Sunday, December 30, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Quit believing the lies you all tell yourselves to justify the torture I am in. My brother called today and asked, "don't you feel better now that you are on medication." HELL FUCK NO!!!! I am in sheer hell. I want to pound the walls and curse out my misery and my pain, while no doubt my mom and her dumbass, ignorant husband all nod about how "good" I am doing. Well, I am a vegetable who is fighting to hold on to to her humanity, and quite unsuccessfully I might add. It hurts to type. I have chronic back muscle spasms. Walking a mile is like climbing to 12,000 feet on a mountain hike. I am sick of being in pain. I feel like a picture I saw of Michael J Fox--suffering agony all over his face as he fights to retain his humanity against the neurological damage being done to his brain. I notice that I am getting permanent deep furrows in my brow from the constant pain I suffer from the excess cerebrospinal fluid in my brain. I want sometimes to blow my brains out, knowing that the neurological damage I suffer is from inflicted poison.
Then there is the emotional agony--not being able to interact with people--not having the love of life and joy and spirit I normally do.
The worst though is the mental agony--trying to remember something--like what I did yesterday, and not being able to remember it all. The humiliation of groping for a word when I used to have an entire word selection at my instant recall. The inability to read a book, and remember what I am reading. My reading is painfully slow--partly because my visual field is so compromised by these drugs, but even more scary (my God, I can't think of the appropriate word I want) is the way that I can't comprehend what I read, and I can't absorb what I read. I can't tell you what I read yesterday from the book. Normally when I read, the ideas go into a very active file, and they just percolate all around while I ponder them. Now my mind is a total blank, unable to receive any impression or creatively think on them. I realized that tonight when the book prompted me to think on my dreams. I used to have 3 or 4 of my most recent dreams percolating in my head at all times, until I satisfied myself that I had interpreted them correctly. Now I cannot remember what I dreamed last night or the night before. This is particularly scary because I had really tried to remember and interpret the dream from two nights ago, and EVERYTHING is gone--one image remains--and I can't even remember what I had postulated for it. It is like my once incredible ability to absorb data and ideas with ease, almost osmotically, and then to creatively reflect on them, is totally gone. Everything takes abnormal effort and work. I am like a sixth grader in my reading ability, and an Alzheimer's patient in my ability to retain and ponder what I read. My mind is just zeroed out. I am a zombie--unable to feel, unable to think, unable to relate. Surprisingly though, I have no trouble going into a fantasy world, and to be honest, the fantasy world is getting to be a better place than the real one.
I try to hold on to my faith, but I cannot pray. Everything that I use to pray--my heart, soul, my sense of awe, reverance, gratitude, wonder, love and joy, is all gone. I have faith deep down inside, and it is up to God whether or not to save me, or leave me a miserable vegetable who hates every second of my life, and agonizes painfully to retain my humanity when the drugs create nothing but pain, suffering, and a sense of being subhuman
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy--I remember watching "The Shining" as a teenager, and being utterly dumbfounded that anyone could actually write about 400 or 500 typewritten pages of the same line over and over. My mind was, and when healthy, is, abundantly teeming with ideas and subjects on which to write. In fact, because of the idiosyncratic way in which my mind thinks--I think in images and then script the images with mental verbal writing, which just flows in my head, and when I have a writing instrument, flows through the pen or keyboard, I normally am constantly writing in my head, and enjoy the opportunity to put the mental writing into a physical medium. I like to write just to see my ideas in physical form on the page. Since my incarceration, it has been a real hardship to exercise self-censorship in my writing, knowing as I know that I have very real enemies (yes that includes you Martin; that also includes SLI, Opus Dei and their minions, including Denise Shepherd, as well as anybody else who would try to force me to be someone I do not choose to be CONSCIOUSLY. I don't care what goes on in me unconsciously, however evil or holy; the unconscious manifests itself when the conscious self is ready for it, when the conscious self CHOOSES to embrace it--not when it is shoved down your throat with drugs and abuse. No one, not even a parent with a child has the right to deny anyone the freedom to choose their own conscious self of expression and life, and yet that is what I have endured for the last ten years, and still it is ongoing).
