Tag Archives: creativity

HISTOIRE COURTE/ SHORT STORY (Edited)


FIRST FRENCH ORIGINAL , THEN ENGLISH TRANSLATION (largely by Reverso Context)

CAMBRIOLEUR OU PAS?

Elle me dévisage. Son regard est froid.  « T’as la frousse tout d’un coup?”

Nous pensions cambrioler la maison de ses parents et elle me demande si j’ai peur. 

« Tu as déjà fait ce genre de choses? T’es une cambrioleuse expérimentée? »

« Non, je n’ai jamais cambriolé, » dit-elle en fronçant les sourcils, « même pas mes parents, mais cela devrait être facile, je crois.  Ils ne verrouillent jamais leur porte et ils laissent les choses de valeur partout, même l’argent. »

J’ai vraiment la trouille, mais je ne peux pas l’avouer en face d’elle. Je fais semblant d’être insouciant, et je lui dis, « je suis étudiant en médecine et je n’ai peur de rien. Mais je ne veux pas être pris la main dans le sac. Est-ce qu’il n’y a pas de système d’alarme? »

« Je crois pas.  Mes parents s’attendent à de l’honnêteté de la part de tous les gens, comme ils en attendent d’eux-mêmes. Ils ne s’attendent pas à être cambriolés. Et ils ne font rien pour l’empêcher. Je voudrais leur donner une bonne leçon. »

« Ils font  souvent l’expérience des cambriolages quand même, non? Les gens ne sont pas très honnêtes en général et s’ils savent qu’une maison n’est pas verrouillée… »,

« En fait, ils n’ont jamais été cambriolés  que je sache. »

« Ça m’étonne. Jamais auparavant d’avoir été victimes des voIeurs, ils ont vraiment de la chance! »

« Si, si, ils ont été volés, mais ils ne s’en sont pas rendu compte. Moi, je leur ai souvent dérobé des choses. De la monnaie et des petites choses qu’ils ne ne remarqueraient jamais. Comme cette bague. » Et elle me montre la bague, sur une chaîne autour de son cou. Elle me la donne, comme si elle voulait que je la garde. « Ils n’ont jamais remarqué que quelque chose leur manquait. » Elle parle d’un ton décontracté comme si c’était une chose normale de voler aux parents. Puis elle dit d’une voix blanche de colère, « ils sont trop bons. Les gens comme eux, je les haïs.  Les gens bons ne me remarquent jamais… » Elle rit jaune.

Si j’avais la trouille avant, maintenant je suis vraiment pétrifié. J’ai une peur bleue. 

Je ne veux plus cambrioler la maison de ses parents, je ne veux plus rien avoir à faire avec cette jeune femme dont je connais si peu de choses.

Elle me parle tout d’un coup d’un ton changé. Elle a l’air triste, comme si elle broie du noir. C’était cette tristesse qui m’a attiré dès le début. Je pensais que je pourrais lui remonter le moral. Mais ce changement soudain me fait peur. Elle est si lunatique, son humeur tellement  changeante, que je ne comprends rien sauf qu’elle n’est pas qui je la croyais être. Je la regarde, sa tête enfouie dans les bras, l’image de quelqu’un de tourmenté.

J’y vois mon opportunité et je la prends. Je m’enfuis, c’est -à -dire que je l’abandonne,  triste ou faisant semblant de l’être,  sur le banc dans le parc. Je ne sais pas ce qu’elle va faire, si elle cambriolera ses parents ou pas. Je ne la comprends pas du tout. 

Je rentre soulagé chez moi, avec l’intention d’étudier. Je ne suis pas un cambrioleur, je ne l’ai jamais été, je ne le serai jamais. On peut dire que ce qui m’est arrivé n’était qu’un cauchemar, quelque chose comme une mauvais rêve. Peut-être. Mais je porte toujours sous mes vêtements une chaîne avec une bague autour de mon cou afin de ne jamais oublier mon échappée belle.

BURGLAR OR NOT?

She stares at me. Her eyes are icy. “You’re getting cold feet?”

We were thinking about breaking into her parents’ house and she asks me if I am scared. “You’ve done this before? This sort of thing? Are you an experienced burglar?”

“No, I’ve never burglarized before,” she says, frowning, “not even my parents, but it should be easy, I think.  They never lock their doors and they leave things everywhere, even money.”

I’m really scared, but I can’t admit it in front of her. I pretend to be insouciant, and I say, “I’m a medical student and I’m not afraid of anything. But I don’t want to be caught red-handed. Isn’t  there an alarm system?”

