THE WILL TO SURVIVE

I had been separated from the family ship. My little lifeboat had sprung many leaks and was sinking. I saw a cruise ship on the horizon and waved frantically to attract attention. I was losing all hope but the cruise ship changed it’s course and headed my way.
By the time the cruise ship got to me I was swimming in the ocean and tiring fast. I could see a group of people sitting on the deck drinking from their martini glasses and having a good time. I called out in distress and one person threw me an inner tube. I could hear snippets of their conversation carried to me on the wind, will she make it, should we do something more to help her? One of them warned the others I might be dangerous. People decided, if I drowned then I was a bad person, but if I managed to save myself, then I was a good person.
The sea was very choppy and the inner tube disappeared beneath the waves many times. I struggled and called out for help but no one did a thing but watch and ask the waiter to refill their drinks.
Thru sheer strength of will I used the inner tube and got to the cruise ship. I was praised for having the strength and courage to save myself. I stood there looking at all of them, dripping wet and so tired I could barely stand. There was such rage in me but there was nothing I could say. I took the towel they offered, dried myself off and refused their offer of a martini. Later, as I was falling asleep I heard the people congratulating the one who threw me the inner tube. That person was praised for having the faith and courage to throw me the inner tube. I fell asleep wondering how they can tell each other they helped me find the courage and the strength to save myself when all they did was drink their martinis and watch.

Same Wavelength, Different Channel

I used to grow so angry at people when told I need to say what I mean. I would be told what words would be better so others would know what I meant. I never could understand why I had to use their words, their phrases when, to me, the words and phrases I used conveyed what I meant to say much better.
To every action there is a reaction. When my doctor told me to take a drug and reassured me there are no side effects, I instantly branded the doctor a liar. I was so upset because I had learned to trust this doctor and felt betrayed. I wondered why the doctor looked so happy when saying this until I realized, side effects had a different meaning for me than to this doctor. This is a great breakthru realization for me. I realized I was always using the right words to me, I was saying what I was meaning, it was how the other person interpreted my words that caused so much confusion and distress and upset.
Now that I understand I still will use my words but ask when misunderstood, what does the other person think I meant by what I said. I need to be clear about how others interpret the same word as it’s obvious to me the same word does have many different meanings.
I do speak English and English is my only language. It’s how I interpret English that caused me so many problems and so much heartache.
I can now trust the doctor again. I realize the doctor has no idea what side effects I am talking about. We live on the same planet, speak the same language, but interpret the words so differently. I see it as being on the same wavelength but tuned to a different channel.

Drug Pushers in White Coats

To me all doctors are nothing more than well trained, board certified drug pushers in white coats who all mean well. That to me classifies all doctors as the worst kind of drug pushers alive.
I go to a doctor to get relief from pain. I am probed, prodded, weighed and assessed and then given the appropriate drug to ease my pain, to make me happy. That’s the whole purpose of me taking a drug, to ease my pain so I would be happy again.
The World Health Organization defines dependency as the need for repeated doses of the drug to feel good or to avoid feeling bad. I was a psych patient forced to take varous psych drugs for over 37 years. I was in denial of my drug addiction until I have lowered my dose of abilify, an anti-psychotic and now am in constant, terrible pain. Warm baths help, so does massage but all are temporary fixes and so temporary now they are no longer acceptable. In order to relieve my pain I would need to be constantly in a warm bath or receiving a massage. I have no choice but to resort to drugs to relieve my pain, to be happy again.
I do have a choice, anti-psychotics which will stigmatize me and get me treated like dirt by most doctors who are afraid of my “madness”, or I can be dependent on drugs that doctors can accept and not have the stigma of dirt and shame and disgust associated with my name when I walk into a doctor’s office.
I had a hard time accepting my drug dependency, that I am a drug addict. I am not a drug addict of my own free will but was made into a drug addict by kind and well meaning doctors who don’t realize what they are truly doing when they prescribed me drugs to ease my pain, to make me happy again. Or do they know and prescribed drugs to me anyway deciding for me it’s better for me to be addicted to a drug than to be so unhappy.

A Cover Up

My family was very upset with me because I made a decision concerning my health care without consulting them. I never asked them for advice concerning a biopsy on my vocal cord but had made an agreement with the ENT to postpone the biopsy. My medication management psychiatrist was frustrated with as I kept refusing to transfer all my care to him. I’m not sure how or what my psychotherapist thought of me, all I know the therapist was frustrated with me too.
I woke up in a psych hospital with scabs on both sides of my head. I asked the staff if I had been given ECT and all I was told was to let the scabs fall off naturally. After I was discharged I received the insurance report stating I had been at another hospital before being transferred to the psych hospital I woke up in. I asked my parents why I was at the other hospital and they told me I never was there. I also asked my parents if the psychs had given me ECT. I was reassured there was no way the parents would permit ECT to be performed on me.
I went back in my insurance records and discovered I had been at that other hospital twice before. A friend told me ECT is done at that hospital. All the family needs to do is get a court order. I’m sure the therapist I was seeing once a week was consulted to see if ECT was needed. My psychiatrist must have been consulted too. A lot of people went thru much trouble to hide the fact I was at the other hospital, but insurance records don’t lie.
There is nothing I can do except accept the fact ECT was given to me per my family’s request. I felt so helpless, so powerless, so confused by everyone being evasive and not directly answering my questions. When I found out the other hospital does administer ECT, a deep feeling of sadness overcame me.
I realized a lot of people tried to help me. I know they meant well but if they were made aware of all the consequences of their actions will they change? I doubt it. I am a labeled person and what I say is dismissed as signs of my disease reemerging.
I don’t know why my family ordered the psychs to give me ECT. I only know whenever I showed any signs of independence my family saw to it I would become even more dependent upon them.
It took three separate hospitalizations, all done in secrecy, to make me so unemotional. As much as the family and various doctors provoke me, I do not react. I know people are not happy with the results. I have been told by my mother how much she wants the person I was back again.

Therapy

I am so tired of therapy that I quit, in total disgust. I wanted to talk about my present problems but the therapist wanted me to talk about what happened in my past that was similar to the present. I went back and started to talk about my past only to constantly have what I was saying redirected. I got so sick and tired of taking the blame for psychiatry’s failure to help me that I quit.
I would tell the therapist how angry I was and wanted to discuss what the therapist did that made me angry. I would become angrier when therapist after therapist denied doing anything that would make me angry and tell me I was really angry at something or someone in my past. I would say, no I’m angry at you and what you said. The therapist’s usual reply was, something happened in your past so let’s discuss what happened in your past then you can deal with why you’re angry now. I would insist what the therapist did made me angry and the therapist would pull out the prescription pad and tell me how much I needed an increase in my drugs as I was out of control of my anger.
Therapy didn’t make sense to me until I made sense of therapy. I realized therapists thought I was delusional which was why I was never believed. I found someone who did believe me and that’s how my Journey to Wellness started.

Therapy

People enter therapy for many different reasons. Most see a need to change and look towards their therapist to teach them, show them what and how to change. These people get easily frustrated in therapy. No therapist, unless they are very controlling, will sit and tell a patient what to change. However most therapists will sit and tell a patient how to change.
This is my experience in therapy. I did not enter therapy willingly, I was more or less forced into therapy. A person forced to be in therapy resists therapy in subtle ways. I certainly did. I showed that resistance by being offensive, demanding, and totally uncooperative. That worked against me and I was finally told my behavior was so offensive I suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder.
People who are forced into therapy do become offensive. Trying to work with such people is a heartless and often distressing job. I became even more offensive when I was given the label Borderline only proving my therapist right. I left therapy and spent a year discovering myself and making changes. I re-entered therapy willingly. I am not obnoxious, offensive, or demanding. I cooperate, listen without interrupting, smile and laugh, just a totally different patient because I am a willing patient.
Attitude made a difference in me, but so did the therapist. I’ve discovered just as people are different, so are therapists. Afterall therapists are really people too.
Therapy with a willing patient is far easier than therapy with someone forced. But the difference I’m finding is in the therapist themselves. Finding someone who is not controlling, demanding, or manipulative makes the difference for me.