Now, however, with the psychotropic drugs I have a much more serious problem. I cannot write at all. Whenever I sit down to try to write, I no longer have the natural mental scripting going on in my head. I can still see the images, but the concurrent, ongoing verbal "talk" that accompanies the images is absent, and it makes it impossible for the images to manifes themselves more accurately and maturely in communicable form. I am left with a pen or keyboard, and the only words that go through my head are "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
I haven't written any Christmas cards this year, partly because I am so separated from any emotions, and partly because I cannot write. I always try to write something inspiritional, helpful, and sincere in my cards tomy family, but now I am completely stymied. As is the case with my entire drugged life right now, I cannot find the words to fit the images. I can "see" the images that I want (especially) to relate to my niece and nephew, but the words aren't there, and don't come. How am I ever going to send them a Christmas card? I feel obligated. I just can't ignore them, like I do in other social relations and settings (in a drugged state, I am not capable of relating to others, so I just avoid them--it is too anxiety provoking to relate to people when the images in my head have no words to express or share).
So even though both my niece and nephew have had a momentous year in their life, their aunt can offer no words to them:
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jaack a dull boy.
...I can't go on for 400 pages--my back spasms too much at the typewriter, and my arm muscles are too weaked by the drugs to type for long...
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
194 pounds!--A new high in weight. I have been too sick to work out so that I cannot control my weight at all. Also, for some reason I am craving sugar, which really I don't have much taste for, at all. The only time I crave sugar is when I am feeling very sick with the flu. There's no doubt that I feel terribly ill and low energy, but now I suspect that I am being force fed another psychotropic drug like Risperdal which has diabetes as one of its potential side effects (I figured out that it was Risperdal that was responsible for that bizarre pancake craving I had the other week). The worst part of the weight gain is the fluid gain. My head is just floating and pain wracked with the excess fluid pressure, and there's nothing I can do to stop the never ending headaches. OTC drugs don't work. Fiornal doesn't work. Vicodin does, but I am out of Vicodin and waiting for a refill.
I suppose I shouldn't be so depressed and stressed about my weight or constant headaches and muscle spasms. I came very close today to having a severe car accident, when "high" and alienated from reality on the goddamned speed that is constantly in my system, I made the biggest driving mistake ever. I made a turn onto the wrong lane, driving into the lane for oncoming traffic! And it was on Coors during rush hour! The only thing that saved me was that I was driving in an extended turning bay lane. What can I say? I just wasn't in reality when I made the turn, but when I saw headlights coming right at me, I snapped into reality pdq, and started blowing my horn and turned on my hazards. I'm truly lucky that I wasn't hit. I have driven walloping drunk and stoned many times in my youth, but I have never been so out of reality that I turned into the lane for oncoming traffic. Then I went to try to buy a gift for John, but I was so high I couldn't read or "feel" what an appropriate gift for him might be. I am going to bed. I am going to thank God for saving my life today, and hope that tomorrow is a better day....
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Body is starting to break down, with constant and painful muscle spasms from all the speed that I am being force fed. I had to take 2 Vicodin and 3 Tylenol PMs to sleep last night, and for all that, I woke up with spasming pain in my neck and back that has lasted all day. Tonight is going to be another multiple Vicodin night because the pain is unbearable. In addition, my knee is swollen and painful--I haven't been able to take a regular walking stride in a long time, and walking with no bend in the knee joint is starting to take its toll. I am on some kind of weird drug that is stiffening all my joints, and believe me, it is scary and painful, and oh so old. I am so tired of being in pain.
On top of all that, I am so emotionally disassociated from reality that really, it's almost interesting--kind of like the first few times being high when I was trying to figure out what being high was like. I listened to part of a PBS concert, and was just blown away that the music and talent and lyrics had absolutely no effect on me--none whatsoever. At one point they played "Jesus, Joy of Man's Desiring," a song that I used to be able to play on the dulcimer (yes, remember years ago, before they started drugging you, how you used to be able to play an instrument...), and which has always left me deeply moved. And you know what? I couldn't feel a thing. No heart. No spirit. No love. No contemplation. No beauty or sense of aesthetic. Oh yes, NSA, I am truly being formed in your image. Oh, except for the most important part---your goddamned lies that you force on me, and the rest of this country that you were supposed to uphold and protect. You sold out satanic spawn--you are destroying my body and my brain, but by God, I will hold on to what I know to be the truth. Fortunately for you, you won't have much difficulty finding people to do your evil for you. My problem is that I let people get away with it. Well no more--after the bitch that sprayed me with dope Saturday in the library (oh, and she thought she was doing something really special for Jesus and humanity when she did it), I said enough. I have known for a long time what a sorry, sold out lame piece of humanity she is, and out of kindness I kept a superficial pleasantry with her, but guess what? Your damned drugs are successfully separating me from my soul, my spirituality and all of my efforts at exercising Christian virtue, and it is getting harder and harder to be a holy human being when I am subhuman myself.