“I don’t think so. My parents expect honesty from everyone, just as they expect it from themselves. They don’t expect people to steal from them. And they don’t do anything to stop it. I want to teach them a lesson.”

“They must often be victims of  burglaries anyway, right? People are not very honest in general, and if they know a house isn’t well locked…. “

“In fact, they have never been burglarized as far as I know.”

“I’m surprised. They’ve never been robbed before? They’re really lucky!”

“Yes, yes, they were robbed, but they were not aware of it. I myself often stole things from them. Money and little things they would never notice. Like this ring.” And she shows me the ring, which is on a chain around her neck. She hands it to me, as if she wants me to keep it. “They never noticed that they were missing a thing.” She talks in a casual tone like it’s normal to steal from one’s parents. Then, her voice goes toneless with anger, “They are good, too good. I hate people like them. Good people never notice me.”  And she gives a hollow laugh.

If I had cold feet before, now I’m really petrified. I’m scared to death. 

I don’t want to break into her parents’ house anymore, I don’t want to have anything to do with this young woman I know so little about.

Then she speaks and her tone is completely different. She looks sad, as if she’s suddenly down in the dumps. It was that sadness that attracted me from the beginning. I thought I could cheer her up, even save her. But this sudden change scares me. She’s so moody, I don’t understand anything except that she’s not who I thought she was. I look at her, her head buried in her arms, the image of someone tormented.

I see my opportunity and I take it. I run away, leaving her, sad or pretending to be, on the bench in the park. I don’t know what she’s going to do, whether she’s going to rob her parents or not. I don’t understand her at all. 

I go home relieved, intending to resume my studies. I am not a burglar, I have never been one, and I never will be. You could say that what happened to me must have been a nightmare, a really bad dream. Maybe. But under my shirt I wear her ring on a chain around my neck so I never forget how close I came to disaster.

by phoebe sparrow wagner 2022

MY INCLUSIVE BAND OF PAPIER MÂCHÉ MUSICIANS

This quartet is papier mâché, all women, but I tried to include as many different types of people as I could (so far)…of course not all peoples are represented, as that would be impossible with just four individuals. But starting with the pianist, we have a zaftig, older, white haired crone, with beige skin; the guitarist by contrast is tall and very slender, and dark of hue; the singer is Latina, and because of cancer and the treatments, she is missing a hand and her hair; finally we have the young prodigy drummer, a tiny Asian “jeune fille” who has to play drums that are sized to fit her. And in case you are in doubt, I made them all, each one, from materials I had on hand. 6” to 14” high

Nous Toutes Ensemble

Difficult Decision: Will I or Wont I

 

 

 

 

 

 

I went off my psychiatric meds over the course of several months without a problem to speak of, until I was off them for a week, when two things happened. First off the withdrawal dyskinesia (see brief video above) was getting better, but I was beginning to feel, well, nothing, no motivation, no pleasure, no enjoyment in doing anything. I know that many people do not do well on Abilify and hate it, in which case I would say it does little good and to stop taking it. For me, ever since I started taking it in 2006 or so, I have had motivation to start doing and learning art in a way I never felt before. And each time I stop  it, no matter how  fast or slowly, I go down the hole into no motivation or pleasure in anything. I do not like this situation at all, because Abilify also causes me severe double vision, but but but, I must say that i helps me do things, to finish things, to enjoy the process. I do NOT have any idea why this is,  but it has always been so since I started the drug, and I can no longer bear being off it, despite the side effects and disapproval by others. Whatever the damage that years of first generation neuroleptics have done to me, this one drug seems to help me do what I want to do..

.Hate me or not as you will, I cannot bear not taking it. Without it I have no impulse to do art or write, and my life is shit. Is that really what I should be satisfied with?

Institute of Living, Hartford CT, torture and illegal confinement in 2013

Part One

4-point restrained at the Institute of Living 2013 routinely for 19 hours or more.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Pamela S. Wagner, and I was for most of my 65 years a resident of Connecticut. I have a long history diagnosed with serious mental illness and have been on disability for many years because of it. Five years ago,  I was admitted to the Hartford Hospital’s Institute of Living on a 14-day PEC. I would like to tell you about some of the grotesque brutalities that transpired there and the egregious “treatment” that passes for care in that hospital.

