Shreds Of A Brain

One More Time...

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 19:49:00 +0000

Once again I have had to go through the labrythine process of getting the password for the email account this blog is hosted by (not a Google address) and then the password for this blog, which took a long time because I didn't remember this email account was the host. Understand that, kiddies?

Back to our regularly scheduled damaged intellect. My husband doesn't want to have sex with me any more. We used to manage once a week (we're on the older side), now he can't seem to keep it up inside me, even with Viagra. Last night he was masturbating and mentioned that he did it often. I didn't know that. He's mostly spoken of our sex life in tones of anxiety and downright dread. Yeah, a real turn-on. I feel so loved. NOT.

I left and went to sleep on the couch. The next morning I woke up and he was here, typing emails. (The couch is right next to this chair.) We were both too tired to talk about it. But shit, maybe a LITTLE consolation? SOMETHING?

It feels more like we're roommates then marrieds. Note to my husband: cram it, asshole. Go fuck one of those underage girls you find so hot.

I wish I could break something.

Finally Got My Blog Back!

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 00:13:00 +0000

My blog went into a timeless void (i.e. I lost the technical info) and I have been laboring to retrieve it (i.e. sending emails into black holes). But I think I've gotten back. Posts to follow.

"House, M.D." & The Stigma of Mental Illness, Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 03:16:00 +0000

(In response to someone's comment that they'd always thought mental hospitals were terrifying places.)

Most people don't know about mental hospitals. (Personally, I refer to them as "loony bins".) They are usually part of a larger hospital, and as clean and shiny as PPTH.

"Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital "

However, the violent wards are pretty frightening...I've never stayed in one, but I've gone to AA meetings in them. It would be highly inappropriate and unrealistic for House to be in a high-security locked ward, even though he is an addict.

During my first commitment many years ago, there was a poor fellow detoxing from benzodiazopines (probably Xanax). He was shaking all over, constantly. And there was a young woman who had the mental age of six, although she was 35, and she was there because they were changing her medication and needed to do it in a safe environment. In real life, that would be the sort of situation House would be in...supervised withdrawal with psychiatric help.

There are lousier state hospitals, but even those are nothing like prisons. In the Season Five episode "The Social Contract," House went with Wilson to a New York hospital so Wilson could see his long-lost schizophrenic brother. I promise you, I have NEVER seen a waiting room like that in a hospital...dark green, dimly lit, and empty. It made no sense, except dramatically. Way to go, "House, M.D.", make viewers think that hospitals are the end of the world. Graystone Hospital, where they are filming the first episode of Season Six, looks like Frankenstein's Castle.

Graystone Hospital, closed in the 1990s. Now standing in for "Mayfield Hospital".

I wish the writers felt a greater responsibility to be realistic--or at least as realistic as television allows.

"House, M.D." & The Stigma of Mental Illness, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 03:10:00 +0000

This was written in response to a discussion board post about the season 5 finale of "House, M.D.", wherein he checks himself into a mental hospital. I will try to make it an unconfusing as possible, since it was a give and take argument. It was suggested that the show would be like "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest," which is one of the most hideously outdated portrayals of mental hospitals out there. This was my initial response.)

Okay, back on my soapbox: real mental hospitals are nothing like One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest!

Bedlam Asylum, 1800s

Yes, there are occasionally nasty nurses, or doctors who can't be bothered (and the food is relentlessly terrible). I know they chose the hospital for dramatic effect, but I would be seriously disappointed if they choose to show Mayfield as some sort of torture chamber. When one is mentally ill, the stigma is unbearable enough in real life. To say, as they did in one ep, that House would be unable to practice if he was on psych meds, is untrue, as is the idea that he would be given shock treatment. It makes it that much harder for those of us who live with it to have people think that's what the reality is, when it is nothing like that.

If anything, psych wards are often eerily quiet, mostly because so many of the patients are heavily drugged. (There are levels of lockdown, too--some wards have no locked doors except equipment closets, nurses stations, medication room--in the wards for the more violent patients, every door is locked, and there are small windows to look in on the patients. There's no reason for House to end up in a ward like that, he's more "Insanity Lite," as I once dubbed it.)

I can't imagine House clean and sober; I'm guessing it would be like when Foreman had his near-death experience and was briefly "happy," until House ruined it for him. This is a deeply damaged person, and one stay in a hospital cannot cure someone like that. It can help, but it can't cure.

Just today I was talking with another bipolar friend. She went public about it in an article, and the backlash has been tremendous. Suddenly everybody's attributing everything to her being "crazy." This is a smart, perceptive, hard-working person who has nothing outwardly wrong with her, but now the finger is pointed. She regrets her actions and has always told me never to go public about my illness.

I'm also disappointed because Stephen Fry, Hugh Laurie's friend, has spent time in psych wards, and I'm sure HL might have done a little time in one during one of his mega-depressed periods. So why do they perpetuate this myth that psych wards are antique hell-holes filled with dangerous lunatics?

There is one thing...if he is perceived as violent or disruptive he will be placed in a "quiet room," as they like to call them. Used to be called "the rubber room" because the walls and floor ARE padded, and there is usually only a mattress with no bedding on the floor, so there is nothing to hurt yourself with. I've never been put in one, thank God, but at the last hospital (in April of this year) they were in frequent use and it was highly disturbing, since my room was in the same small wing and I could hear EVERYTHING. The daily sounds in a hospital are disturbing enough, even if they are very quiet.

I haven't thought about this for a long time...once there was a gent who would walk up to you and say "Good MORNING!" in your face at least fifty times a day, and never said anything else, at least in front of the other patients.

Then there are the schizophrenic religious maniacs--you have to watch out if you think they're addressing you! One woman sat next to me at breakfast muttering about how when Jesus returned he would kill all the women, and I said something stupid like "I beg your pardon?" She started screaming at me and the nurses had to come calm her down. This same woman hogged the one working VCR/TV watching "Jumping Jack Flash" with Whoopi Goldberg EVERY SINGLE NIGHT because she thought the movie was sending her special signals.

