9/25/06 Truly depressed, and in pain over the past couple days. Looking at my past login, I see that absolutely nothing has changed—I’m still in chronic and severe leg pain from being doped up, and while my house has actually been inhabitable for the past couple of days, I am horrified to realize the full extent of the damage done by the psychotropic drugs. I think the last time I took psychotropic drugs was a couple of nights ago, when I took a Flexiril for terrible back pain and leg spasms. It definitely was not Flexiril, and what I am realizing now is that the depressive aftereffects of psychotropic drugs can last for days, weeks, months (????). I have so much poison in my brain and body right now, I doubt that I will ever be completely cleansed of totalitarian, Big Pharm chemical shit ever again. In addition to lithium, anti-depressants, and various psychotropic drugs including Olanzapine, I think I have been put on speed, cannabis, and some mild form of LSD. I empathize with Mother Earth to a degree that I have not done before, as I realize how weakened and devitalized she is with the poisons an abusive patriaptionrchal mindset has flooded her eco-body with. That is me, although truly, after spending the last five minutes in the kitchen crying, I think somehow, I still am being doped. But even so, I know the acumulation of poison is palpable, real, and still negatively affecting my mood. I know by the symptoms of autism, and when they appear. I can feel it in my legs; I can tell by the differences in sensory perception, and flatness of affect. I used to start experiencing autistic symptomology after three or four days of solitude in the wilderness (the lack of stimuli, I think lulled my brain back into its autistic state. Now, a three hour hike has the very same debilitating effects. It used to be that I experienced numbness in my entire legs, only when I was dealing with very deep and painful emotions. Now, I experience it all the time. I remember at work, I had to change queue from a demanding and emotionally challenging queue—where people were frequently irate and difficult—to an easy one. I no longer could handle all the emotions being thrown at me. I would take an irate caller, and my legs would go as numb and restless, as if I were talking to someone about sexual abuse or my sister’s death. Before, I thrived on, and excelled at meeting the challenge of difficult calls and circumstances. Now, I do everything possible to avoid them—I no longer can handle it. It stresses me out negatively rather than positively.
My language skills have deteriorated significantly. In addition to a very real loss of memory of names, ability to fix dateline chronology, and vocabulary, I no longer have the hyper-verbal ability that I once possessed. Before the chemicals handisapped my brain (oh geez, there I go again—evincing thought disorder. Better be careful. Some stupidass psych will request the meds to be doubled), I used to "see" the words before I spoke them. I used to see entire sentences in super fast rapidity. I don’t think this was a neurosis or psychosis, because whenever I used to talk to people who talked in tongues, or who interpreted them, they used to say they could "see" the words, and then they would say them. I think this was a tremendously great gift I had, and now it is destroyed, probably forever. I speak English now, like I speak Spanish—without conscious awareness of what I am saying until I actually hear myself say it. This is very humbling and disconcerting. I have no idea what I’m going to say until it’s already said. I actually used to be able to "see," and then edit, what I spoke, before the words ever left my mouth. If I struggled for a precise word, I would "see" like a hand of cards on the table, all my alternative choices and know their subtle meanings, and I would, in a micro-second, choose the one word that had the connotation and shading I desired. Now, if I struggle for the precise word, and it happens more frequently than it ever has in my life—for even simple words—I grope in the dark, and sometimes I can’t come up with an appropriate word at all. I can’t see the whole range of choices in the split second. I can’t see anything at all. It sucks. I feel like a freaking retarded kid when that happens. Compared to where I was before, retarded is a pretty accurate word. At least that one came out right on the first try.
The worse part though is the bodily damage and loss of joy and vitality, spontaneity and exuberance that I had before. I’m in a lot of pain right now. My left leg which was actually getting better, relapsed significantly on Saturday, when the house was so full of chemical fumes that I got sick to the point of fainting the instant I walked in the door. My body won’t take poison, but I worry especially about my back, because it already is chronically injured, is not strong enough to recover from all this shit. I don’t know if my leftleg will ever be normal. I don’t think my joints will ever recover from the arthritis created by all the poison in my bodily eco-system. So yeah, I’m depressed, and I haven’t even touch on what is really depressing me, but one thing I’ve learned from 8/15/03 is, don’t even go there, Tita, unless you want to be thrown in jail or a psych ward for expressing your feelings. According to the patriarchal mindset, you don’t have any right to feelings or thoughts unless they think them "appropriate", and you know, Tita, they would not think this appropriate. And you know, you don’t want to go to jail or Kasemann, so you are better off bottling up those feelings and being depressed.
But all is not hopeless. More and more, I appreciate Solzhenitsyn. As I finished up the second volume of the Gulag, and he talked about the "personality" of the "zek," I realized the enormity of the tragedy these people endured. They may have kept their physical life, but the inhumane injustice and conditions they endured, kept them from fully ever living out their lives with joy ever again. A zek was severely depressed and devitalized, as a survival mechanism. And to be honest, when I read AS, that is how I felt he was even in the 70’s living in Vermont. I don’t think he ever regained his joy and vitality ever again, and I share this in common with him and tens of millions of zeks. Physically, I may have survived (and I know by what thin of a margin, while all the rest of these psychs don’t have a clue—or else the doping would have stopped after the lithium). But he still had a vocation, and even though it had to tear at his heart and sear his psyche, to write down his memories, I would never have known the magnitude of suffering and injustice for those millions if he hadn’t. (That is why I read the books so slowly—I keep praying for all those people who suffered so terribly). I am not Sozhenitsyn—for one thing there is no haven for me in Vermont, but even more limiting, I will not have his longevity of life (oh there I go again—thought disorder). Very well then, I have a strong intuition that I don’t have longevity of life. That means, whatever I am going to do, I have to do it now. I can’t feel sorry for myself, or make the excuse that I’m doped or depressed. Hell, I’m willing to gamble money that half of the very people who are doing this to me are doped and/or depressed, and they still are able to function—committing their evil deeds. If they can function and do evil, then God grant me the strength to function and do good. Help me God. Only by my written witness am I going to be able to find any kind of justice before I die.
9/11/06
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