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.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, February 09, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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