Babies and Psychiatrists

MANIPULATION

Everyone manipulates to some degree or other. There is nothing inherently wrong in manipulating others. Basically I manipulate to get my needs met. The ways I manipulate, that’s what I need to work on. I’ve learned it’s better to ask a person what I want, to give that person a choice.
I am recognizing the ways I manipulate people. I can’t say I will give up manipulating, I learned this behavior when I was a baby.
A baby is the master manipulator of all time. I coundn’t speak but I did cry, I didn’t know what I wanted and left it up to my parents to figure out what I needed. As I grew up and learned about myself, learned how hungry felt, learned how cold felt, learned to talk, I was able to ask to be fed, clothed, have my needs met. My parents taught me how to communicate my wants and needs, but some of the ways they taught me are not acceptable in society.
I can’t really blame them. I started school and was exposed to different, better ways of asking how to get my needs met. However, when I brought these new ways home, they were rejected and the old ways became ingrained.
I entered psychiatry. Doctors, psyciatrists in particular, are the grandest of all manipulators of all times, second only to babies. They are worse than babies in that they deny any manipulative behavior. They hide their manipulations behind the excuse, It’s for the patient’s own good. They determine, enforce, and make the person change with drugs, different programs, and worse, with their damaging labels.
Manipulating is a basic human behavior. I can’t really say it’s good, but I can say it is bad when a group of people use this behavior to denigrate, humiliate, control, set apart with the label Borderline another group of people because they, psychiatrists. do not like the ways their patients behave.

What Makes Me So Different?

I’ve been thinking, if I treat my ns like they treat me but am so different when I’m with others, what makes me different from my ns? The fact that I know better? I know my nfamily knows better too, so what really makes me different from them?

MADDENING DRUGS

All my intelligence and physical tests proved there was nothing wrong with me. My family obviously loved me so my psych blamed my suicidal depression on a chemical imbalance. Depression is anger turned inwards. I certainly was “mad”, mad enough to want to kill myself.
I was encouraged to talk about my family life, and I did. I told staff about my dictator worshipping father, a brother who was sent to juvenile hall for shoplifting. I talked about my brother and sister who hardly spoke to anyone except family members. I told them about my love for animals, the only beings I felt safe to love. I was told many times how well I had thought things out. The psych started me on stelazine which was supposed to help me get in touch with reality.
I was so depressed I was started on an anti-depressant, Elavil. I started to pace the floor and rocked when I sat. I started to have tremors in my hands. I became so agitated Mellaril was added to calm me. I was given Cogentin to prevent side effects such as restlessness or tremors. I’ve been forced to take these psych drugs for over 37 years. I realize I am now a drug addict. My body needs these drugs in order to function properly. Without it’s daily fix, my body goes into withdrawal. I’m in constant pain and now have a movement disorder. I cough all the time and suffer heart pain. I was started on psych drugs because I was mad at people. I am told by people how mad they will become if I stopped taking psych drugs. I was mad when I started taking psych drugs, grew madder on these psych drugs, will be happy when I’m off these psych drugs. Why should I keep taking psych drugs if other people will be mad if I don’t?

A QUESTION

He wasn’t wanted in his first home and found a foster home with a member of a rescue bird organization. I watched a group of people work together so this 51 year old Military Macaw could be rehomed.
First a woman did an intensive home check. A new member offered to bring the bird and cage from the foster home to meet another member who would then transport the bird and cage to the new home. It was agreed, Thursday would be the day to make this happen, and it did.
A lot of people did many simple acts of kindness so an unwanted bird could find a new home. If a group of volunteers can show such care and concern for an unwanted bird, why can't we all show the same care and concern for those less fortunate?

Strength of One

I can expect no help from anyone in the psychiatric community. No one is willing to write a letter attesting to my present mental health. I know that would require them to take a stance against the psychiatrists in the city where I live. Asking someone in psych to declare me sane is like asking to be given a piece of heaven on earth.
I was made and kept ill by psychiatric drugs and psychiatric treatments. I had to distance myself from psychiatry before I could get better. I found a group of people who not only believed in me, but also believed me. I was driven to the brink of suicide many times all because psychs did not believe me or my reactions to these psych drugs. I was put on lexapro and that was the first and only time I had a suicide plan and was going to follow thru. I got myself to the er where the psych resident refused to admit me. I was told if I was still feeling the same way the next day I was to return and he would be more than happy to admit me. Such blatant disregard and obvious disbelief almost cost me my life that night. I was told many times I needed to take these drugs for the rest of my life in order to have any hope of a life. I was told I needed to be forever under the care of a psychiatrist. I quit the psychiatrist. I have found three volunteer jobs and doing well in all three. I am on the least amount of psych drugs and my thinking is becoming clearer, more focused, and my ability to reason is returning. I can get no one in psych willing to risk and write a letter stating my present mental health.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

The damage done to me by my original psych’s diagnosis of me was expanded and compounded by my other psychs who chose to follow their training and believe the first psych and not believe what their assessment of me told them.
I was wrongly diagnosed Delusional by my first psych. I kept being treated for my obvious delusional state by all other psychs. I never got better, constantly grew worse despite all the talk therapy and all the drugs I was given. The more I had my talk redirected, the more I tried to talk about my “delusions”. The more drugs I was given to stop my delusional state, the more “deluded” I became. I was blamed for not getting better despite all psychiatry’s efforts to help me.
I worked hard in talk therapy and became steadily worse. I constantly was ridiculed for my “stories”. The harm done to me by the original psych follows me where ever I go. I sought help from a survivor’s agency but they too chose to believe me delusional. Healing came for me from another survivor who not only believes me but also saw the mistakes made in my treatment was due to psychs choosing to follow the first psych’s mistake. I can try to change people’s minds about me, but until people learn to trust and believe in their assessment of me, no one will believe a word I say. I am horribly damaged because of a mistake made by my first psych. I suffer from an insane game of Monkey See, Monkey Do. When one is wrong and all perpetuate his wrongness, the damage done to me is unbelievable.

Feel Like Me

I’ve been told so many times by doctors how hard it is for them to keep me, a mentally ill patient on my psych drugs.
I’ve told doctors why I want to stop my psych drugs. Doctors tell me I need these drugs because they’re afraid I’ll get sick again. Gee doctor, why don’t you start on an anti-psychotic if you can’t control your fears. I hope you take them long enough so you’ll start to feel agitated inside and unable to sit still,. Then when you have start to have difficulty sleeping, start to take an anti-depressant. When you are unable to understand simple directions or remember people’s names start on another anti-psychotic which might help the first anti-psychotic work better. Better start a drug called cogentin to counter any side effects you may have. If you continue to shake and drool, up your dose of either anti-psychotic and your shaking and drooling will stop. If it continues, up your dose even more until the shaking and drooling stops. If you still can think clearly to make the connection all you’re experiencing is the same symptoms I’ve been coming to you and complaining about for years now. Maybe you’ll take me seriously and won’t dismiss me as just some mentally ill woman seeking attention.