This was while "House" was in season, so a bunch of us who were "House" fans planned a take-over of the other television set, in the patients' lounge. We waited quietly, and then at 8 pm turned the channel and refused to change it!

You see? You can find "House" fans ANYWHERE!

"House, M.D." & The Stigma of Mental Illness, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 03:00:00 +0000

Here's the first promo for "House, M.D.", Season Six.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3_1JzZ4CeI

Okay, gang, you know I've logged some serious time in psych wards, as well as visited friends in psych wards and rehab, and not just in NYC. The hospital in the spoiler for "House, M.D." Season 6 makes me so ANGRY I want to punch something! (Don't worry, the meds take care of it.) It is EXACTLY what I was afraid of...mental hospitals don't even LOOK LIKE THAT ANY MORE! The only accurate thing was the medicine window and the bank of pay telephones.

But the interior, the way it was done up, the hospital rooms...all phony, phony, phony. Dramatic, yes, but thanks for the added stigma, House writers. Orderlies don't even behave that way for fear of lawsuits! (Carry him kicking and screaming.) They do what House always does, they stick you with a needle! (I've never had that done to me, but I've witnessed it enough with violent or non-compliant hysterical patients.)

(A comment posted by someone else: When a hospital that size is only devoted to psychiatric disorders it has to be creepy inside.)

And what, precisely, gave you that idea? Are the contractors told, "Hey, it's a mental hospital, creep it up. Makes the patients crap themselves when they first come in, then we don't have to drug them as much. Oh, and while you're at it, peel the paint, willya? It's the funniest thing, man, when one of our patients starts eating it! And if you can make it dark; don't use bright lightbulbs, these people don't bathe much, you know what I mean? The nurses hate looking at dirty people. It's bad enough they smell, but poor personal grooming, well, nobody needs to see that. And dark green paint is the perfect color for the walls, make sure it's matte, no light reflection possible. Helps the suicidal ones along--they'll usually kill themselves before their insurance runs out. Remember--think creepy!"

Hate to burst your bubble, but the New York Psychiatric Institute is HUGE, and the building is as shiny as a new penny. And it's even got some windows here and there. Of course, it's not New Jersey. Maybe besides bad drivers, New Jersey has a premium on out-of-date psychiatric hospitals, fictional or otherwise.

I just need to vent...it is so frustrating to know that my favorite show is only going to make things worse for those of us who have been there, done that, by getting it ALL WRONG.

Off to sulk...dammit...I'm so disappointed. Sorry for the buzzkill, kids.

Another Year Older, But Not Deeper In Debt...

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 17:32:00 +0000

The sale of the property had a salutary effect on my finances. Not salutary enough, but it helped pay my debts off (which were substantial). We bipolar people suck with money, that's for sure.

Sorry I haven't written here in so long, mostly because I couldn't find it! Right now I am in the traumatic process of changing my psychiatrist. My doctor of many years is moving to California, and later this month I will be interviewing his successor. Being a Medicare patient sucks, not the least of it is that the field of choice is incredibly narrow.

My mother bears the faint hope that a new doctor will "take me off all of those awful drugs." Little does she know...

The Voices In My Head - Present, Tense

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 04:58:00 +0000

So, it's late at night, and I've been trying to fall asleep. But every time I do, I'm jerked awake by various hideous images or voices screaming. This happened last night, and I've been tossing and turning at night most nights and feeling exhausted during the day.

I don't know what to make of it...things are going well. During the day I often feel quite cheerful. The beach house was sold, and I felt immense relief upon leaving. Some activities in life have come up that have been both challenging and fun. Although my anxiety level is quite high a fair amount of the time, because of that. Is my brain punishing me? Why am I so frightened? Of what?

Saying Good-bye To The Family Summer Home...

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 19:44:00 +0000

(written Sept. 4)

My last night (Labor Day) down at our beach house, which will soon be a pile of rubble, I went out to the ocean late at night. I told my husband first. The moon was out. It was a half moon, and bright orange, like a pomegranate. The stars were bright in the black night sky.

I said my goodbyes aloud, standing knee-deep in the warm ocean water, and then hurled a ceramic ashtray of my father's (it was iconic, I'd seen him using it for decades, and my mom made it) into the water, and then I just howled with grief until I was too tired to make another peep. All of the other houses were dark, people had gone home, and I knew I was drowned out by the surf. I trudged back up to the house.

The next morning, at 7:30 AM, my mother and I took a spontaneous last swim. There had been some objects in my father's workshop since 2004: a half-filled teacup, a full ashtray, and his sunglasses. It was like a still-life, like he'd gone upstairs and never came back down. I'd photographed it a few times.

Anyway, the workmen on the house next store have been stealing from us, and they'd broken into his workshop and left things a royal mess (my mother and sister refused to do anything about it), so the still life was destroyed. I took the cup and the sunglasses, and when I was chest deep in the water, I threw them into the ocean, yelling, "Goodbye!"

I had to help my mom out of the water, and she said, "Somebody's going to cut themselves on those things." I pointed out that the current was fast and going toward the jetty, so they'd probably wash up near there, and someone would wonder whose sunglasses they were. I got through Tuesday by not only taking my dope, but also a Xanax. I actually helped load the truck until my husband and Mom came back from making yet another donation to the local hospital, so it all didn't kick in until we got into the car, whereupon I passed out. When we got home, I collapsed and spent the rest of the day comatose.

Today I see my psychiatrist, and we can discuss a weaning schedule. I want OFF this stuff! It's so much better to be home, to know that I said my goodbyes. My mom and the Dauphin are going down there tomorrow for another weekend, and then he will return to do some other stuff that has to be done before the house is demolished (along with the remaining contents).

As my doctor said, "The ocean isn't going anywhere." Thank God for that.

Labor Day Weekend Continues...

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 19:30:00 +0000

(written September 3)

Last night I played the Johnny Cash and Trent Reznor versions of "Hurt," on youtube for Lucretia, which was probaby not the smartest thing to do, because the lyrics had been running through my head all day.