As I write, my left arm is going dead, and I am suffering terrible back pain. I know pain makes me cranky, but I am not sorry. I am sorry I ever had anything to do with the SLI. Time to take more painkillers, and try to go to sleep. I don't feel good at all
Friday, December 7, 2007
Vegetable. Worse than a vegetable because I am in constant pain from the back muscle spasms caused by all the speed that I am force fed. But mentally, I am a vegetable. I went for a job interview today. I was a little worried going into it, because I couldn't mentally prepare for it. As soon as I knew that I had an interview, I went through my standard mental preparation of imagining possible questions and mentally role playing my answers. Dead end. No mental preparation or imagination allowed on anti-psychotics. I knew that the one question I always get in call center jobs is "Tell me how you successfully resolved one customer's issue one time." Well normally, when I get that question, my mind literally goes through twenty or thirty images before I pull one that I think would work best. Guess what? I cannot remember one single incident. Trying to access my memory is like running into a black wall. Mengele Martin and company already have done permanent damage to my memory. How much more? The other day when I was talking with Jessie, I realized I could not remember the faces of people I worked with 2-3 years ago--at all! I could remember their names and a little about them, but no faces, whatsoever.
So, I can't remember anything. I decided to brave the interview anyway, hoping that I wouldn't get asked a memory question. But when I got there, they wanted to give me a test. Oh no--big problem. Normally, I enjoy taking tests. I always do well on tests because I normally have an unusually speedy and accurate reading comprehension. Not when I am on drugs. I have told these people that I cannot read when I am on these antipsychotics (to which Mengele Martin fed Dr. Huaman the question, "You mean your mind is racing?") No, you dumb fucks. My mind is a total blank, a zero, empty, black hole... I CAN'T READ. GET IT? I CAN'T READ. I who once read at the postgraduate level in the 8th grade can not read now at the level of a sixth grader. I read the instructions through three times, and not once, not even once, did they make sense to me. Because it was a math test, I thought I would do the test and hope that my lack of understanding of directions didn't handicap me. Guess what? I couldn't do simple math. I am almost as excellent in arithmetic as I am at reading, but there was only one question that I could answer with my usual facility--and even then, my thinking process seemed slowed to the point of mental retardation. One question wanted me to multiply a number by 1000, and I couldn't even trust my own judgment to add the right number of zeros, so I used the calculator. But the more I started to go into the test, the more confused I became. It involved converting metric to our (whatever it's called--I don't remember) system, and I couldn't hold two concepts in my head at once, so I told the lady I would try taking the test another time. But the bottom line is, if I cannot maintain concentration for 30 minutes, how am I going to do it for 8 hours a day. Even more scary, is the fear of what these people are doing to my brain. Every time, I see my fat-mottled flesh, I know that I have to live for the rest of my life with the permanent damage that these monsters have done to my body. What more kind of damage are they going to do to my brain? As a teenager I had a genius IQ in the 140's or 50's--I cannot remember. But I bet you I no longer have that IQ. Are they going to forever debilate my previous ability to concentrate with fierce laser penetration? They already have weakened my once superb vocabulary choice. Am I even going to be able to read in 2-3 months. Will I be mentally retarded for the rest of my life while they get their "Chemically Perfect" zombie? All I can do is hope that God follows through on his promise and saves me. Right now, the only way that I can imagine being saved is through the January MRI revealing the kind of brain damage that I know is taking place. In the meantime I have to live with the knowledge that every breath I take is destroying my body and brain forever and there is nothing I can do about it. I have never felt so bad. To make matters worse, I am in constant pain from the muscle spasms. The only thing I can do is take pain killers and sit in a chair and watch TV. Jesus why do I have to undergo this neverending suffering and assault on my body and brain. Haven't I suffered enough?