Look Past the Name and Seet the Person

The doctor took one look at me and told my parents, this baby is delusional. I never knew how he came to that conclusion, but since he pronounced me delusional since birth, that became my designated name.
I was a dreamer, always was and always will be. I started to have dreams of a better life, of a family who loved and cherished me. I felt unloved and unwanted by my birth family. I made up a pretend family who would come and take me away and I’d be happy with my real family.
I told this to one of the psych staff at the hospital I was in and that only proved I was appropriately named Delusional. I then started to have dreams of helping others, of setting up a coffee house where us patients could come and meet and be safe. I was asked what I meant by the word “safe” what did I believe patients needed to be safe from? I proved again I was appropriately named Delusional.
I go from doctor to doctor seeking help, but when I write my name Delusional, I’m turned away with the usual, everything you’re experiencing is in your head, a psychiatrist is the one you really should be seeing as they are best trained to treat people like you.
No one can see the person, all they see is the name Delusional on the piece of paper and I’m prejudged accordingly. I have seen many doctors and not one can see past the name to the person.
The original doctor didn’t either. He never saw the baby, all he saw was delusions. His mistake has affected all my treatment for all of my life.

A LESSON LEARNED

Being aware
It’s all fine and good that I no longer take responsibility or feel responsible for how another acts or reacts to an action of mine. I thought that was all there was to this, not being responsible for others but only being responsible for myself. I realized I need to be aware of how my actions may affect others. I need to take into account what I know of that person, their background. In this way I can modify my actions so that I can act more responsibly.
It’s a matter of showing kindness, empathy, and consideration for that person and their experiences. I am not being responsible for that person, I am considering and respecting who they are and how they may feel. I still have the freedom to act as I feel is right, for me, but also, for them. I can control and modify my behavior so as not to deliberately offend or make the other defensive and behave in an offensive manner towards me.
I realize I need to modify my behavior and consider each and every person I’m interacting with. I cannot control how another person reacts to me, I can only be aware of myself and how I may affect others.
For example, swearing. Some people take offense at certain words, but others words are acceptable. It’s for me to respect how that other person feels about certain words and avoid using those words when I’m with them. I show respect for that person.
Respect for all living things is what my life is about. I show respect by actions, words, and deeds, not only for myself but also for others. I will not degrade myself or others, and if others should feel degraded or take offense by what I say, I will not dismiss it as just their problem, it’s both our problem. I realize something I did caused the other to feel offended, it’s up to me to identify the problem and find a way around it so the next time a similar situation arises, the same reaction won’t occur.

My Life

I’ve wasted so much time thinking and wondering why I was alive when I should have been thinking how I can make my life be meaning filled . I want to do random acts of kindness. I want to bring a smile to people’s faces. I want to share the joy I find in living with others. I have survived a life filled with abuse. Many bad things have been done to me. I can see a way out of the badness by bringing goodness to others. I want to dedicate my life to help empower others so if they chose, they can empower others. I want to give strength to people who have been abused so they will speak out and tell their stories of abuse I want the abusers to be exposed and how they abuse revealed. Help will be available to abuse victims once the secrets are known by those trained to help victims of abuse.

Time to Make Dreams Come True

I’ve written and talked about how I want things to change for me, it’s time I DO something to make changes happen for me. The way to undo the harm that has been done to me is by doing good deeds. Working at the food pantry and giving out food to needy people is a step. Volunteering myself as a computer person is another.
I’m tired of waiting for people to help me change. I am the only one who can make things change for me. I only had to look inwards and I found the strength I needed to make changes happen.
I comforted and healed my hurt and angry child. I have reconnected with my Spirit and found peace and an inner strength I never knew I had. I am doing things to make changes happen for me. I no longer sit and dream of a day when things have changed for me but am actively doing things to make my dreams come true.
I have been alone too long. I have learned it’s not that bad to make a mistake. I’ve learned from the mistakes I’ve made but most of all I don’t obsess about a mistake anymore. I have learned much, it’s time to go out and apply my knowledge and make it work.
I feared the unknown because I thought I was alone. I am not alone and never will be alone ever again. I have reintegrated with my child within and have connected with my Spirit that lies within. I have nurtured and calmed the angry child and I can feel the peace of my inner Spirit. I have changed so much inside, it’s time I changed how I live.

Variations on a Theme

A MUSCIAL FUGUE
In the beginning there was the original Song of Life. I became aware of this Song one day when I touched that which is the Essence of the Universe. I could hear singers singing their Song of Life. I mentioned to a friend about hearing this fugue. I was misunderstood and mistakenly believed to be suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder.
I became aware of myself in relation to the Universe and started to sing my Song of Life with others. I learned to sing in harmony, listening and blending my song with theirs.
I am whole and one with All. I have joined my voice with others who have found themselves and have become aware of themselves in relationship to the Universe. As others become aware of themselves they too will add their Song of Life and we all sing in harmony.
Harmonizing and blending, the song is sung in full cooperation with each other. Each song is unique, filled with the tears and joys of our lives. We join our voices to blend as one, yet we each have our own voice, singing our own song. Our Songs blend together, all variations on a theme, the original Song of Life.

Why Are Psychiatrists m.d.'s?

Why are Psychiatrists considered medical doctors when all the medicine they practice is prescribing psychiatric drugs? Beyond the initial physical exam when entering the hospital, these doctors write out the prescription for me to take and it’s the nursing staff’s responsibility to see that I take what I need per doctor’s orders.
These psychiatrists have everyone, even their fellow medical doctors, all specialists in different diseases of the BODY, convinced that they, the psychiatrists, are the ONLY ones who are knowledgeable about these psych drugs. After all, they took special training and courses and keep updated on these drugs, proof they are truly the only ones qualified to prescribe, regulate and monitor these special medications.
I ask everyone, why, at the first signs of a drug reaction, like hives, why am I sent to a medical doctor to rule out a medical condition, and when the hives are not an allergic reaction to a physical allergy, then why are my hives considered a psychogenic reaction so my dose of the psych drug increased to treat my hives? And, why do the hives disappear for awhile but come back and be treated again with a higher dosage, and so the merry-go-round continues until I’m switched to another drug that doesn’t give me hives but another reaction occurs and here I go again, back to a medical who is getting resentful of my using up her time with these psychogenic reactions when she has real patients with real diseases to treat. So I get told, bad news, your blood test is negative. So back I go to my psychiatrist to be re-evaluated for a hidden mental illness or a deep seated psychic disturbance.
I was hospitalized because I couldn’t urinate or move my legs and had difficulty swallowing. The medicals couldn’t find anything wrong with me. The physical therapist who came to evaluate me asked the nurse what was wrong with me. The nurse said the doctors don’t know. The physical therapist said, psych consult.
The nurses kept calling the ward chief about me, at all hours of the day and night. The other residents and attendings were frustrated with me because they could come up with no reason why I should be having trouble swallowing and walking. They all were very angry at me and as a result, I was sent to the psych unit for evaluation as everything physical had been ruled out.
They were right to be resentful and angry and I did belong in the psych unit because I was having a reaction to an atypical which only psychiatrists are qualified to deal with as they are specially trained to be the only ones who can identify and treat these mysterious drug reactions, as they keep reminding everyone. So why were the nurses calling the ward chief? Why weren’t they calling my psychiatrist? And where was my psychiatrist anyway?
All these psych drugs are still too new. Not even the psychiatrists themselves can claim they know all the potential side effects. So when I have a reaction that isn’t classified yet, why am I instantly accused of faking it? Of having a psychogenic reaction? Why would I want to put myself back under the care of a psychiatrist when it’s psychiatrists who thru their neglect and lack of attention and lack of caring has left me a body that is so damaged almost beyond repair.

