Wednesday, July 26, 2006

recovering

7/26/06—

Another lost day as I recuperate from another overdose of psychotropic drugs. I have been in tremendous physical pain all day as the muscle spasms and tightness in my legs and back and neck continue. I couldn’t even get out of bed until noon. My legs and arms are sensitive even to the most delicate touch. It feels like the nerves are all inflamed to the point of pain, and I don’t know when my body is going to return to normal. I am so angry at being doped up against my will that I feel I could act violently. I am still high and walking like a 70-year old woman. A psych asked me today if I would be willing to take psychiatric medications. I wanted to start laughing hysterically. Psychotropic medications have taken a full year of my life. They have cost me my youth, my joy, my energy, my vitality, my love, and the fullness of life. They have wrecked my body. They have stolen precious time from me that could have been spent hiking or reading or working out or making love, creating nothing but a hellspace of the most atrocious mental suffering and physical pain, and they ask me if I would be willing to take drugs????? Only western medicine could be so stupid. I can literally see when someone is on anti-depressants—I recognize immediately the flatness of affect and the lack of joy and ambitious striving to do and be better, which is at the essence of what it is to be human. I feel their peevishness with, and oversensitivity to reality which cripples them to really grapple with, and thus transform life creatively. In short, they are legalized dope addicts---quite content to stew in the feel good chemicals that castrates their holy human spirit. I am not opposed to anti-depressants in true psychological crisis, but western medicine has turned our nation into a bunch of walking, chemicalized zombies. The war on drugs makes me laugh. If we truly want to stop the waste caused by chemical dependency, lets start with the big pharmaceutical companies and reorient MD’s toward holistic healing, not quick-fix doping. But geez, what would happen to all the profits and income?

As for me, I don’t know how anyone who knows me could think that psychotropic drugs benefit me in any way---which is why I am thinking of returning to my mom’s house. She may be stupid enough to be fascinated with chemicals too, but I think even she can see with her own eyes what happens to me when I am on those horribly crippling and numbing drugs. They literally steal my life and turn me into a zombie too. I know when I am on them. On the outside I am mellow and productive, but on the inside I am dead and I hate life, and I hate it with a passion. Thus I cannot generate any joy or creativity. But the psychs who are responsible for the administration of the drugs are too blinded by their own agenda or too dehumanized themselves to see how destructive the drugs really are. They just want a complacent follower who will do what she is told. They just don’t understand. I am a spiritual person. That means I am free person. They are not free themselves, so they cannot trust a free person. From their perspective, that probably is smart. I would be the kind of person who writes blog entries about the immorality of waterboarding(the torture technique, not the sport—but that is a matter of perspective, from where they stand). I am not a follower. I am a free child of God, and I will strive to act with morality and integrity in all my actions (knowing of course I will fail on occasion). That makes me an ill fit for your organization, NSA AND SLI, so let me go.

Until you do, you can dope me as much as you want. You have already destroyed my body and have succeeded in taking my greatest earthly joy and hope from me. I will fight you until I die, and I will keep talking and writing and I know that somewhere, someone is going to listen and that will be the 100th monkey that brings your sick, distorted world down.

I was going to write of a dream that I had the other night---probably should….ok…

A couple of days ago---dreamed of spelunking with a man who was a true friend (not a boyfriend but not a casual acquaintance either) and two kids. We were going on an adventure and though it was usually done with guides who knew the routes, we decided to do it solo (it was very easy to get lost). It really wasn’t a cave but a route of underground tunnels accessed through a locked door in a house. The house had some historical significance and was a park or something. Anyway my friend knew how to get past the lock, but I told him the kids had to eat first to have strength to make it, so we sat down and ate. While we were eating, a Southern sheriff (typical fat stupid ignoramus) came and rechecked the lock so my friend could not pick it. He gave us his best spiel as to how dangerous it was. So we went back to our workday lives when I saw a psych tech pull up to my workplace (Teri P), and I knew that she was going totell me how to get past the lock, so I called my boyfriend at his workplace and told him to get over here ASAP. I knew that route 118 was the safest and route 23 was a major deadend.

Int. Simply put, it is time to go back to therapy if I can find a good person (like Teri P), not someone like Paul DeBlassie or the stupid govt psychs who want to dope me up—they want to lock up the door. They are afraid of the unconscious—their worlds are just too small and narrow.

I know that my sealed hidden psychosis is coming through. I will attempt to make bridges with a psych one more time. If that doesn’t work, its plan B.

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