Thursday, December 6, 2007
3 days of severe, nauseating migraines, now my brain just won't think. zeroed out, empty--no ability to think or form words. on top of that I can't walk. I have never been so low and depressed and hating life in my life. I long for death.
Monday, December 3, 2007
"Doctors are men who prescribe medicines of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, in human beings of whom they know nothing."---Voltaire
I am getting to be too sick to write. I don't know which is worse--having to take tons of pain medication to sleep or to have to live with the constant chronic pain, muscle spasms and autistic perception of reality. If this is to be my life, I want to die--today.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Drugged--and no choice but to endure it. I am stoned and out of reality 24/7. I am walking like a senior citizen and am so weak in all my muscles that I can barely perform my daily tasks. Aging 40 years in the span of a week, thanks to drugs, really sucks. But all of my life sucks right now. I have no joy, no energy, no connection, no enthusiasm for life or any of its components. I look at my messy house with clocks that still haven't been changed to daylight savings time, slut's wool gathering in the hallway, and a light cover that needs to be screwed into place over the kitchen lightbulb, but cleaning house for me is a high energy effort, and now I have no energy at all. In a cupboard, I have some Christmas lights that I put up on my front window last year, but I am totally overwhelmed at the thought of even trying to climb onto a two-stepper, with my numb legs and locked quads, much less maintain my poor, severely compromised balance while I affix lights or try to screw in a light cover with weakened, deadened arms. Besides the only point and purpose of Christmas lights is to to spread joy and cheer, and I have neither, nor do I expect to experience or contribute any in the near future. I suppose I will go home for Christmas, but honestly, I have no enthusiasm for that, either. I get to listen to my deluded mother tell me lies that she believes herself. (I still can't get over how she thought I was doing so well, "stabilized" on Risperdal, when what I endured was a month of sheer, torturous, painful hell of constant headaches, complete alienation from reality, and muscle spasms and rigidity, and she didn't have a clue. The attorney I was seeing (and who had spent with me a grand total time of about 20 minutes over 3 visits) had better and truer insight into the real suffering and pain of my condition than my own mother. When I started to come out of the drug-torture fog, she commented what a different and better person I seemed, and said, "It's the first time I ever have seen you smile." Well, I guess people had better get used to seeing a grim-faced, unsmiling, autistic person (oh, but I will be so well "chemically-balanced"). I don't give a shit anymore what people think of me. It is too hard trying to maintain emotional connections and getting in touch with my "heart," that is, my feeling function. I tried to talk onthe phone to Jessie last night, and was dismayed by my utter lack of emotional connection. I haven't felt so emotionally clumsy and autistic in YEARS. Oh, but I am "chemically balanced" now.
What a fucking lie! Chemical balance has nothing to do with why I have suffered pain, agony, and the grossest of human violations against my person in the last ten years. It is all about control. The NSA is only accustomed to dealing with deadened or sold-out souls, and that is what it is looking to form in me. But I am not a research scientist, which is what they specialize in appropriating and controlling. My vocation, if I am ever allowed to live it, involves human relations and inspiration, and guess what, autistic individuals (no matter how "chemically balanced", are not capable of achievement in that area. I spent years getting past my autism just for these assholes to undo it all with their fucking drugs.
Then there is the other element of control--I thought that I was freeing myself of religious coercive conversion by leaving the Catholic Church. How disappointing to learn that the Episcopalians are playing the same lame, sorry, losing strategy. Well, it is very easy to forego attendance at church when I can't even pray (because I pray from the heart, and these chemicals have separated me from my heart), and besides, I really don't like walking in front of people like the psychotropic-drugged zombie I am. Here's the bottom line: get it or don't. I am not going to be part of any religious organization's agendas, goals or community, until I am respected as a free child of God. If you cannot respect me as a free child of God, and are going to lie to me, participate in drugging me, and attempt to manipulate a conversion that goes against my free choice to knowingly participate and affirm, then go your separate way. I want NO part of you. I will NOT cooperate with people who are attempting to control or manipulate me. Period. It is the only free choice that I can make, since I am not even in reality enough to make any others. I am disgusted and dismayed beyond belief.... Nothing for it--my life doesn't even belong to me. Forget a conversion assholes. Give me my life back, and my free choice back--that is the prerequisite for any cooperative effort on my part, but as long as you are drugging me, any cooperation from me will be severely compromised. Now I have to quit typing because my arms are totally dead from all your damned drugs.