WHO'S GUILTY

I am being threatened with jail if I should continue to accuse a convicted pedophile of raping me. I told my first psychiatrist about the rape. I was told he was glad I “confessed” to a rape. I was puzzled by his choice of words. A guilty person confesses. I was not guilty of a crime, a crime had been committed to me. Since I have confessed to a rape, I have been treated by psychiatry like a dangerous criminal.
I never knew I had talked about the rape when the first psychiatrist drugged me so heavily I slept 24 hours for 7 days straight. I was only told this after I finally trusted my psychiatrist enough to tell him I had been raped. Since then I was forced by psychiatry to carry a burden of guilt and shame for over 36 years. I do not understand why therapists encouraged me to talk about the rape, then when I did, the talk was redirected to other subjects. I understand this is a technique emplyed by therapists when they are confronted with delusional ideations.
I am angry at psychiatry. I do not understand how they came to the decisoin I was delusional. I do not understand how psychiatry can believe a convicted pedophile wuold not rape me. I do not understand why I’ve been treated like a criminal, threatened with jail for trying to ruin a “good” man’s reputation. I do not understand psychiatry’s attitude at all.

Psych Patient

Becoming a psych patient means:
You give up your right to say no.
You’re forced to agree to everything
You’re forced to endure treatments that you know are harmful to you
You’re forced to accept situations and conditions no one should be forced into.
You give up the right to choose.
You’re told what to do, how to do it, when to do it and if you can do it at all.
You basically lose all rights as a human being.
You become, a no-body, a non-being, a no one.
You become isolated, shunned, a medical leper, unwanted, uncared for, an undesirable. No one wants to be around you anymore.
No one wants to be your friend.
No one wants to be seen with you.
Your family will shame you and humiliate you in an attempt to get you to drop the act and stop the attention seeking behavior.
If you weren’t mad when you entered psychiatry, you certainly will end up mad.

PUZZLE PIECES

PIECES THAT NEVER FIT
I think of my family as mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I made many attempts to make the pieces fit together but since the edges never matched the puzzle kept falling apart.
Each time the puzzle fell apart, I picked up the pieces and tried to fit them back together again. I worked hard at this task, spent many hours pondering how to fit the pieces together so the puzzle would not fall apart so easily when disturbed. I tried to force the pieces to fit. I jammed the pieces together but that only made the puzzle more fragile. I made many mistakes trying to match these pieces together. I finally put the puzzle pieces in a box on a shelf in my closet. I’ve accepted I can never make the pieces match.
I’ve started to work on the only puzzle I can solve, Me. I am the center piece of my puzzle. I am the most important piece in my puzzle. I hold the puzzle together. I have become very strong and I am slowly matching the puzzle that is me into a bigger puzzle, the one called Life.

Recipe for Tardive Dyskinesia/Tardive Dystonia

Ingredients:
psychiatrists with their never ending questions
me, a patient, confused and afraid
various neuroleptic and anti-depressant drugs

Directions for preparation:
Start with one psychiatrist who wants to know me. Mix me up really good with questions aimed to prove that I suffer from delusions.

Add:
Stelazine and mellaril to help me overcome my delusions.
Elavil to combat the anxiety that all these questions are eliciting.
The family to bind and confine me.

While stirring me up add these questions, either one at a time or together:
Are you sure this happened?
Are you certain that you couldn’t be wrong?
Are you positive that this happened as you said it did?

Liberally sprinkle it with these comments:
You know you often mistaken phrases and words to mean other than what I mean.
You know you often perceive things in a different manner than what it’s meant to be.
You know you often mistakenly believe you heard differently than what I said.

While mixing well, stir in these words:
Paranoid schizophrenic
Bipolar depression
Schizoaffective disorder
Borderline personality disorder
Hallucinatory experiences
Delusional
Paranoid
Arrogant
Conceited
Attention seeker
Controller

Mix well and stir vigorously for the next 28 years.
Give it 6 years to rise.
Let rest 2 years

Result: a very paranoid, confused woman suffering from Tardive Dyskinesia and Tardive Dystonia.

My Story

I have an condition that no doctor wants to confirm, tardive dyskinesia and tardive dystonia. Fancy words for a drug induced movement disorder. I take these two psych drugs, abilify and remeron, which affect the basal ganglion of my brain. I’ve been taking these type of drugs for over 36 years and these drugs have caused me to have this condition called TD.My symptoms first started during the 1980’s when I was taking haldol. I would rock incessantly and my tongue would protrude. It wasn’t until sometime in the 1990’s my medication was switched from haldol to seroquel. The rocking subsided and my tongue stopped protruding.A combination of seroquel and geodon landed me in the ER where I was admitted to a cardiac unit. It was on this unit I first started to have audio hallucinations.

The Hallucinations:I heard voices on the tv talking to me, such vile sex trash it turned my face red. I asked the nurse to turn the tv off and she was puzzled and said, “the tv is off.” The phone talked to me, but when I looked at it, it was on the receiver.

The Conditon:The doctors were convinced I was faking not being able to move, urinate, or swallow. I woke up once and found my hospital gown had slipped down, exposing one breast. People passed by and stared. Finally a male nurse came in cursing and said, “Can’t everyone see she really can’t move,” and covered my exposed breast.

Diagnosis and Treatment:The physical therapist came to see me. I looked up at her as she asked the nurse, “What’s her diagnosis?” The nurse answered, “The doctors can’t find anything wrong.” The physical therapist immediately replied, “Psych Consult!” I was told by the physical therapist if I could walk from my bed to the far wall and back, I would be discharged home. We found that I walked better without a walker. I reached the far wall, was told to turn and I did. I felt myself falling and heard someone say, “Oh Shit.” I couldn’t see. I felt hands all over me. I felt myself being lifted off the floor and carried back to my bed where I was firmly tucked in. My sight gradually returned but no one would answer my pleas for an explanation. I never saw the physical therapist again.
At all times, the doctors’ bedside manner was brusque, bordering on rudeness. Once I woke up and found myself talking with the head nurse. I have no idea why we were talking. All I can remember was the head nurse telling me that she had witnessed what happened between me and a doctor. She had all her nurses pass by my room to witness and chart what they saw and heard. I was then reassured that in a court of law, the nurses’ notes took precedence over any doctor’s notes. I have absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

I remember hearing the ward chief talking with my parents, telling them how he resented being woken at all hours of the night because the staff called concerned about me. I was puzzled. What was the concern? Why was I on a cardiac unit? Why couldn’t I move? Why couldn’t I swallow? Why did I black out? Why was I being treated as less than human, with no courtesy or regard for my feelings? To this day I’m still asking these questions.

As I was being transferred to the psych unit a nurse yelled after me and the male nurse escort, “You’ll be sorry when you find her hanging from the ceiling. She belongs on a secured locked unit. People coming off these drugs need to be watched very closely. You’ll be sorry, wait and see.” I was reassured that on the psych unit I would get the treatment I needed for the psychiatrists and psych nurses know best how to treat people like me.

Promise of Tomorrow

My cries of joy
Are filled with tears.

Tears of rage,
Tears of grief.
Tears that started my release.

I couldn’t stop the tears
I cried at a drop.
Because I had no hope for any more tomorrows.

Tears of rage
Tears of grief
Tears I shed for relief.

Tears that I shed when I felt sad.
Made them quite mad.
Because I had no hope for any more tomorrows.

Tears of rage
Tears of grief
Tears that I sobbed with no relief.