Ever since I was discharged from the Institute of Living in February 2013, to which facility I had been committed as an involuntary patient under an order known as a Physicians Emergency Certificate. I have felt too terrified even to read the partial chart which the Connecticut Office of Protection and Advocacy obtained for me. Indeed, every time I recall what I am able to, or reread the brief nursing notes about what was done to me that winter at the IOL, my heart races unbearably, my body sweats and shakes and I start crying. Even so, because of trauma-induced amnesia, I remember the month I spent there only vaguely and in “snapshot” or flashbulb-like moments” of clarity. It is only now that I have acquired these few records, and learned some of the details of what happened that I’m finally able to put some of the pieces together.

Before I say anything further, I want to say that I believe that I was grievously injured 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 admitted to Donnelly 2 South, and right from the first I made it clear that I wanted to witness their searching my knapsack. I wanted to know what they confiscated from me. They assured me that, Yes, of course, that is our policy, Don’t worry, Pam, you will have ample opportunity to watch us search your bags… I calmed a bit and followed a nurse to a closed room to do an intake interview. When she released me to the Day Area, I was shown to my room, where I found on my bed, my already searched knapsack and bags. Needless to say, this upset me greatly and I made my feelings known, which did not endear me to anyone. I let the charge nurse know that I felt violated and that she had openly broken a promise and my rights, posted prominently on the hospital wall.

As the Donnelly 2 staff learned, I had arrived prepared with a detailed Psychiatric Advanced Directive and I made it very clear that my online electronic medical record was accessible from any computer. I made the Read-Only access code available to the doctor and nurses. That 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 (also my psychiatrist from 2000-2009.) Included as well was a letter she wrote to my present psychiatrist, Dr.  C, explicitly stating her conviction that I do not, and never did have a personality disorder, borderline or otherwise, a conviction that Dr C also held.

According to Dr. Sanjay Banerjee, the doctor who first took over my care, he read every page of these and all the other documents that I brought with me. That is what he told me. Moreover, when he spoke with Dr. C, my outside psychiatrist, he brushed off my concerns about anyone misperceiving me as having a personality disorder. My brother, P, himself a psychiatrist, brought the same matter to the fore again when in discussion with Laurie Denenberg, LCSW. Again, 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 a document.”

Nevertheless, Amy Taylor, MD, the doctor who took over my care after Jan 27th decided to summarize my psychiatric history from this stay in words such as these: “long psychiatric history of schizophrenia, paranoid type, PTSD, and personality disorder NOS with borderline traits.” I was treated for four weeks for an active psychotic disorder. No one could know – especially with the significant additional diagnosis of PTSD, whether or not I had any personality disorder, given the two Axis I diagnoses already present. I believe she decided to use this diagnosis as a way to “justify” the brutality that she had ordered to be used to punish me during the hospitalization I write about.

As I said, I was on the Donnelly 2 unit for almost a month. But I was admitted on January 10, 2013, right into to seclusion because of putative “blepharitis.” They called it “infection precautions” but never took a culture of my swollen eyelids to determine if there truly was any infection present. They simply said it had to be blepharitis – as if saying so meant that it was so (but the fact is that blepharitis generally speaking is a benign non-infectious condition, and one that doesn’t produce massive swelling in the entire facial region). There were other factors however that accounted for my swollen face: prime among them the self -inflicted second degree burn on my forehead the size of a half dollar. Knowing this, the fact that my face had swelled to 1½ its size should not have surprised anyone. Blepharitis? The doctor was looking for zebras instead of seeing the common nag right in front of her…

I know I was a difficult patient. I was loud and paranoid and hard for some staff to deal with. That is precisely why I wrote out my Psychiatric Advance Directive the way I did, with explicit and detailed instructions for how best to deal with me when I was upset… When ill, I am frightened, paranoid, and hostile, which makes me easily roused to irritability. I know this, from a distance as it were. But knowing this now does not mean I was in full control of my behavior at the time.

On Feb 5th, I was being held incommunicado in the so-called “side room”, which, when I called it seclusion, the staff insisted it was not so. That afternoon, I simply walked away from it. I had had enough of them saying it was not seclusion, then preventing me bodily from leaving it. So, when I could do so without someone actually wanting to fight me, I walked away.