This morning I awoke to an orgy of packing, and wrapped a huge ceramic kangaroo for Cordelia(it will go in my mom's storeroom for now). I asked my sister if I could use the computer and get on YouTube and play a bunch of "feel good" songs (hardly my first choice). So I played U2's "It's A Beautiful Day," "Vertigo," and now I'm listening to the Reverend Horton Heat. Hideously loud and percussive, but it's fun.

I'm still desperately sad, medicated up to the eyeballs. But this will be over by tomorrow, I keep reminding myself. My dog's paw is also healing, thank god. The weather and the ocean are perfect. Oh, God.

Swimming Away - Written September 2, 2007

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 19:19:00 +0000

I'll admit today was the closest to suicidal I've come (not close enough, thank God).

I took my stupid pills and went swimming. The water is rough but beautiful, but nobody else would go in.

When I was an unhappy little kid, I would start swimming for the horizon, and the lifeguard would have to go get me over and over (this did not go over big with my parents). I think I believed that anywhere was better than here, and out on the ocean was as good a place as any.

I've been flashing on that a lot, and today, being alone in the water (there was a lifeguard), I started swimming toward the horizon. I had just taken all of my medication, so I don't think I was in my right mind, and my body was sluggish.

Occasionally I'd check that my feet still touched the ground, but the water was so beautiful, so green/blue and sunlit, I wanted to keep going. I waited for the whistle, but there was none. (The lifeguard knows me and knows I'm a strong, if idiosyncratic, swimmer.) Then I realized my feet were no longer touching the ground, I swallowed some salt water, and perhaps this would ruin the weekend for everyone else. Plus there are no guarantees that drowning is a pleasant way to go. (I almost tried it once under very different circumstances, during an earlier suicide attempt.) And what if a shark bit me while I was still alive? Not fun. And if the lifeguard, who was now merely a speck in the distance, had to haul me in, I wouldn't be allowed to swim again, and that would suck.

So I flipped over on my back and swam back toward shore. Fortunately I was crying but the water made my eyes red anyway.

When I came out, the lifeguard said, "Isn't the water great?" I nodded and headed upstairs to the house and the shower. I sat on the stairs and cried. Later, I told Lucretia I did not want to go swimming alone between now and when we leave. She understood.

Labor Day Weekend...The Endless Summer Ends

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Sun, 02 Sep 2007 23:31:00 +0000

(Written August 28)

We are down here for Labor Day weekend, to finish dismantling the house before it is completely torn down.

Tonight my mother, Lucretia, my husband and I were eating dinner (lobster!) and talking about when and how to pack what's going back. I went through the top half of the house and pulled a lot of vintage blankets and some chenille bedspreads. I think Cordelia got rid of the Indian ones!!! She also gave away ALL of the clothing, even though I had asked her not to.

My dog has a blister or something on his left paw that's making it difficult for him to get around, poor little guy. And I'm taking my stupid pills...especially because last night and this afternoon I started hearing voices. I don't know how else to explain it. This has happened very occasionally when I've been strung out to the limit...as I fall asleep I keep thinking people are screaming and it jerks me awake. Then, this afternoon I was convinced my mother was calling me while I was napping, so I got up and went out, and she wasn't. Since my last entry, I had managed to reach my psychiatrist, who told me to double my dose of clonazepam, and take a Xanax when things got really bad.

The major effect of what I call "dope to cope" is that it leaves me completely unable to move, or at least it did at first. For about an hour I would lie on the bed, and I had to hire an emergency dogwalker. I'm not taking the Xanax, this clonazepam is bad enough. "You need to be distanced from your feelings," Dr. Gottlieb had said.

We were going for 'drinks' at some neighbors' house, so I took another stupid pill, because that really shook me up and I was filled with grief.(Unfortunately, it took effect while we were at this little gathering, so I had to seek out the most senile old man there and listen to him talk endlessly about his cat, while I nodded and tried to keep my eyes open!) I don't know if I've explained the 'stupid pills'--basically heavy sedation because I had a manic episode.

The fun never stops!

Bouncing Off The Walls: Wish They Were Made of Rubber

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Sun, 19 Aug 2007 02:04:00 +0000

Recently I've been troubled by the feeling that I am becoming manic. All of the signs are there; irritability, agitation, trouble concentrating. Add to that an inability to sleep, a re-emerging addiction to Internet porn (which leaves me in a state of constant, unsatisfied horniness), and a spending spree. Yeah, I guess I'd say I was pretty goddamn manic.

The icing on the top of this particular insanity cupcake is that Dr. Goldstein, my new therapist, and the marriage counselor are all GOING ON VACATION THIS WEEK!!! UNTIL AFTER LABOR DAY!

Jee-zuss.

Not to mention my husband taking off on yet another trip, a visit to his mother in North Carolina. I am really, really pissed.

He'll return in time for us to go down to the beach house for the final clean-out. Oh, God. Now there's something I'm not looking forward to.

Tonight I took a Xanax along with my other meds. I'm hoping it will calm me down enough to sleep. This sucks.

Sorry to be so whiny, at least I'm bathing regularly again!

The Moving Finger, Having Demolished, Moves On

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 16:31:00 +0000

(written August 7, 2007)

The thing that really sent me over the edge last night was looking out the front porch, and seeing three strangers standing there, with one guy excitedly pointing out what would be where, where our house is currently standing.

I came out onto the top of the stairs and said,"Can I help you?" He got very flustered, said he was the contractor, and they left.

Plus people who use the beach (we're the only people who've allowed beach access over the years) are storing their crap under our house! Last night I hauled PILES of beach chairs, umbrellas and other shit from under the house and pointedly left it under one of the few remaining trees on the property, right by the stairs to the beach. I mean, we still live here, for Christ's sake! It's one thing for the lifeguards to do it--until this year, we always let them park here, but the new owners of the other lots won't let them. But they can still store their equipment here.