Tears that imprisoned Me with no belief
I shed with no relief
Because I had no hope for any more tomorrows.

Tears of rage
Tears of grief
Tears that became the key to my release.

Tears that bear all that I feared.
Tears that shed all of my fears.
Because I had no hope for any more tomorrows.

I am ever grateful
To the few who dared
To reach out and touch the tears that were Me

They took from me

My tears of rage,
My tears of grief
And in doing so gave me relief.

Now I cry with joy
And cry with relief
The promise of many more tomorrows is my release.

THE TIMES HOW THEY’VE CHANGED ME

How many times have people promised me that they will listen and not heard what I was saying.
How many times have I been treated for the way I describe events.
How many times have people mocked me for the way I say certain words.
How many times have I been asked to repeat myself and been misunderstood until I get tired of repeating what I said and then was understood.
How many therapists have told me they suffer from a hearing defect so I need to speak louder in order to be heard.
How many times have I been laughed at for the way I express myself.
How many times have my words been turned around and made to be not what I meant them to be.
How many times have I been asked not to talk, not to speak because what I had to be said didn’t need to be said.
How many times years ago was I told to be silent because “children should be seen and not heard”.
How many times have I been told that my stories were filled with such self-pity that no one wants to hear them.
How many times and how many people did it take to convince me not to talk anymore?
Just one time with one person.

My voice is gone. I am happy that my voice is gone. I fought to have a voice for so long and now that the fight is over, I am happy. I’m feeling a peace and contentment inside that I have never experienced. My speaking voice is silent, but no way am I silent. I speak using paper and pen. I am finally being heard.

Me and Psych Drugs

What Psych Drugs Did to Me
They put me in the medical hospital
They took me out of the mental hospital.
They brought me up from my depression
They brought me down down from my mania.
They made me shuffle when I walked
They made me mumble when I talked
They made my legs swing.
They made my neck spasm
They made me poop less
They made me pee more.
They upset my tummy
They irritated my lungs
They made me walk slow as molasses
They made me pace the floor
They made me drool
They made me stick out my tongue
They made me sit as still as a rock
They made me sit and rock
They gave me problems with my joints
They made me lose lots of hair
They gave me insomnia
They gave me nightmares
They made my blood pressure drop
They made my triglycerides rise
They made my mouth dry
They made my hands shake
Most of all they gave me Tardive Dyskinesia/Tardive Dystonia

These pills were supposed to:
Help me talk better
Help me relate and reason better
Help me sleep better
Never once did they do anything they were supposed to do.

I have D.I.D., Drug Induced Dystonia. Mine is caused by long term use of psychiatric medications.

The psych drugs took me out of the mental hospital but they caused me to have a drug induced movement disorder.
Medications caused my disorder. Stress did not cause me to have a dystonia, but stress does make me worse. I’d rather handle my stress in other ways than with medication.
Some may say my disorder is genetic. My uncle had Parkinsons disease. I believe I may have a predisposition to a Dystonia. I believe that the long term use of these psych drugs caused this predisposition to become a reality.
I’ve taken many other medicatons besides psychiatric medications. I realize a combination of all the drugs I’ve taken in my life time has a cumulative effect and together, they all caused me to have D.I.D. I believe the psychiatric medications, in particular the neuroleptics, mellaril, stelazine, thorazine and haldol caused my disorder. Atypicals are less likely to cause a dystonia, but once a dystonia is present, they can cause it to get worse.
The neuroleptics affect the area of my brain called the basal ganglion. This part of the brain controls movements. These drugs are thought to make dystonia better, all they do is mask the symptoms. The sooner I’m withdrawn from these drugs, the better my chances for a remission.

A LESSON LEARNED

Before I entered psychiatry’s hallowed hallways, I would have answered any questions beginning with the words, I’m pretty sure … .
I’ve been under the tutelage of psychiatry for over 36 years. My first day at Psychiatry’school was with my first hospitalization at the young age of 16. Self-confidence and self-reliance were my chief subjects. To learn self-reliance, I had to learn to become dependent. Inside a psychiatric institution, I was taught to announce to everyone what I was going to do, where I was going and why. Then I had to learn how to ask, like how to ask permisssion to go to the bathroom. Eventually I couldn’t do anything without asking for someone’s approval. Lessons learned and I was discharged.
Learning self-confidence was my downfall. My stories of childhood abuse was disbelieved because of one incident, when I applied all that I had learned from psychiatry’s teachers, my therapists. In therapy I had learned to be positive without a doubt and if I had doubts, not to show or voice them. I learned to answer yes with such confidence that I showed I had no room for doubt. I was becoming suspicous when my last therapist, like a marine drill instructor, kept asking me, are you sure you know where the deli is, are you positive, and like a dumb, frightened boot, I answered with such conviction that I showed I was immovable in my beliefs. This solid stance I took was my downfall, for all my “stories” of abuse became that, just stories. Leaving no possibility for a mistake, I showed that I could not and would not accept a mistake in any of my childhood perceptions, that my reality was the only reality I would accept.
For me to heal, I had to free myself of psychiatry. I had to unlearn what psychiatry had taught me and I did it by writing in my journal. I wrote what I thought had happened to me, incorporated the person I am now with my child. I believe my reality but am open to questions to clarify some discrepancies.
I’m no longer a psychiatric patient, haven’t been for almost 3 months now. I trust only myself and a few others, no psychiatrist included. I have become self-reliant. I first had to learn not to trust others as much as I did and learn to trust myself, the only person I did not trust or believe. I had to self-acknowledge the fact that I was abused, and believe that fact before my healing could begin. Psychiatry still does not believe my stories of abuse and would do anything and everything to disprove me. But I no longer need to prove anything to anybody anymore, for I believe myself and I believe that what happened to me really happened. I trust in my reality enough to say this, I could be wrong about some of the things that happened to me, but the majority of what I talk about did happen and that I’m sure of. I have become self-confident.
Lessons learned, unlearned, and retaught and relearned. I am back to who I was before I came under the tutelage of psychiatry, but better for the experience for I know who I am and now believe in myself and trust myself, the only person I did not believe and trust.

THOUGHTS

People reading my blogspot may think I’m feeling sorry for myself. I just have to laugh at this presumption on their part. I believe they are feeling sorry for themselves. They are not being shown to be the good, kind people they believe they are. What I’m doing, in the privacy of my home, by my blogging, is working out the feelings that were denied me by my family. I need to vent, rage, and do whatever I need to do to go thru the feelings, work thru my feelings before I can detach from them.
This is how I emotionally detach. I write, and write, and say whatever comes to mind. I do whatever I need to do to experience the feelings all the way thru. Then and only then will I be able to detach from them, then from the situations that caused me to feel that way.
I am processing what I’m feeling in such a way that I am getting in touch with my feelings. I am permitting myself to feel my feelings, something therapists, psychiatrists, and my family have denied me all my years of life. I am feeling for the first time in my life, without the “help” of drugs to numb me so I can handle my feelings better.
Drugs never helped me, they numbed me and made me dumb, but they never helped me experience and work thru my feelings. I had to take myself off these drugs, myself, before I could start to deal with my feelings. I was so emotionally suppressed I became severely depressed. The psychiatrists treated my severe depression with more drugs which only made me suicidal. When I was denied admission to the pysch hospital, I knew I had to do something about me and these drugs. I knew no doctor was going to help me. I was denied admission by a doctor when I went there for help. I did as taught, asked for help using the words I was taught by psychiatrists and it was a psych resident who told me I didn’t really want to be in the hospital. I was suicidal, I had a plan, I was so scared of myself I knew the only safe place for me was on a locked unit in a hospital. I stated this, and was denied admission.
I went home, so dejected and so hurt. I had done as taught, as berated and humiliated by my psychiatrists, and I was denied admission. I hated that night and survived on hate. I turned to the devil himself to get me thru that night. I hated with every ounce of my being, with every part of my soul. I filled my body with hatred and when I felt the death thoughts creeping up on me, I filled myself with more hate. I became so full of hate I died in spirit that night. I killed myself that night in such a way that a body survived, but my soul was destroyed.
How I returned, how I got my soul back, a patient labelled person walked me back thru my dark corriders of hate. If not for her, I would be still lost in the dark halls of hatred.
I do not feel sorry for myself, no, I’m processiing out my feelings of anger, rage and hate in the only way left to me, blogging.
I wrote Psych USA which I am publishing on my blogspot for all to see. I want people to know it’s Acorn who is talking, it’s a nut, an Acorn who wrote about her abuse, in such a way that I am freeing myself from hatred.
I pity those who don’t understand. I don’t ask for pity, I don’t look for pity, I don’t write for pity. All I ask is to be heard.

