Well, I think we are judged by how we treat our prisoners, and if so, we will be judged poorly indeed for we treat our prisoners like hated animals…Not like cats and dogs that is for certain, nor even like horses…No, because we generally treat cats, dogs and horses well. Rather, we treat prisoners like vermin, like roaches…and then we blame them when they behave like the vermin they have become!

Have I gotten off the subject? Well, some mental institutions are largely prisons to their populations of involuntary or coerced patients, and most patients, involuntary or not, are cowed into doing as they are told for fear of the consequences. So to a degree the prison metaphor is valid. But if you have been restrained and secluded, brutally, and for hours upon hours, for many days, as I have been, the notion that you are a prisoner becomes more reasonable. That said, I will advance yet another idea: that bad behavior should be treated, not punished. Yes, I mean that. We should treat the person guilty of repeated criminal offenses as if he or she has a treatable behavioral disorder, and not punish them.

I know this will earn me some outrage. But think about it. What good does it do to punish a person repeatedly? Does it do anyone any good to torture that person with “the hole” or with repeated cell extractions and mace in the face? Clearly it doesn’t rehabilitate them or teach them the ways of kindness. It only makes them worse, and in our system an in-prison offense can add years to what started as a short sentence. So we create hardened criminals inside our prisons. I ask again, what good did it do?

But if instead we took that person, guilty of an offense and treated them as if they needed help — help learning how to behave better — and all that might entail, perhaps we might end up not only with someone ready to leave the institution at the end of the shorter stay, but someone ready to stay out afterwards! It only makes sense to treat everyone, including prisoners, with kindness and understanding and education, and if you don’t believe this, you should for one reason only: it would cost less money. (Of course, the owners of the private prisons don’t want you to know this, because they MAKE money on all the prisoners who keep coming back or who never get out, in fact there is a whole industry based on keeping as many people in prison, their private prisons, as possible…)

But I don’t believe in prisons either. I think the institution is a nightmare. You put bad people together with one another and what do you get but people learning how to behave worse together! It is a truly ridiculous idea. Analogous to the hospital, which is currently the worst and most dangerous place to go when you get ill (because that is where the most dangerous infections are and are often out of control). In the “old days” prisons were merely waiting stations. Penalties were sure and swift, and brutal. But no one waited for decades in a crowded prison with society pretending that it was humane. Now, we pretend it is..I dunno. Do we pretend anything, or just not care?

Do we care at all that we warehouse so many millions in dead-end lives that only get worse by the day, and then deprive them the more if they manage to leave prison eventually and not return? Oh, we have three strikes laws to put a person in prison for life, but no one gives a damn that there are three strikes against any person who actually earns his or her way OUT of prison. Nowhere to live, no job, no money, and no safety net whatsoever. (Unless you happen to be a former governor of Connecticut, and then you have it made in the shade.)

Enough for now.

UNFIT FOR WORK? Or simply Forced to be Disabled?

NPR’S “UNFIT FOR WORK”

The startling rise of disability in America

By Chana Joffe-Walt

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/490/trends-with-benefits

In One Alabama County, Nearly 1 In 4 Working-Age Adults Is On Disability (click below to play audio)

https://phoebesparrowwagner.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/20130322_atc_05.mp3

In One Alabama County, Nearly 1 In 4 Working-Age Adults Is On Disability

 

Expanded Definition Of Disability Created Million Dollar Opportunity For Lawyers

Moving People From Welfare To Disability Rolls Is A Profitable, Full-Time Job

Kids May Stay On Disability If Their Parents Rely On The Check

Americans On Disability Play An Increasingly Important Role In The Economy

Thanks to Donna for pointing out this story at NPR. You can get the written story by Chana Joffe-Walt if you prefer to read it at: http://apps.npr.org/unfit-for-work/

If anyone feels moved to comment on this story or add to the discussion that I started yesterday under the video of Reshma’s recovery from schizophrenia,  and Donna added to with her comments, please feel more than welcome to do so. If I get enough, I will create a new post out of them.

NOTA BENE: if you are a regular or even intermittent follower of Wagblog, and think that you have something to add here, and would like to contribute a post regularly or simply once in a while, please contact me. I am in the process of inviting contributors to Wagblog, but do not know everyone who might be interested in doing so. So if you are a human, and interested, let me know who you are. Send an introduction with your best writing as I cannot accept contributions I will have to edit to the point of rewriting…and umm, we have certain standards here, ahem, ahem, ahem. 8)   

Sunshine Story of Schizophrenia Recovery…plus

When I saw at the end of this film, part four, before the depressing note that stated all that Indian law might not permit Reshma to do in her life, how she was making a living by painting, all I could think was, WOW! Go for it! At the very least, she is not being held back by the strictures of disability law and Medicare and Medicaid earning limits, or being forced into a permanent sick role because of same, simply in order to have a roof over her head and food to eat. No, she was lucky enough to have a family that both really and truly took care of her in her worst moments and fought for her in the best sense of the word, and also one that let her go when she needed to fly free. Most of us are not so lucky…alas. I think the support that she got all through her illness played an enormous role in her recovery, frankly. And I dunno how many of us get that sort of community or family support, but I wager that it is not many. I certainly did not. I wish I had, but it was very much to the contrary. Instead of support, I was abandoned entirely, both financially and emotionally. Left high and dry, to such an extent that people who met my parents after the break, never knew I existed, not for thirty-five to forty years. Some are only just learning of my existence now, as they meet me when I visit my mother. They didn’t even know or understand that all along Lynnie had a twin!