Today was the worst yet. I met the builder of monstro-house, who was a raging jerk, and told me he was going to pull the 'ugly stumps' (what is left of our trees on one side) and then our fence will fall down, to be replaced by a white plastic fence.

He went into a long rant about how you have to build with plastic and vinyl to build next to the ocean. I pointed out our house is entirely made of wood, has survived for decades, and he refused to believe me. Anyway, at the end of it, I went upstairs and was in hysterics--thank God my husband was here. The saddest part was that all or most of the trees are gone. He said people don't want trees. But it's a barrier island! When the next hurricane comes, what do they think is going to protect their precious McMansions!

When Hurricane Andrew hit, the other side of the road was mostly undeveloped, and only one house got totaled. Now...

We leave for home tonight. First I have to walk around the house and decide what we want to take. My stomach hurts.

Altered States - Present, Tense

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 00:01:00 +0000

My husband is away until either late tonight or tomorrow, depending on his driving companion's exhaustion level. I haven't bathed since Friday. Last night I lay in bed, trying to remember if I had showered that day or the day before or the day before that...

I have to have a list of things to do that include bathing, walking the dog, brushing my teeth, eating, taking my medication. Otherwise I hardly do any of these things. Thank God my cats are self-sufficient!

Right now I'm listening to music that throws me into a slightly altered state, which reminds me of my drinking days. I would listen to pounding, loud music and write. When I stopped, my head would be buzzing. The only way to stop the buzzing was a large glass of wine. (Of course, a large glass of wine was my solution to everything.)

Recently I discovered YouTube. There were all of those songs I used to listen to, with the videos--Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Live, etc. I watched the videos and went into a completely altered state--it was like having the best of my madness. Seeing wonderful Kurt Cobain again, one of my spiritual soulmates...the insanity in his eyes is beautiful.

Sometimes I'll be tripped up by a video on television that has too much resonance. For instance, when I was in my teens, I used to listen to the Doors and hallucinate without the benefit of drugs. One song in particular, "The Unknown Soldier", brought on intense hallucinations of marching troops, firing squads. At the end, when all of the bells are crashing, I imagined the soldier's widow collapsing, screaming, in the middle of a huge flank of marching soldiers.

Last year I had on VH1 Classic, and of all things, they played a video of "The Unknown Soldier." I was at my desk My keyboard faces the television. I stood up, frozen where I stood. As I watched, all of my hallucinations came to life--the firing squad, the blood on the flowers, mixed with the Doors in live performance. I shook all over, and started to cry, but I could not move to change the channel. After it was over, I ran into the bedroom, screaming hysterically, and called Dr. Gottlieb.

So you can guess that's not on my Itunes playlist. But I have been downloading a number of songs that "take me back." That's probably not healthy. So is not bathing. I'm not sure what part of me I am getting in touch with by doing this (not the not bathing, the music). It's something deep and very disturbed. I wish I understood myself.

Down To The Sea With Shits...

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 03:07:00 +0000

(This was written August 5)

My oldest sister left for home this afternoon, at almost the exact time my husband arrived, so they only saw each other for half an hour.

My other sister pitched a tent in the garden (as she always does). During the night there was a FEROCIOUS thunderstorm, such crashing thunder that the house was shaking! I ran out of the bedroom, and there was my mother. We both said 'Cordelia!' but didn't know what to do. I looked in the spare bedroom but she wasn't there. I looked out the window at her tent, and it seemed secured.

This morning she told us she was lying there quaking with fear, terrified of being struck by lightning. Especially because now all of the trees are gone and there isn't anything HIGH anymore to get hit!

Earlier today I grabbed a hammer and fixed the screen door, and fixed a couple of other things. Despite having another thunderstorm, I got in a swim in the morning and a swim in the late afternoon (after the lifeguard had left).

I have this lump of sadness in my stomach. It's surreal to stand with Mom and Cordelia and talk about which figures we want from the top of the kitchen cabinets. My mother is a potter and painter, and there are literally thousands of pieces of pottery and dozens of paintings everywhere.

Cordelia started throwing things in a box. When I reminded her that Lucretia had specifically asked her not to do that, she blew up, saying she had nothing, that our brother has two houses, I have so much space, etc. "That's not what it's about!" I said. "It's about consideration for other people's feelings!"

"I don't care about other people's feelings!"

"Then you are being fucking selfish!" I was standing at the base of the stairs leading to the porch, glaring up at her.

"So I'm selfish! Deal with it! It's how I am!" She slammed inside.

We made up later, but then she remarked that she hoped my niece (who is retarded and provided for in my mother's will) chokes to death before our mother dies so we can split the money.

Tonight I've been staying away from the rest of the family . They're all in the TV room as I type this, because I just want to cry. The computer is in what used to be my father's office, and it's surrounded by all of this rusted, corroded crap. Last year I cleaned out his office and workshop, but hanging on the doorway to my right is a Harpo horn I gave him, and behind me is a bulletin board with pictures of all of us as kids and a postcard from one of my shows. To my left is a large photo collage of our garden before Hurricane Andrew.

Oh, no, it's disappeared. Jesus. It was there last night. I hate this.

At The Beach House - Present, Tense

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 01:34:00 +0000

It's been so long since I wrote in here, and so much has happened.

Right now I am down at my family's beach house at the Jersey shore. We got here yesterday morning, and what a shock!!! My brother and mother have been here, but not me or my two sisters.

My dad had planted pines all the way around the property, and they have ALL been cut down, including the ones on the property that is still ours until September, where the house is. Also, everything else has been graded and removed,and a HUGE monstro-house with an elevator, no less, is being built in the middle lot. (The roadside lot just sold a few weeks ago.) Yesterday I walked my dog around the perimeter of the property, and went to where the edge of our tennis court used to abut the woods. There are new owners on either side of us, so everything has been torn down there as well (not the houses, but the woods). I'd always wondered what was on the other side of the far door of the tennis court, but couldn't open it due to the woods and poison ivy. Back then, in front was a driveway and a huge pile of lumber (my dad's).