AN ACON’S WILL

I will be independent,
I will be self-sufficient,
I will regain my lost sense of self,
I will respect myself
I will conduct myself with dignity and pride.
I will take care of myself
I will comfort my inner child
I will nourish the spirit that lies within.
I will love myself
I will trust
I will make mistakes, learn from them and continue on.
I will make a life for myself, by myself.
I will write about myself and my feelings, without apologies.
I will be responsible for only myself.
I will treat others with the respect I ask to be given from them.
I will form my own boundaries
I will respect the boundaries of others.
I will feel my feelings with no shame or blame.
I will cut the strings that tie me to my family.
I will show the world I am a person of worth.
I will show the world the strength of an ACON.
I am an ACON who broke her cycle of abuse.

Never Grew Up

CHILD PARENTS
I believe we are all born with narcissistic tendencies. A baby is the center of her universe, everything revolves around the baby and her needs. A baby knows how to get those needs met, by throwing a temper tantrum, crying, screaming, she soon discovers people respond to her. As we grow up we outgrow and learn new ways of relating, new ways of getting our needs met.
Father wants attention and like a little child he will do anything to get his needs met. I believe he, like other narcissists, never grew up. I know he throws temper tantrums. I’ve seen father throw a chair across the kitchen because there wasn’t any orange juice in the refrigerator. He got what he wanted, mother saw to it that there was always orange juice in the refrigerator from then on. Mother turned her anger on me. I know her to appear very loving and caring, but her hurts are deeper and more harmful than father’s. I was constantly played with like the little doll she always wanted as a child. She dressed me up in clothes she made, she played with my hair, cutting it and curling it so I resembled Shirley Temple. I never told her how I was constantly laughed at and ridiculed for the way I dressed or how she made me wear my hair. I always wanted long hair but never was permitted. I was always told it was too much trouble for HER to take care of. I was her little dolly, to be cared for, never allowed to grow up but kept in a little girl state.
When I was first in a psych hospital I said to father I can’t be the daughter he wanted. I turned to mother and said nothing. Mother went home and scrubbed the kitchen. To this day she has no idea why I wanted to kill myself.
Iwas given everything they wanted as a child. I was taken to all the places they wanted to go as a child but never went. I was the child they never were. I was denied my own childhood, instead my parents relived the childhood they always wanted thru me. I was given toys father always wanted, I was given the clothes mother always wanted, I had my needs, wants and desires ignored because they knew better what I wanted, afterall they had lived thru childhood and knew better what a child wants or needs.
Father always wanted to learn to play the piano, so I was forced to learn how to play the piano. Mother loves to knit and sew, so I was forced to learn how to knit and sew, two activities I hate to this day. I used to resemble mother when I was a small girl, to the point I was often called little sallie. I hated the nickname and I hated dressing up like mother. I am often mistaken as her younger sister, even now people think we are sisters and not mother and daughter, a fact mother loves.
I am becoming my own person, a fact neither parents wants to admit or acknowledge. I am fighting to be my own person and not the person they want me to be. I am growing up and out of their control. I no longer need their approval or advice, two things they taught me I couldn’t do without. I am freeing myself from their dictatorial control. I am gaining more control over myself and my life and leaving my childhood behind. I am becoming an adult, I am growing and it’s showing.

Where I'm At

An adult out of control is terrifying to a child. I often hid when father raged. Mother never protected me from father. My brothers and sister teased me until I would scream in frustration. I got really depressed and wanted to commit suicide. I was sent for therapy. The family is smart and knows what goes on in therapy, the family is talked about. I’m realizing now my family are really talented liars. I’m still in the process of sorting out my years in therapy and the family’s role in it. As much as I want acknowledgement of the pain they caused, are causing me, I’m realizing I will never get it.
I’m in the process of emotionally detaching myself from my family. I’m learnimg that the opposite of love is not hate, but detachment. Detachment is keeping me from being as easily hurt as I once was. Detaching lets me interact with them and still retain my sense of self. The family has shaped and formed who I was before, but I’m not letting them dictate who I am now. This is a very hard struggle for me, this is as far as I’ve come.

The Child Within

Treasure your child that lives within .
She is empathetic
She is compassionate.

Treasure your child that lives within
She is innocent.
She is trusting

Treasure your child that lives within
She is sentient.
She is aware.

Treasuree your child that lives within
She is yours to comfort
She is yours to love

She will always be in you
She will always be with you
She will always be you.

She is your Child that lives within.
She is your Spirit that lives within.

SELFISHNESS

I’m starting to take care of myself. Before I would drop everything and run to take care of the family. I put all of my family before all of me. I used to believe I was selfish if I put anything I wanted before my family. Now I’m realizing I can put some of my needs and wants ahead of my family’s, that doesn’t mean I’m being selfish. I sacrificed all my life for my family and now I’m taking time to do some much needed caring for myself Double standards is common in my family, my family can ask me to help them but I cannot ask them for help.

REACTION

My famly was told I suffer from a chemical imbalance, a fact psychiatry has yet to prove. I was an accomplished athlete and enrolled in honors English, honors French, honors math and honors chemistry classes in a high school for gifted teens. I was subjected to a battery of tests including an eeg and various intelligence tests when I was first admitted to a psych hospital. According to my test results I was very intelligent, proving a chemical imbalance was causing my depression. My family was happy that nothing they did to me caused me to become suicidally depressed.
I had to look deep inside me and learn about me to overcome my depression. I quit blaming myself for being bad and no longer believe I suffer from a chemical imbalance. I realize I’ve been reacting to the way I’m being treated by my family. I tell them I feel hurt when they talk about me in front of me as if I can’t hear what they are saying. I tell my sister how angry I become when she accuses me of being selfish. I was asked to go to a movie with her one Sunday and I was told all the way to the movie house, during the movie and the long drive home how she was sacrificing her first free day from work for me. I told my mother I too sometimes feel embarassed to be seen with her because of the way she dresses. I tell my father when he is doing something that is endangering my life. I showed him the pile of newspapers I already have and pointed out to him that the three batches of newspapers he just brought over now constitutes a fire hazard in my apartment. I now make statements about how I feel while I’m feeling it. I am showing the family I have never suffered from a chemical imbalance, but I suffer from the way they treat me.