Friday, November 30, 2007
A one day respite is over--yesterday I felt like a human being for the first time in nearly two weeks. I was able to play (and feel) music. I was able to read with meaning, and to drive comfortably and relaxed, instead of like the drug-induced, autistic nervous wreck who can only fixate on the spot in front of her. I was able to really practice yoga, instead of going through the motions reduced to a stretching class. By that I mean that I was able to feel my body, connect with my body, my mind and my spirit, and really push myself and my muscles to a (admittedly poor) performance peak. My whole body was so weak from two weeks of numbness and locked, spasming muscles that I found it difficult to hold any position for any length of time. Worst of all, was the clear evidence of ongoing, possible permanent damage. My lower back, hips, and especially my quad muscles are rigidly locked. Whenever I try to hug my legs, it feels like my thighs have steel rods for bones and muscles. I don't know if and when this will ever go away, or if it is just more permanent damage that my body endures at the hands of my abusers. I do know this--their drugs are what is responsible for causing my catatonia--not the chemical intoxication from lack of absorption, which is what "Martin" is assuming. The more saturated with drugs I become, the more paralyzed I become. I know this because the first realization that I was drugged again this morning was when I woke up, and felt that my legs were numb before I even got out of bed. Now I am aware of the painful muscle spasms in my back again (my body spasms in an effort to evade what it instinctively knows is the most toxic of poison), and the muscle weakness in my arms that make it difficult to write or type or lift a cup of coffee to my lips. Soon I will be completely alienated from reality, so I have to write while I still can.
I don't think Martin is interested in diagnosis and healing. I tried to get a referral to a doctor who specialized in neurosensory disorders, but I haven't heard anything. Stupid ass Mengele Martin has made his diagnosis and I will suffer from his concentration camp treatment. God only knows how much I can endure.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Answer to the commentator--I always appreciate a good book recommendation, and will put the name of Sara Miles on my "Read before I die" list. However, I will not be doing any serious reading anytime soon, thanks to the psychotropic drugs and constant physical pain (from never ending muscle spasms) which makes mental concentration practically impossible. I believe that the written word truly represents reality, but right now, I am not engaged in reality, and insofar as I am engaged in reality, the energy drain to stay focussed there is too great to allow for any deep dialogue with a worthy and inspiring writer/thinker.
Also, I have to say that there is no way that
I am not ready to contribute to institutional Christianity right now. I am beginning to believe I made a mistake receiving the sacrament of reception when I am in such a bad spot. I can't provide for my own needs. I can't walk. I'm a dangerous, nervous wreck when I drive. Even in church, people talk to me, and I am like an autistic child again--mind totally blanked out, sensing that I am supposed to respond somehow, but utterly dumbfounded, not knowing how to respond back, so I just stare back, trying to fathom what it is I am supposed to say, and then get cursed, as I did today by some guy at the gym who was saying something to me, and wanted me to say something back, but I couldn't focus in reality enough to respond. If my mind is so blank, empty, null, and zeroed out on these psychotropic drugs so that I can't respond to a casual encounter with a stranger, how can I dialogue with the reality of the thought of a writer or thinker?