Now, there was nothing, except some rotted ancient tennis balls. The workmen on monstro house have stolen a lot of stuff from the bottom floor of the house (stuff on the outside).

As we unloaded the car, I turned to my sister Cordelia and said, "I feel like God has taken a shit on my head." And she nodded. Then, carrying the luggage, I slipped and fell on what used to be the driveway and skinned my knee. It seemed appropriate.

Everywhere you look out the window, everything is different.

Except when you look straight out at the ocean. Thank God, that is the same. I got hysterical and called my psychiatrist, who said I had to "feel the feelings" of loss and grief. My oldest sister goes back to CA today until the end of the month, when we'll clean out the house. I have to make a list of what i want, as do we all. Most of the stuff here is too rotted, and there's no space for it anywhere in my apartment.

Thank God for the ocean. After calling my psychiatrist, I went with my oldest sister, Lucretia, for an hour-long swim in the ocean, until the lifeguard had to leave,and then I went back up to the house (and my dog--my husband is coming today).

As always when I'm down here, I'm channeling my dad, walking around with a hammer and fixing things. It really does feel like he's tell me what to do. Also, the part of the garden where we sprinkled his ashes last year, which is completely overgrown, has these beautiful flowers on it. I'm going to get a disposable camera and do a visual record (I do it every summer).

Later this month we'll hire people to haul most of everything away, so this weekend I need to make a list of what I want. It's not much, although there is a BEAUTIFUL wrought-iron dictionary stand that I could really use. Dad left me his huge OED, and I want to take his Bible from the office.

Gotta go put on my swimsuit...I think I am going to throw up.

Craptacular Times...Present, Tense

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 02:32:00 +0000

Yesterday another therapist told me I might be too sick to work with her...but she needs to have another consult with me, just in case. I was so frustrated that I said, "What makes me so much sicker than every other mental patient walking around?"

She looked at me sympathetically and said, "Don't take it as a rejection." I was supposed to see someone else today, but between that and having to peel off a junkie friend who will not leave me alone AGAIN, and then being bombarded with abusive emails, I felt like shit this morning.

When you feel like shit, you do not "present well," as the saying goes, and I didn't want the session to go into the toilet within five minutes of my sitting down. So I rescheduled.

My junkie friend does not live in the same state as me (thank God), and we first connected through our shared mental illness over the Internet. Then we became close phone friends. I knew she played fast and loose with her meds, which I don't. But I was willing to let that go until she fell in love with a much younger man who doesn't love her, and is in rehab for marijuana and alcohol. That doesn't stop him from smoking weed and getting drunk round the clock, and soon she started drinking too.

It's always the same story, over and over...life spiraling downward, and she would call me and cry, "You're the only one who understands." I would tell myself that AA is all about attraction, not promotion, and ask a gentle question.

Then finally she called me, hysterical, with a big pile of cocaine in front of her. "I'm going to break thirty years of sobriety!" she sobbed. Although my first thought was, what sobriety?

But I haven't been sober this long for nothing. I yelled at her like a drill sergeant, telling her to flush the cocaine down the toilet, flush the business card it was on down the toilet, clean the table, and then I really went off, all the pent-up rage, and I told her she needed help and I couldn't handle it any more.

The next day she called me, mad as a wet hen, telling me how selfish I was to say that my sobriety was more important than our friendship. I told her I couldn't talk to her until she'd been sober for thirty days. She hung up on me.

I didn't hear from her for several weeks, and came to appreciate that I didn't need to experience that kind of chaos vicariously. Because that is what I had been doing for a long time.

So she called two days ago. After talking to her for ten minutes, my head was pounding, and I told her I had to run. Then I wrote her an email reiterating that I couldn't talk to her until she'd had thirty days of sobriety.

Instantly I got back an abusive reply, then another, then another, then another, then another...you gotta love email. After reading the first two, I just deleted them. But I was pretty shook up.

But the bottom line was, I was relieved. There's an old joke:
How can you tell when a junkie is lying?
When their mouth is moving.

Conflicts and Other Crap...What Else Is New?

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 23:04:00 +0000

This morning I had a consult with a potential therapist who told me I was too sick to be her patient...this is getting old.

It's basically just my damn diagnosis, not so much my behavior, and I'm beginning to think I should approach these things like a job interview! "Hi! I'm (Blank)!" (Bright smile) "I really want to get well, and I want to set therapy goals and have a great life! I'm the most motivated patient you could possibly have! Heck, even when I'm having a psychotic episode I'm Little Miss Mary Sunshine! Just with a deeper voice!"

Last weekend we went to a convention in another city, and took my service dog along. He performed amazingly well! Everybody oohed and aahed over the cute little service dog, and he did his job, more or less ignoring everybody unless told otherwise. (I'll try to find the picture of the workshop we attended, where the write-up afterwards identified him as a "Canine-American"!) He liked the hotel, and my husband apologized for worrying so much beforehand that my dog would bite somebody or misbehave.

The only yucky part was an assistance dog list I belong(ed) to. When I was going to leave, I wrote asking what I needed to take to travel with a dog, and mentioned the muzzle. Everyone on the list goes ballistic, I have a vicious, aggressive dog, etc. (This has come up before. My dog did have to be extensively trained because like me, he has PTSD.) I couldn't actually get any facts. When we got back, I wrote a glowing report, but made the mistake of mentioning that he growled when a total stranger, who I knew to be mentally disturbed, scooped him up when I wasn't looking and tried to kiss him! Not biting, mind, just growling.

This was all the list needed to go on the warpath. Put that dog down, never take him out in public, you and your dog are a disgrace to the Service Dog community, we give people cold chills at the mere THOUGHT of us terrorizing the streets of New York. Yeah, my psychokiller miniature pinscher...the final straw was someone suggesting that I wasn't a real person, but rather, a government plant because this was a group of people fighting for service dog access and here I was ruining it for everyone. He felt "Jerry Springerized," in his words.

And I thought I was nuts.