But I do not wish to dwell on that, except to say that things did not have to be as they were. And we do not have to live as second class rejects in society, except insofar as we accept that role.  And take it on, along with the disability status and payments that we are told we should apply for at the first psychotic break. I disagree. If a person has a work history (and history is the single best predictor of the future, if anything can predict it) and has shown that he or she can hold a job, then why after a psychotic break should they be told they will never work again and that they should apply for social security disability? Disability signifies Permanent and total disability, that’s what it is for. You are not supposed to get better, and it’s meant to be “for good.” No, it is not impossible to get off SSDI and you can in fact earn your way off it. But how many people do? Not a single person I know who ever obtained SSDI payments ever got off it or ever even tried to do so. The best they did was earn just below the legal limits of what one can earn before they  start counting against your disabled status. Which is to say, they worked, yes, but only a little, and only to the extent that it never threatened their standing as a disabled person.

What a crappy system. Someone a few months back when I was in the hospital asked me why I was so angry at the System, and why I counseled anyone under 50 not to go for disability…and this is why. Because it paralyzes a person into doing nothing with his or her life, it keeps them mired in permanent poverty, and it encourages lethargy and breeds depression and recurrent illness. I believe it does NOBODY any good. Frankly. True enough, I cannot say that I am not grateful as hell that I have had a monthly income for all my adult life, as I have never been able to work an 8-hour day regular job. But if, instead, there had been creative rehab or job counseling and creating, maybe someone would have discovered my artistic abilities earlier in my life and got me going, and using them earlier in a more productive and income-earning capacity.

I was never, and never claimed to be, unable to do anything at all. I simply could not follow a routine of any kind or go into an office or workplace from 9-5pm. Since that made me unemployable in their lights, I was “disabled” and put on the SSI and SSDI rolls. But in truth, while it guaranteed me an income, it also sidelined me for life, because I didn’t have to do anything to survive or even to get ahead. And in fact I was not allowed to get ahead or I would have lost the very disabled status that I now needed simply to qualify for housing and food. It was a terrible catch 22 situation that only perpetuated itself once I was caught in it. I could never get out of it once I accepted the first check…

And it only got worse when I moved into the cushiness of subsidized housing. Now, not only can I not move (it is HUD housing not Section 8 so it isn’t even portable) but I am “used” to a piddling rent of 1/3 of my piddling income. I have stopped knowing how to scrimp and save and live on pennies a day…because I do not have to. Everything is guaranteed here. Everything is safe. But I am suffocating, because I have no life, and no prospects for any change or growth or movement because at age 60 my life is at an end…I will live and die in these measly 2 rooms, living on SSDI and SSI, earning nothing, doing art and storing it away for nothing and no one…What good is that?

That, my friend who wanted to know why disability is such a bad deal, is why I counsel anyone who is not close to retirement not to go the disability route, not unless you want to do nothing and live in poverty for the rest of your life, and are content with a life of watching TV and a strict budget, using food-stamps and coupons. Because it will come down to that, that is, if you have a TV. And lucky you if you have a car and can afford to keep it on the road….If not, think about whether or not you can get rides, because the bus can be a drag when it is raining or snowing and you have a lot of groceries to carry. You better keep the car in tip top shape in any event, because you won’t be buying another anytime soon on disability from Social Security…I dunno about you, but no one I know gets much more than $1000.00/month from SSDI and usually we get hundreds of dollars less than that. One car repair bill can rip a monthly check to shreds.

I dunno what most wage-earning people think a life on disability is like, but it isn’t a cushy life of luxury,  not at all. I haven’t bought or been able to buy new clothes in nearly ten years. (I wouldn’t want to anyway, because I like to buy used clothing and not generate new carbon, but do you really think I could afford on my SSDI check the price of any clothing except Walmart’s, that abomination of a store?) I cannot even afford to get food at Stop and Shop, let alone new clothing anywhere. I buy literally everything used, at GOodwill, or I barter or get things free through Freecycle. Or I do without. The only new purchases I make are art supplies, when I cannot get them at tag sales, or through other outlets. And I do not replace my erstwhile beloved pet Eemie, because I know I cannot afford a cat. You make choices in this world. If you choose to go on disability, I believe they should tell you precisely what sort of life you are choosing. Or give you options so that disability is only one of several equally feasible ones. It ought not be simply: go back to work at the same job, at the same level of stress, or go on disability. That is stupid, especially if one has been psychotic. But it also ought not be, You have been psychotic, and we are certain it will recur, so you will never be able to work again.  That is double nonsense. NO ONE can predict the future, or tell a single soul that a psychosis will or will not recur. Only time will tell, and predicting a good prognosis has been shown to pay off with better outcomes than telling a patient that the future looks dire.