BEWARE OF GREEKS BEARING GIFTS

My parents are trying. I was invited to dinner with them, I refused. I was notified they had bought me my favorite, black bean buns, I could have some if I wanted, again I refused.
I am acting very naturally, responding without thinking. After the phony phone call where I supposedly left a distress message on their machine, I didn’t accuse them of falsifying the phone call. Again I acted without thinking.
I realize now that was the best. If I had accused the parents of faking the call I would have started an altercation I could never win. I treated the situation as it should be treated, dumped it in the sewer where it belongs.
What I did not forget is how they came over and invaded my privacy, came in unannoounced and unwanted into my home and looked around. I haven’t told them anything pertaining to me medically and they needed to find out. I know they looked at all my pill bottles to see what I am taking. I was personally violated. RAPED. By my own parents. Both of them.
I am angry and showing them I am angry. In my family silence was used whenever we were angry at each other. We wouldn’t talk to each other at all. I am talking with the parents but I am using the physical distance to keep silence between us. I am amgry and for the first time in my life I am not denying my anger. I know unless I find some way to vent the anger it will sour within me and turn into rage. I know when I need help and am not afraid to get help. I am not ashamed to admit I need help. The shame would be in not getting that help.
This is the difference in me, knowing that I’m angry and not being afraid to ask for help. My spirit is strong within and it knows when it cannot walk alone.

MY SPIRIT SHINES THRU

I answer my parent’s friends’ questions as truthfully as I can. I don’t know what the parents are saying about me, I’m sure their friends are puzzled with the discrepancies. I tried to give my mother information about my condition but she left it on top of my trash can.
I found three phone calls on my answering machine and two emails in my inbox when I came home, all from mother, concerned about my well being. I supposedly had called and left an unintelligeable message on their answering machine. All that could be understaood was someone they thought was me saying help me, help me. I cannot forgive my parents or my family for the way they’ve been treating me these past few months. It is obviouis I am being neglected, not taken care of, not being cared for. I have taken charge of my life with little to no help from them. I am getting help from people, strangers, and the family cannot accept this fact. I have been able to make changes within myself, permanent changes. I know my family is seeing the changes within me and are desperate to regain control of me. I am declaring my freedom from an abusive and neglectful family. This is not the first time I have been accused of leaving an unintelleageable message of distress on their answering machine, but I am reacting differently to their terror tactics. I am very forgetful and this has always been used against me by my family, but not this time. I know I did not leave a message and cannot be convinced into believing I did and forgt. I resent the fact that my mother and father entered my apartment without my permissoin to make sure I was fine. I had my privacy violated and feel they raped me. I will not let them intimidate or terrorize me into a psychosis ever again. I have developed an inner strength that is shining thru. They are seeing the Spirit that lives within.

THE WARRIOR SPIRIT

I realize there are many issues not worth fighting about. I do fight for the issues that matter to me. I am taking the first step in stopping abuse, any abuse, by stopping me from abusing myself. I self-abuse with words. I say I’m a nut, I’m stupid, I’m no good. I’ve stopped referring to me in this manner because I’ve learned to respect myself. I know there is nothing wrong or bad to say I’m good, I’m smart, but I was taught saying these words meant I was selfish and self-centered.
I am an ACON, an adult child of narcisstic parents. I once was asked to state the family’s principles, it is to obey, obey the father without question or hesitation. The family’s ideal is perfection, everything I did had to be perfect, nothing less was accepted. I realize I can overcome the painful memories of my childhood by nurturing the Warrior Spirit that lives within.

FORGIVENESS

I cannot forgive someone who claims there is nothing to forgive. I think it’s a bit pompous of me to offer forgiveness if the person has not asked for my forgiveness.
I was told by my psychiatrists I had to learn to forgive my parents. My parents don’t have a clue what they did and never asked me to forgive them. I was the one who had to learn to ask them to forgive me, but I was not in therapy to ask for forgiveness. I told the story of my life as I saw it and experienced it. I am being told by psychiatry that I must accept my parent’s reality of my childhood as the only reality. I kept refusing as this idea is so abusurd. I am expected to accept there is only one way to perceive what happens between two people and my views are always wrong.
I became very depressed. I was being suppressed, my feelings and perceptions were being denied me. I learned that I had to admit I was very sick, that I suffered from delusions and needed to learn to trust the therapist and accept their perceptions as the only truth. Psychiatry was just like father, supressing and oppressing me. It’s no wonder I never got better while I was under psychiatric care.
All the drug treatments and the drug cocktails I was forced to take never helped me. I became confused, belligerent and offensive. My behavior changed for the worse as more and more drugs were forced on me in an effort to calm me into sedateness. It wasn’t until I started to decrease my drug load that my behavior changed for the better.
I went to a Survivor’s Center complaining that I was toxic on these psych drugs, that my behavior was being affected in a bad way and wanted help to taper off these drugs. I knew that the drugs were affecting my behavior and making me act in ways that were strange to me. I was disbelieved. I was subjected to humilation after humiliation. When I was told I could not accuse anyone of sexual misconduct, I knew my “story” of a childhood rape was again being disbelieved. I knew that I was being perceived as a mentally ill woman seeking attention when I was offered services for my psychiatric condition instead of for my physical condition.
I became very angry and enraged, I tried to focus attention on my physical aillments but kept being ignored. Only my emotional state was addressed while I was at that Center. The Director employed techniques to change the way I talked. I had to learn to ask for help in the manner he expected, talk the way he wanted. I protested. If I had to learn how to ask in the manner he wanted, I wanted him to learn to answer me in the manner I wanted. Such an attitude caused me much grief and I left the Center filled with anger and rage.
I cannot forgive any of the Survivors at that center for the way they treated me. I feel they should have known better. Try as they did, these survivors, like psychiatrists and therapists, could not touch the Spirit that lives within.

SPIRITUAL BELIEFS

I believe in One whom I call the Great Equalizer. She is a judge and a balancer of the scales.
There has been much done to me that I cannot explain. My belief in Her gives me much relief from the agonies of doubt, despair, and the want and need for revenge. I gave up trying to prove any of the mysetrious things that have happened, are happening to me. I am sustained and kept at peace by my belief She will balance the scales for me. I’ve been mistreated by mysterious others and I believe one day they will experience the same emotional pain and agonies they put me thru.
I believe She can exact a more fitting punishment than I can ever dream of. Revenge is not for me, is not mine, but for Her to mete out. I am able to shed the anger and rage I felt for a very long time thru my beliefs in Her. I know when I meet Her, I will find out the truth of my life.
I am content to wait, no one can touch the Spirit that lives within.