I proceeded to enter the unit and walk down the hall to the end and looked out the window. I took a deep breath, heard  staff behind me, and sauntered back to the proper end of the hall, the “lost end” where they kept anyone from seeing me or knowing what they were doing to me. Once I got there, they descended upon me, some staff I knew, but most I did not. I did not bother to look at who was doing what to me. I simply lay passively on the bed and put my arms where they could do what I knew they would do. Tightly, they shackled my wrists out past my hips so there was no play in the restraints and I could not turn on my side or do anything but lie stiffly on my back. At the same time, others jerked my feet apart and just as tightly shackled my ankles to the lower corners of bed. Then came the coup de grace. They twisted me over onto my side somehow, pulled down my pants, and injected me with three drugs: Haldol 5mg, Ativan 2mg, and Benadryl 50mg. Why, except as punishment I do not know. I had, just a half hour before, been doped up on involuntary Zyprexa 10mg. Then they walked out, leaving someone just outside the door for the usual monitor, and did not release me for 19 hours, despite the fact that I was sleeping much of that time.

Of course, this was punishment. The very fact that they told me it was “not punishment” only “what your behavior brings on every time, Pamela,” proves my point. At first and usually they only said, it was because I “didn’t follow directions” so if they were not punishing me, what were they doing? They most certainly were not following Centers for Medicare and Medicaid regulations for the use of Restraints and Seclusion only in cases where a person is in imminent danger of harming her self or others. Indeed, the best they could do, when I protested, passively, saying just those words, was to respond, “You are not safe” as if that proved somehow that I was in danger or posed any imminent threat to the safety of anyone.

They always restrained me in an X, spread-eagled so tightly I couldn’t move a muscle. They never permitted bathroom breaks or even let my hands free to eat, so several times I had to pee and even defecate in my clothing. I would fall asleep rapidly after those three injections–whether I was restrained while calm or not, it was routine: punishment needles in the buttocks of Haldol 10mg, Ativan (up to 5mg at one time) and Benadryl 50mg—and then they would invent reasons to maintain me in restraints even after I was asleep for hours. When I woke, hardly dangerous to anyone, they would grill me with questions that I was too groggy to answer, and they would use my inability to respond as reason not to release me.

Later in the evening on Jan 5 or 6thth, for the second time that day, they restrained me, this time for throwing half a graham cracker at the wall. Then they left me like that for 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 “deserve” them in the first place. They always refused to release me,  always, until I cried, “Uncle” when they told me to.

As to those vaunted “shows of force” what does anyone expect? Presented with a cohort of threatening staff personnel I saw only 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? (which when you think about it is grotesque…What sort of person wants to induce fear and more panic in someone who is by definition already terrified?) But 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 survival instinct…

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 comprehension, knowing that one of the admission diagnoses I came in with was PTSD, how the director of patient care at the time pre-approved on paper the emergency abrogation of my PAD and a “just in case they are needed” use of restraints and seclusion. Why didn’t he counsel the person asking for this advance “right to restrain” to do instead all in his power not to restrain me and to work with the PAD instead?

TO BE CONTINUED… SEE NEXT ENTRY.

New art from Pamwagg, Fractured Portraits

Fractured portrait of Mott, in caran d’ache luminance pencils, 9 by 12
Fractured portrait of Mott, #7

Fractured Portrait done at Rutland hospital, Number 3 or 4 of aide named Lené

Fractured Portrait #6 caran d’ache colored pencils 9 by 12

Fractured Portrait #5

Einstein with Violin, fractured

TEN YEAR OLD KENYAN GIRL RECITES MY POEM

Click and it will re-orient itself properly! This is beautifully done! Brava, Mercy!

AFTERWARDS, WHAT THE MOTHER SAID

I was happy when those green birds

flew shining into my garden.

 

I thought it meant that Allah had smiled

and fate would be kind.

But the grindstone turned.

 

For my son, the struggle was all. I did not know

the meaning of his great determination

to be al shaheed al hayy, “the living martyr.”

 

The small birds clung to the line

for nearly an hour

 

before they hurled themselves to the sky

in a great shrill.

 

Now I can think only of the gore

of innocents on a shredded shirt

I’d washed the night before,

the blood on his Quran left on a bench nearby.

 

I was ashamed when asked

to claim him as my child.

 

You ask me

am I happy my son has joined the martyrs?

Do I rejoice to be the mother of a hero?

 

Who cares of heroes or martyrs

I have lost my son.

 

May those whom he murdered forgive me.

 

Inshallah, we will not meet again,

no, not even in Paradise.

 

But had I known of his plans

I would have taken a blade, sliced open my heart

and crammed him deep inside.

 

I would have seamed it tight to seal him in.

I would have never let him go.

 

Copyright Pamela Spiro Wagner 2017