I really am beginning to wish that I had stuck with my original plan--which was to not become part of any church community again until I was settled down with a partner. For my dreams are telling me that once again Christians are trying to force me into celibacy. The powers that are enslaving my life have the coercive force to keep me celibate. They have been doing it for years now, and I finally thought they were letting up, until I became involved with the Episcopal Church, and now, here it goes again, "St. Medeita blah, blah, blah." For about 5 years I believed that crap and let the Roman Catholics control me, but the self-realization and abundant sense of life that accompanied falling in love with Augusta, and reminding me of how happy and blessed that I had been with Colleen, completely and forever revealed the lies about celibacy that I had been witnessing for years as I explored celibate communities. One nice thing about aging is that you get to know yourself better, and so I have. I now know that I will not accept or fit it into any vocation of any type or stripe until I have a partner to mirror me back to myself, to confide in, keep me from overreaching, dialogue with me, and yes, most importantly, just make me feel loved, even though I am so "different" from the overwhelming majority of humanity. Did it ever occur to you psychiatric dumbasses that maybe I am "schizophrenic" in the same way that Tom Hanks was "schizophrenic" in "Castaway", when he painted a face on a soccer ball and created his imaginary companion, "Wilson"? That I was so lonely and alienated from social reality and family as a child that I socialized myself (and kept myself from going truly insane) by accessing an imaginary world to mirror me back And all that has been forced onto me in the last 10 years--the constant rejection and lies, job harassment, incarceration, denial of intimate relations--that has forced me back into my dysfunctional, imaginative world, that I had mostly overcome through intense psychological and spiritual work. When I was with Colleen, I never, not once, had to daydream about social relations or our relationship. As a matter of fact, she was so extroverted, and had so many friends coming over that the difficulty lay in me finding time to myself, and then realizing that Colleen was jealous of my relationship with God. And I was wrong by not telling her from the beginning of how important God and a spiritual life was to me (to be honest, I lied to my own self about it too). That is not a mistake I will repeat again, now that I am mature. But the problem now is that I don't have any kind of a social or intimate life, and yet that is an undeniable need in myself that I cannot bypass or fill.
So why do these people keep trying to force celibacy on me? They listen in on me talking in my sleep (which in itself is an incredible violation), and they learn two things--one is that I have a spousal relationship with Jesus Christ, which I admit I do. When I am able to really pray (which these days isn't often), I address Jesus as my husband and Lord. Such a spousal relationship with Christ does not negate my ability or vocation to be a good partner and spouse to a human being, though sometimes I wonder if I would call Jesus "husband" if I were married to a man, and the answer is, "yes, I think I would." In the ancient Hebrew world, women used to call their husbands, "Lord", at the same time they prayed to God as "Lord." It is a little bit awkward, but there is a totally different quality in the relationship between human person and human person, and human person and divine Godhead, and I know it and respect it. The challenging part would be finding a mate that will accept the fact that, first of all, I belong to God, and then to any committed partner. In other words, my partner cannot be jealous of my relationship with Christ. I do believe that as long as I am honest, that I will find such a person. One last note--anything that comes from a dream (including talking in a sleep) can often be highly metaphorical and not indicative of reality in the physical space/time world at all.
The second reason I think celibacy keeps being pushed on me is that I think there is some information floating around that comes from outside the present timeline. I would caution people to not take that kind of information literally. First of all, time (or fate or destiny) is never fixed. I am certain that God has infinite possibilities available no matter what any one person, including myself, chooses to do with their free will. To deny someone (like me) their free will in order to bring about God's will, is heresy. It is like the religious-political fundamentalists who would bring about a nuclear Armageddon in the hopes that divine intervention will save the planet (and I am sorry to say, but that is exactly what appears to be happening). Even if I were to commit suicide tomorrow, God would still find a way to use my life (maybe from beyond the other side) to accomplish the purpose which I am called to fulfill in this lifetime. So quit worrying about forcing me into a mold that fits your preconceptions of what my destiny is. Let God and myself interact in natural reality, and trust that the will of the Great Creator and Savior will always come through. I have prayed about this for years. I do not feel called to celibacy, and could list a whole multitude of reasons. Finally, a reminder from modern physics--"when you observe an object, it changes." Maybe at some point, I was called to celibacy. But after 10 years of being web cammed, rejected, objectified, manipulated, and tortured through drugs and coercion, I have changed. I will NOT cooperate with people who deny me free will (including leaning on individuals who are courageous enough to desire intimacy with me).