Here's the crazed beast in action:

So I wrote an extremely nasty response and signed off. This is the second dog list I've either left or been kicked off of. I guess I don't play well with others, except my dog.

Confrontation with Dr. Gottlieb...Sort of

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 01:03:00 +0000

I have to say, after all of the rage I experienced, the actual confrontation we had was sort of a let-down. I shoved the whole thing out of my mind until the night before, and then it was sort of an "oh, shit."

My husband counseled me to start off by repeating what Dr. Gottlieb had said to me about therapy, and how I was "baffled." (I guess that is better than beginning, "Listen, you lying motherfucker--") When I walked in, Dr. Gottlieb handed me an iced coffee (he'd had to run some errands before our session) and said that the first order of business was finding a therapist. I said, "We have to talk." He turned around and said, "Uh-oh."

I outlined what I'd heard from the other patient, what was on his page, etc. Anyway, his explanation was that the patient I'd met had been seeing him for fifteen years for "supportive therapy," which was basically hand-holding and helping her distinguish reality. When I mentioned that he had psychotherapy on his page, he said he should take it off. I countered, saying he'd updated his page quite a bit since I'd seen it last, so he'd had plenty of opportunity to remove it. Dr. Gottlieb said that these days he only saw one patient for real psychotherapy, and that he occasionally felt "thrown".

"You have major issues about your body, identity, sex, and men, you come from a traumatic background, and I would be constantly thrown," he said. "You need a real therapist."

"Are you afraid of me?" I asked.

"No. If I didn't want you as my patient I could have let you go years ago."

We went around in circles for bit, but I have to say I saw his point. Assuming he's telling the truth. I was staring into his eyes the entire time, and he seemed to be. I admitted that I have a history of therapists "falling in love" with me (my last therapist inadvertently called me "darling"). Anyway, he gave me a list he'd prepared of six therapists who he knew, all women, and said that my homework for the week was to call them up for consults.

Afterwards, my husband, who dislikes Dr. Gottlieb, pointed out that the doctor had been busting his butt for me for years, and that I should take him at his word.

A slightly funny incident that happened a few weeks ago: Dr. Gottlieb has only met my husband once, after my father's death, when I was suicidal. My husband was accompanying me to the neighborhood and was going to work from there, but he had to use the bathroom. So he came to use the bathroom in the doctor's office, and stepped out just as Dr. Gottlieb came out of his office to get me. Talk about awkward moments. They said a stiff hello to each other before I headed in to Dr. Gottlieb's office.

RAGE - Present, Tense

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Sat, 23 Jun 2007 18:40:00 +0000

I rarely write about the specifics of what is going on in my life...keeping this blog as anonymous as possible. In fact, sometimes it frightens me how many different levels my mind functions on at any given time. Few people know about this blog, and they think of me as an accomplished person and they don't know about most of my inner turmoil.

But I am enraged, at several people. First and foremost, ironically, is Dr. Gottlieb. We had a session on Thursday morning. Over the years, the subject of whether or not he should become my therapist has arisen. The answer is generally no, in part because I tend to sexualize my relationships with men (safely, I've never cheated on my husband), in part because our relationship is slightly messed up in the transference-countertransference department.

For years I've known we're attracted to each other, or maybe it's simply my fantasy. From very early on, I've called him by his first name. (I got over my dislike of shorter men, although I still have a difficult time picturing him naked.) After the first ten months I'd been seeing him, he said we had to talk. It turned out that I had been seeing him for an hour after every therapy session, and he had actually been doing therapy with me without meaning to. "This has never happened to me before," he said, and I remember the bewildered look on his face.

At that time he had a postcard from one of my shows, the show he made possible, on his bulletin board. After that, it was taken down.

After that, I only saw him for twenty minutes at a time, until I became his private patient. My therapist left the bipolar clinic, and then an audit of the study I was in revealed I had been there three years, not six months.

This year, I have not had a therapist since March, so the subject came up again. He said he no longer practiced psychotherapy, and it was something you had to do on an ongoing basis. "Use it or lose it" was his exact phrase. He did try to find someone for me, but she is not taking new patients, and meanwhile he's seeing me on a weekly basis.

This past week, after my session, someone else went in after me and I chatted to the woman who usually follows me. I often have my dog with me, and I didn't on Thursday. When I mentioned I was looking for a therapist, she was baffled, and said, "Isn't Dr. Gottlieb your therapist?"

"No, he's my psychiatrist. I've always seen a therapist separately."

She looked at me. "I didn't know he was a psychiatrist. I just thought he was a therapist. He's been my therapist for years."

I forced a smile and left. Today, I went to his webpage, and there is it was:

Specialties: Psychopharmacology, psychotherapy

BASTARD! LYING STINKING MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD! WHY? WHY?

Whenever we've talked about our dynamic, I do all of the talking, as it were. He gives me that shut look and either says nothing or "You know I can't answer that." Dr. Gottlieb has let me know he does not like my husband and/or disapproves of my marriage, making occasional snide cracks about it. A few years ago, when I stopped going to the bipolar clinic and became Dr. Gottlieb's private patient, my husband asked me, "What is it between you two?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly.

Then, about a year ago, Dr. Gottlieb said he had to draw boundaries in the sand.

"But you don't tell me what the boundaries are until I've walked ten feet past them!" I cried. He's recently adopted a more "professional" demeanor toward me, which I've let him know I dislike, but more in a sulking, joking way than a serious way. I don't like it, in all truth, but I also think it's the right thing...

BUT!

Why lie to me? Why not say, "the dynamic is wrong between us for me to be your therapist." At least that would be HONEST. MOTHERFUCKER! I am so angry I can hardly stand it, and hurt. Deeply hurt. I can't even say how hurt. As I write this my insides shake. I want to hurt him the way he's hurt me, and I can't. Shithead. Crappy asshole shithead.

This coming Tuesday (my usual day) ought to be interesting. More about other people I'm pissed off later, but this is the Big Kahuna.