Okay, enough for now. I hope I haven’t been too oldy and moldy-sounding. I’m just very discouraged about my own limited and stagnating life. I do not feel as old as the system is making me behave. I could have a good life for the next two decades or more and maybe even a career. After all, Grandma Moses didn’t start painting till she was much older than my mere 60 years, and she had a long painting life ahead of her. No one told her she should just hide her head in the sand and wait to die. Or if they did, she ignored them and went ahead and  painted and painted. I won’t give up on art, but I am frustrated and feel utterly stymied by a system that has clipped and cauterized my wings.

Finally, this is the large Turtle that I owe Tim, as it looks at present. I am going at it very slowly but surely.

IMG_1105

Too Many Anniversaries and Too Many Memories

Eemie on Bed

One of the anniversaries is my little Eemie’s death last year, at age 17. She was only about 14 in this picture, maybe a bit younger. But she never looked much different from this. Even the day she was “put to sleep” the vet thought she was a very sick 5 year old and not the elderly kitty she really was…She was my all time favorite cat, but i won’t try to replace her, or get another. I cannot do it, and will not try…

Pam and Joe 06 at Lahey

This  photo is of Joe Cornelio and me in 2006, just after he was diagnosed with ALS,  Lou Gehrig’s Disease, which would finally kill him, or complications thereof, two years ago today. I stil miss him dearly.

ERICA Screen that Joe sees

At the height of Joe’s illness, when he was completely paralyzed except for his eyes, and could not speak or move, he was able to use an eye gaze computer known as ERICA to speak with. ERICA registered the glint in his eye and allowed him to spell out each word by looking at the letters of the alphabet, which you can see on the screen in the photo, and then he could ask the computer to speak what he spelled by looking at the “speak” function. It was laborious, yes, but it worked well enough that we could actually have skpye converations by phone when I could not get in to see him in person, and I would set up my computer by my paintings and do some artwork by “videophone” so that he could watch me work while we talked.

Joe using ERIKA

This is  Joe — weird how I never saw the changes in him in life but always saw him as “my old Joe” except in these photos — using the ERICA.

Pam and Joe in HFSC smiling

Pam and Joe, smiling at one another…

facility_restraints

The other anniversary of this month is that three years ago, I was sadistically restrained (the first of several such incidents) on April 24th at Middlesex Hospital, absolutely traumatized by it and have not forgotten it yet. I tried to get redress, and we had JCAHO go in to investigate, but it did no good, because the Joint Commission largely doesn’t care about how often general hospitals use restraints and seclusion on patients in psychiatric units and doesn’t even track their usage. Try and find out about it. It is impossible. They track use of R and S in psychiatric hospitals, pure and simple, that is to say, State Hospitals, and private psychiatric hospitals, but not in general hospital units. So what good is that, I ask you? Most people who have severe psychiatric illnesses (chronic) are not hospitalized in this day and age in private hospitals but on psychiatric units in general hospitals, where the treatment can be tantamount, as I know all too well, to what the UN in March called torture.

Finally I was going to upload a bunch of photos of my tiny apartment but in one fell swoop I erased everything in my iPhoto library, including all the new photos. and, well, that was that! All I have left is whatever was saved in the ipad Photostream, which was precious little when it comes down to it. Stupid me!!

So today is the anniversary of Joe’s terrible death and I am trying not to think about that and all the other anniversaries coming up…It looks like it is going to be a bright sunny day here in Connecticut so I will try to take a walk and maybe do some artwork if I can get up the energy to do so…

April Blahs?

IMG_1016

 

I realize that doesn’t exactly illustrate the “blahs” but it represents the sum total of all the artwork I have done since I got out of the hospital in mid march…and I did it in one night, on a whim, as a gift to the wonderful social worker who just left a position in our building for the directorship of the community center in town. (I miss her terribly but she needed to move on…)

 

Anyhow, the point of my post title is mostly to explain why I have not written all month: I have not felt much like doing anything at all. I haven’t done any other art or writing, and all I managed to accomplish was to clean up my apartment, which only serves to paralyze me the more.

 

I will write more eventually, but for now I just wanted to assure you all that I am okay, just not feeling up to much and so not writing. When I am back up to snuff I will write more. (I might even film a tour through my apartment in desperation, just for something to post here, that is how bad things are…i am scraping the bottom of the barrel!)  In the meantime, please don’t give up on me. I’ll be back…SOON.