Friday, November 23, 2007
I had wanted to go to the bosque, but I was too sick to walk briskly enough in the snow to keep warm (all I wanted to do was find a nice tree and lay down). I have decided to create myself an elaborate scifi fantasy world, and need a little drug free time and space to do so. Why? Because right now, with myself being as severely autistic as I am, it actually is much more comfortable, much more human, to be in a fantasy world than the real world. I struggled so hard as a child and youth to leave the comfort blanket of the fantasy world behind and enter the "real world" of things, motion, and people. But now, it is too hard to be in the real world, it is too sickening, too inhuman. I find though (it amazed me in the psychiatric hospital that the dumbass "psych" thought that he was erasing my "racing thoughts" when all I did was lay in bed and spin out an entire fantasy world in which I spent nearly all of my time), that it is very pleasant to enter a fantasy world, and it is the only way in which I can feel like a human being again. This is why I keep reverting to images from memories, novels, and movies. But it would be more challenging to create a completely new fantasy world--I just need a little drug free space to initiate it. It won't happen today. I am too sick to go anywhere except stay in the house and breathe the poison. So I will go for the next best thing--TV--a total waste of time, but right now my entire life is a waste, so no big loss.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Well, I am close to saying it is all over--the purpose of this blog was to document my efforts at reclaiming my sexuality and soul. I have failed. At this point, barring a miracle, I realize that I will never be a human being again--I have lost both the freedom to live my sexuality and experience my soul. I cannot stop the NSA from drugging me; as a matter of fact they have put two implants in my brain which not only track me, but I suspect drug me as well. I can no longer fight to escape it. Even when I go to the bosque, I am sick with the psychotropic drugs. They can track me (I watched some skinny, tall dame in black signal a helicoptor before she sprayed me with drugs one night last week), and drug me at will. In this particular case, it was a good thing I was close to the truck, because she doped me up so good that I could barely walk the 25 yards to the truck. I am used to not being able to walk by now, though I continue to force myself to try to work out, even if only barely, and do yoga. I don't know how much longer I can force myself though. I feel so sick and weak and fluish all the time. My autism is becoming severe, and I literally find it difficult to even be around people, so I do my best to avoid them. It is especially hard when they talk to me, because it takes too much effort to talk back to them, and I am not in reality, but at the bottom of a deep, deep pit. Fortunately, I don't have to talk to very many people. Being isolated from people doesn't really bother me that much. I spent my entire childhood and youth living that way, and I learned very well how to live in that painful desolation. What really bothers me, and leaves me in suicidal despair is not being in touch with my interior life. I cannot pray, either mentally, verbally or contemplatively. I am a zombie, totally cut off from all emotions, and my great little secret that only one person that I know of ever guessed, is really how much of an emotional, "devotional" prayer I am. Because I don't show emotions, people do not realize how much of my prayer, even pure contemplative prayer, depends upon, and wells up from an emotional relationship with Jesus Christ, but now I am completely cut off from any emotions or feelings, any "soul", and without that, life has lost all meaning. The other day in the laundromat, while I was totally zombied out on psychotropic drugs, I experienced a first. A little 2 or 3 year old started throwing her toy figurines at me. Her mother was apologetic, but I looked at the little kid, and understood. She feared and reviled the subhuman, mostly dead zombie that she saw in front of her. Normally children pick up on my friendly, extroverted energy, zest, and joy for life, and respond to me with with open eyes and frankness (though I do hear a lot of "are you a boy or a girl?"), unlike too many of their parents who think I am hyperactive to the point of flakiness, or "schizophrenic" as the unimaginative, intellectually dour and spiritually immoral MIB do (speaking of which, I met another NSA psych the other day in Dr. Huaman's office--"Martin"--I guess he wanted to check out his drugged slave for himself. Maybe he wanted to see if I would have any kind of emotional reaction to him, but even though I knew who and what he was, I was too alienated from reality or any of my emotions to do anything other than observe. He probably is really proud of himself, not knowing at all the depth of my contempt and hatred for him). Anyway, I guess I had better get used to lots of negative feedback--people in general, (much less children) do not understand or appreciate autistic perception or alienation, and I do believe that I am on my way to becoming "Rainwoman."