Penis Frenzy - Sometime in 2001

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Fri, 22 Jun 2007 17:17:00 +0000

I felt the blood roaring up my chest, neck and face even as the words left my mouth:
“Do you want a blowjob?”

Oh, God, my face was hotter than a cast iron pan on a gas flame. There was a silence that lasted perhaps a few seconds but seemed like the Thousand Years War.

My psychopharmacologist didn’t seem to have heard me correctly. “What?”

“Do you—do you want me to give you a blowjob?”

The change in his round face, usually so open, reminded me of shop gates slamming down at night. There was suddenly no expression. Why did I say that, I thought, cursing myself. Why was I such a fucking moron? Why did I listen to that fucking therapist? After I killed myself, I was going to kill her.

The two of us sat almost knee to knee in his tiny office. Behind his head was the spectacular view of the Hudson River in autumn, but the office itself was a mass of papers, boxes, and drug samples. Every object except the fax machine and telephone had a drug name on it: Celexa, Welbutrin, Zoloft, Effexor. We were in the middle of a huge mental hospital, but this section, the bipolar clinic, was always incredibly quiet and virtually deserted.

“Why do you want to give me a blowjob?” His voice came out slightly strangled.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it…” Oh, God, I was starting to cry, I hated myself when I cried, even more than I hated myself the rest of the time. “You saved my life, Dr. Gottlieb. You took me out of that HMO clinic and away from that terrible psychiatrist and now I’m getting free care and mostly free drugs, and it’s all because of you! And there’s no way I can repay you. I don’t have any money, you know that. So I thought—you know—that I could give you a blowjob. Pay you back that way.” I paused, and added, “A friend of mine gave her therapist a blowjob in the elevator of his building and didn’t seem to think it was so strange.”

Sweat ran down my sides. The idea had made perfect sense when I told my therapist about it. I’d been thinking about giving Dr. Gottlieb a blowjob for several weeks.

And now here I was, a 40-year-old 275-pound bipolar recovering alcoholic with really bad skin, lousy personal grooming, and the occasional hallucination, offering this dapper little man a blowjob. It crossed my mind that I might not have brushed my teeth before I left the house.

He wasn’t really little, just shorter and smaller than me. But then, nearly everybody was. Months ago I’d been lumbering around the subways, fantasizing about pushing people in front of the trains, or jumping in front of one myself. And now, thanks to Dr. Gottlieb, Depakote had calmed my violent impulses—most of them, anyway—and I was actually taking showers in the morning again. What else could I give him but the gift of oral sex?

“Elisa, I am your doctor,” he intoned. “And you are my patient. There are boundaries in place in our relationship. We are not friends, even though it might feel that way to you at times. My relationship with you is purely professional. I like you, but I don’t want you acting out sexually, with me or anyone else.”

He was using a tone of voice I’d never heard before, soft, controlled, cold. Usually he beamed when I came in the office, cracking jokes throughout our weekly sessions. That was part of what was so unusual about my situation. Frustrated by the treatment I was getting at my former clinic, Dr. Gottlieb had enrolled me in a study for bipolar women. When I mentioned I was above the age limit, he replied, “It’s my clinic and I can do what I want.”

That day I cried with gratitude all the way home on the train. Every week I saw my therapist, and afterward I saw Dr. Gottlieb, and we went over the elaborate weekly charts I had to keep. He was still weaning me off the ten medications I had been on when I reeled into his care.

“Is there any other reason?”

“No, there isn’t.”

But I was lying. I had a terrible secret.

Although I adored him and considered him my savior, I wasn’t physically attracted to him, and I didn’t want to see him naked.

Dr. Gottlieb had a beard, and I had a suspicion that he had a great deal of body hair. And he was shorter than me. For some reason I’d always had a problem with men who are shorter than me. But I couldn’t say that. It would hurt his feelings. His penis, alone, emerging from his expensive wool trousers, now that I could manage.

He went on talking about ‘boundaries’, ‘doctor/patient protocol,’ and all the while I kept repeating aloud, “I can’t believe I said that to you.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “now that you’ve found yourself in a good situation, you’re trying to sabotage it by acting out with me.”

Ah. That made sense. I never let a good situation happen to me if I could help it. And what was better than this?

(Note: as of 2007, I am still seeing Dr. Gottlieb, which of course is not his real name. And I've never given him a blow job.)

Adjusting to Being Home - Present, Tense

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Sat, 16 Jun 2007 16:06:00 +0000

My husband is auditing a course at the school he graduated from. I can't remember what it is, but I know it's something to do with one of the things that's wrong with me (oh, yes, it's all about me, tee hee). He's going to start job hunting next month, after we go to a conference where he's giving a presentation--and I get to bring my dog!!

This was our negotiation--I agreed to go to SF if I could bring my dog to the convention. I've been to SF many, many times and wasn't exactly eager to go there again. So now I have to "muzzle train" my dog because there will be so many little kids there. Fortunately I'm not expected to socialize much, and we'll be near downtown.

I did not sleep AT ALL last night. I went to bed, all right, but lay there for more than two hours, then got up again. When I went back to bed at 5 AM, I proceeded to have a series of nightmares. (It's something my late father and I had/have in common--nightmares that we have to be woken up from, because we're screaming or waving our hands in the air or gasping. My mother once said she had been told never to wake up someone having a nightmare. I assured her that it was the best possible thing to do! What a relief to find yourself out of danger!)

Oddly enough, I feel more awake today than I have for the past couple of days, but it's probably just the dexadrine and coffee. Mother's little helper.

Sorry It's Been So Long...

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Sat, 16 Jun 2007 04:56:00 +0000

I can't believe I haven't written anything here in so many weeks.

Not much has changed, except that I seem to finally have the goddamn supplementary insurance plan (a spanking extra $200/month in addition to the $15/month drug plan so that my Depakote only costs $54 for a 30-day bottle instead of $211). Nothing new on the therapist front.

However, we went to California on vacation for two weeks, which we both badly needed. I had to board my dog, but we went to San Francisco and the surrounding environs, where I saw Cordelia twice, and also saw Lucretia's new house.