SIMPLE ACTS OF KINDNESS

I focus on myself and keep all other thoughts of others out of my mind. I cared about others so much that I never learned to take proper care of myself. I had been punished as a child whenever I put my self ahead of any of my family. I was taught not to focus any attention on my self but to think constantly of others, thinking of others and sacrificing my self became the purpose of my life.
I concentrated on others and their care so much I did not deal with the anger that was building up inside. I was constantly thinking of others yet it became clear to me that no one ever thought of me, my feelings, my wants or dreams. The anger and resentment built up inside with no release, I became very depressed and wanted to commit suicide. I could see no way out of my dilemma.
A teacher recognized the signs of my extreme distress, and the day that I had decided to commit suicide, I went to say good-bye to the only person who tried to help me. I was taken by him and the school nurse to various hospitals where I was refused help. I was finally taken to one hospital where my life as a psych patient began.
In hospital I was not like the other teenagers. They came from broken homes or were committed to the hospital by the juvenile court for observation and assessement. I had nothing in common with my fellow patients, we were worlds apart. They were drug dealers, prostitutes, thieves, the “dregs” of society. My parents went to the parent’s support group where my mother cried over the sad stories told by the other parents who struggled witih their unruly teenagers. My parents quit going to the parents group on the grounds they had nothing in common with these other parents.
I found much empathy and compassion from these teens. They showed me an understanding and kindness I had never known. I grew to like my fellow teens very much. Though we were worlds apart, we shared one experience, parents who didn’t understand us or our anger.
All of us showed our anger in inappropriate ways. We were all abused in one way or another, but psychiatry focused only on us and only us, it was our behavior that needed to be changed, not anyone else’s.
As a group, we patients fought against the system in our own little ways. I would hide a pea under my napkin, my plate was always monitored to make sure I ate enough. I was forced to eat even though the food was unpalatable. I had help, the other kids would “steal” food off my plate to fool staff into thinking I had eaten. Iwas taught survival skills by the kids, not by any staff. Staff only taught me to lie, cheat and steal, this was necessary to survive inside a locked teenage psych unit.
I was often put in restraints for my behavior. I had been taught to walk away from situations that would cause me anger, and I followed my training. The first time I did this, I was tackled by male staff, thrown to the floor, and then wrapped in sheets for 6 hours, the required punishment time. I had no idea what was happening and fought like a tiger. I was started on mellaril, stelazine, elavil, and cogentin for my uncontrolled behavior. I got worse on the medication, I fought and cursed and refused to follow the program. My parents were appalled at the change in me, I had never behaved like that before. I became abusive to the staff, tried to break windows and punch out walls. I was forcibly tackled, had my pants and panties yanked down and a shot of thorazine injected into my butt and spent many hours in sheets. Once I was sheeted for twelve hours to teach me a lesson.
Being in sheets is sheer torture. I was wrapped up like a mummy with only my head and feet sticking out. I was tied at the elbows and knees and strapped down with a sheet over my breast, waist and legs. Depending on the staff’s whim, I could be strapped down very tightly enough to restrict the blood flow to my body. I was punished with more sheet time if I yelled or screamed or called for help. Silence was golden and the rule. I would become very hot in sheets, but no one was allowed to give me any water. I passed out quite frequently, I grew so hot.
I was recently told that sheets are no longer used. This doctor must not know that sheets are still being used, in the hospital she is affiliated with. I know, I had witnessed a patient sheeted while I was last incarcerated in the psych unit.
Sheets are very effective to convince me to behave. I have a fear of being sheeted and will instantly obey any command given if threatened with sheets. I was last in the er when I was to be sheeted. I was to be given the full treatment, whatever that meant, while in sheets. My mother sat there while the er staff prepared a sheet bed. I knew I could count on no help from her. I tried to center myself and calm my fears. I knew if I fought it would be worse for me but my fear of sheets and my hatred of sheets grew and I knew once I walked out the room and was tackeld, I would fight with every ounce of strength to not be sheeted. Sheets are an outrage to the body, an insult to the soul, and a degradation to a human being. I want all psychiatrists and doctors to have a sheet experience, to be spend six hours in sheets and then relate to me how they felt. I want them to experience the pain of sheets, the heat exhaustion and the aches in the body caused by sheets. There are no bathroom breaks while in sheets, I learned either to hold it in or soil myself. I learned that soiling myself was punished with more sheet time, it was better to suffer the agonies of holding myself in than more sheet time.
Restraints are said to be used only when necessary. I was restrained for refusing to take my psych drugs. I was being given haldol, a drug which caused me to have painful spasms and stick my tongue out. I had a psychiatrist not believe I did this since I never stuck out my tongue or spasmed in front of him. I saw him once a week fro 50 minutes, I lived with my family 24/7who witnessed this happening. I had taken myself off haldol, went into a withdrawal psyhcosis, was hospitalized and refused to restart haldol. I was thrown on the floor, injected with haldol, and I heard one staff say, put her in sheets to teach her a lesson. I was injected and sheeted every time I refused to take my haldol. I was taught by a prostitute and a transvestite I could maintain my dignity while I obeyed the staff. I was taught the fine art of hiding within myself, my true self while appearing to obey and do whatever the staff wanted.
I had been brutally beaten, tortured and raped by a pedophile when I was a little girl. What I experienced that hospitalization resembled what that pedophile subjected me to. I groveled and did many humiliating things with a smile and a grin. Eventually I got out. As I was leaving, my friend the whore called after me, remember your lessons well and never return.
Because of a whore and a drag queen, the staff and the doctors never touched the Spirit that lives within.
I survived the agonies and brutalities of psychiatric treatments thru a lot of simple acts of kindness.

A DELIBERATE CHOICE

Riding in the car with my father as the driver is putting my life in his hands. When he drives, my father is like a raging bull. Woe to the driver who should honk his horn at him. I watch in horror as my father is transformed from kind Dr. Jekyll to mean Mr. Hyde. I watch him scowl and his face grow red as he deliberately blocks the other driver from entering the lane.
Once my father was driving and another driver honked his horn. My father became a raging bull, but all of a sudden he turned into a peaceful lamb, smiled, waved his hand and let the other driver in. I couoldn’t believe what had just happened. I looked at the other driver and saw it was a long time friend of father. This friend was laughing and pointing his finger at father, and father just laughed, calm and peacefully as if he’s always this way.
I believe my father does know how to behave and can control his temper, if he chooses, but he chooses not to not control his temper or his behavior. I saw my father regain his composure and good will that day when he knew he had to behave or be shamed in front of his friend.
A narcissist, a nsh in my words, needs to put up a front, an act, be seen as so good, kind, and considerate to others, but when in the confines of his home, or his car, his real nature shows. The kind man who would give the shirt off his back to anyone becomes a Scrooge, a man who would not give an inch but wants all for himself and only himself.
It’s no wonder no therapist believed me when I tell them how it was for me during my childhood, they were fooled by the greatest actor of all time, my father.

GASLIGHTING

BLUE SKY, GREEN SKY

I say the sky is blue, my family say the sky is green. People aren’t sure so they ask the family. The family tells them the sky is green. Some people tell me the sky has to be green, that’s what the family claims.
Father and Mother insist the sky is green. I am told by sister the sky is blue, but she tells everyone else the sky is green. I ifnd out she is telling everyone I say the sky is blue just to make trouble.
When I was home after having surgery, I asked my father to tell me if the sky is blue or green. My father told me the sky is green. I asked him why he told me before the sky was blue. He replied he read it was blue on a bulletin board, but the sky is really green. Father pats me on the head and reminds me how he is always right, to trust in him, he is never wrong. I cry tears of shame and sorrow. I apologize to hiim for telling eveyone he told me the sky was blue. He smiles down at me and tells me that’s what parents are for, to forgive their children when they are wrong. Totally humiliated and ashamed I do whatever he tells me, whatever he wants, I do so without question.
I return to my home. I remember there are books in my father’s house that say the sky is blue, there are movies that show a blue sky, I remember giving pictures to my father with the sky colored blue. Every memory I have tells me the sky is blue. My father insists all my memories are wrong. I remember mother telling me the sky was blue but she insists she only told me the sky was green. I left their home when I found documents in her handwriting talking about blue skys.
Certain people believe father. I came under their care. I kept insisting the sky is blue and they insist I suffer from a damaged brain from birth. I am given cetain drugs to rebalance my brain chemistry so that I will give up the belief the sky is blue and learn to say that the sky is green. I believe the sky is blue despite what the drugs do to me. I’ve learned not to insist that the sky is blue, only to state what I believe. I’ve learned to state the sky is blue only to those I think will believe me.

If I were to tell my true story, I fear I will lbe subjected to more psychiatric drug treatments which only dulls my mind and deaden my feelings. The truth of my life can only be told as an analogy, this is the safest way for me to tell my story.