(I can't help being angry when I see the Italian stone garden her husband put in front, and their brand-new kitchen, etc. It's hard feeling like you simply CANNOT forgive somebody, but I can't forgive Lucretia for not paying my father's debt to me when she has so much money.)

I needed so much to get away from everything. And both me and my husband needed to be alone together without me being crazy, which for the most part I managed. He oversaw my schedule so that I would not push myself too hard...one morning I started weeping from the pressure of socializing, and he was so sweet.

That's all for right now. It's 1 am here and I should go to bed. The best part of getting home was getting my dog back--he EXPLODED with joy when he saw me and won't let me out of his sight!

As I was writing this, he came trotting out of the bedroom to see where I was, so I know I have to go to bed! :) I love to hear the clicking of his little black toenails...one of the simple pleasures of life, dog love.

When Drugs Collide; And, Thank Heaven for Little Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Tue, 08 May 2007 01:14:00 +0000

I emailed one of my sisters about what has been going on, and she wrote back:

The whole insurance business seems so, well, crazy. Usually people are begging for inpatient treatment and being told, "Well, all we have available is a therapist you can see once a month." Wouldn't it be cheaper for them for you to see a therapist rather than something more intensive? Anyway, good luck with it. Seems like every time something like this happens you just have to keep pushing and eventually you get what you need--it's like a test to see if you really really really want it. I can't imagine how frustrating that must be. I mean, it's not like you're begging for Vicodin, for crissakes!

Today two significant things happened: my Humana card came in the mail, and THAT's the Medicare Part D plan I'm supposed to be enrolled in, not the one that's been screwing everything up, so I took it to the pharmacy to be inputted. After that's cleared up, I can go about getting a supplemental plan. Unfortunately, the guy who can help me is away all week.

The other significant thing was, that over a week ago I refilled a prescription for Dexstrostat, the low-dose amphetamine I take early every morning. I was given a bottle of unfamiliar pills, and the pharmacist (a fairly new woman) told me it was the prescription, but it didn't look right, and at the bottom, it said "Generic equivalent of Adderall."

I've been taking it for five or six days, and during that time I have been increasingly, violently manic. Of course, I didn't put it together, since I thought it was the same meds, but it bugged me that I'd never seen it on the bottle before. This past weekend I felt like an absolute maniac, like I was backsliding EIGHT YEARS (and today is my late father's birthday). I dragged myself to an AA meeting this AM and bawled, then came home and looked up the drug on the computer.

Turns out it is a completely different drug, for ADD! And it's THREE different kinds of amphetamines, and technically I am taking a HUGE DOSE. Most people take 5 mgs. a day, I have been taking 20 mgs. every morning! Not to mention it conflicts with most of my medications, my mental illness, my seizures, high blood pressure, you name it. So I called the pharmacy and asked for the owner (who I usually deal with). He was baffled and had me bring in the bottle. Turned out the computer picked out the wrong drug when the other pharmacist typed in dextroamphetamine.

God, how do most mentally ill people SURVIVE?

I have been feeling, the past two days, like I haven't been taking my depakote (the bipolar drug), even though I have. I see my psychiatrist tomorrow, at least. He was away for a month, but came back last week. He also can't help me until I get a supplemental insurance plan, but he has some recommendations, at least. Tonight I was supposed to go with my husband to a party but since I feel like I'm missing a layer of skin, I didn't.

My wonderful service dog went with me to the AA meeting in his little blue vest (he is wearing his snow suit in the picture above) and he seems to have been emotionally knocked out by me. He usually has the energy of five dogs, but today all he has wanted to do is lie down and cuddle with me.

The strangest moment was when I was putting on my shoes after a nap (I basically collapsed after drinking a cup of coffee), and my husband came into the living room. We had agreed he would walk the dog, but he didn't even have the leash in his hand, and my dog started to duck under the coach! Little psychic bastard! :) Luckily I grabbed his harness before he could escape, so my husband leashed him and dragged him out the front door. How did my dog know?

When I sit here and write, he lies curled on the couch, or if the cats will let him, the chair nearest the computer. He is just slightly too big to sit in my lap, darn it, at least at the keyboard.

Slogging Through The Mental Health System...

noreply@blogger.com (Wackjob) — Mon, 07 May 2007 00:50:00 +0000

Since I lost my therapist, I have been trying to get help, but I seem to be too crazy to get help. I went to one clinic and had an intake interview...I was in terrible shape, shaking, crying, distraught and disconnected. The interviewer suggested I go to a day hospital (it's a mental hospital where you get to go home at night). I said no, the last time I was crazy enough for that was seven years ago. He was annoyed. For some reason it was terribly important that I get across that I'm intelligent (actually, the reason is, I've seen some of my old intake notes from other clinics/hospitals/whatever. I am usually described as "fat and disheveled", and my intelligence level is rated "less than average."

There was a Miro lithograph on the wall behind the interviewer's head. So I said, "That's a nice Miro." He looked at me and said, "Huh?" I pointed it to it, and said, "That Juan Miro lithograph. It's very nice." I told him about the horrible images I was having of Dad's death, reliving it all, and also visions of Dad on the cross, based on a drawing Lucretia did that hung in his home office when I was a young teen.

The following week the interviewer let me know that I was too insane for the clinic to take on, that I should check into a Dialectacal Behaviorial Therapy ward at my local psych ward. I said no. Since I'm on Medicare, and at present do not have a supplementary insurance plan, I'm too poor to get qualified help. And I'm hearing from all sides that I am very sick, that I can't be given to an intern, the person who helps me needs to be an expert in trauma, yada yada yada.

Right now my insurance is in a tangle, so who knows when it will be straightened out and I'll have someone to talk to again. Tonight I tried talking to my husband about a conversation with Cordelia, but he got so freaked out he asked me to stop. He is feeling heavily burdened by my illness right now, and he has so many life responsibilities.

I continue to thrash through, because what choice do I have?