Another real hardship is my complete inability to read. I can only remember three times in my life when I absolutely could not read or pay attention. The most prolonged period was my senior year, when I suffered a bad case of senior burnout. In retrospect, I think it was God's grace directing me away from graduate school, because at the time, that seemed like a natural next step for me. But if I had gone on to graduate school, I would have become a rarefied, ivory-tower, bookworm neurotic. The "real world" was a challenging place for me to be in, but I learned so much about remedial social relations and practicalities that I would have missed had I gone on to the easy, intellectual insularity of graduate school. Still, after the intellectual intensity of my first three years in college, it was hard to pick up a book, and find it boring, shallow, overspecialized or the "same old same old." At the time I was constantly chasing the cosmic GUTS ("grand unified theory of spirituality") that I had just briefly caught a glimpse of during my conversion, and I had no patience with the pedestrian dissertations and essays of academia. Of course, I know now (and knew then) that the problem really was with me, not the books. What I would do to be able to go back and really read Process Philosophy/Theology (I say that because I have been thinking a lot on temporal issues, and how that would impact Christian orthodoxy, and I suspect that the most fruitful synthesis of understanding would include Process Theology features. Then there were the two classes that I absolutely hated--Logic and Molecular Biology. I took logic because I thought I might be a philosophy major--again God's grace steered me clear. Molecular Biology was different. I really liked the instructor, and in theory, I was very curious about how Molecular Biology worked, but I felt physically sick while doing lab work on rats that had just been killed (I hated dissecting frogs in high school), and the sheer, overwhelming detail of biological minutae just bored me stiff. I wanted to know how the brain worked. I didn't give a shit about how acetylcholine converted to dopamine or vice versa or whatever. If I could take Molecular Biology now, you better believe I would give a shit, and I would be more motivated to pay attention. But could I pay attention? I am having the hardest time focussing even on reading familiar authors and favorite topics. And no, it is NOT that my mind is racing. Rather, it is that the words on the page are meaningless, and I notice that speed especially impacts my ability to make sense of words on a page. It is like reading Jabberwocky. I read but there is no context that signifies or declares meaning in my brain. Is this because I am so alienated from reality, or is my mind unable to process verbal thought (hmm--could be another side effect of the enhanced autism I am experiencing). I can write fine (at least I think I am), but I have to say that as I am writing this I feel better than I have all day, (but I still don't feel good--I feel really nauseated and headachy, and have difficulty concentrating). But does the mind race? No--it daydreams, not in a racing fashion, but more in a gentle reverie. How do I daydream? Read My Friend Flicka, one of my favorite childhood books. I daydream like young Ken. When his mother asks him how he failed English, he explained to her step by step of how and why he daydreamed away an entire hour. I, like Ken, think in images. It is an extra step for me to write, but normally, a very easy step. It is not an easy step now. In addition to "thinking images," I want to drift off into one of my "stressed out" reveries. When I am stressed out, I think of mountain hikes I have taken (and I am there), blue skies, running barefoot in the KY hills (and I feel the freedom of grass under my bare feet). One of my favorite images that I replay over and over is from the movie "King David." Richard Gere (in the only movie in which I can ever stand him), is a decrepit, dying king, who no longer can keep warm without a virgin laying asexually next to his once vigorous virility, and he is informing the room that he is about to "go the way of all flesh," and just by looking at him, you wonder how he gets the breath to get the words out. Then he slips into a reverie, and in his reverie, he is in the prime of young, virile manhood once again, racing with Jonathan, who (begging the question of what transpired sexually), I believe was the true love of his life. And just as he jump hurdles a fence like an Olympian, the movie ends. I think I see this image over and over because I feel like the dying, impotent David, no longer sovereign over even my own brain, ova, or sexuality, and the only thing I have to remind me of my once free, vital, joyful life are memories. I used to love to run. One of my favorite memories of Augusta is racing with her down the call center floor. Of course, some people thought we were crazy (why don't you apply for employment with the intelligence services, assholes?), but we had a blast. When I became overweight and could no longer run on a regular basis, I took up aerobics, but now I can no longer do even aerobics. Dr. Huaman asked me if I could not do something else, and I said yoga, but the truth is I miss the sheer all-out exhiliration of impulse and movement, and nothing, not even yoga, can give me that joy (yoga normally gives me a different kind of joy, but right now, with these psychotropic drugs, there is no body-mind-spirit connection, and it is nothing more than pedestrian exercise, but I do it to try to keep my body in some kind of shape). To be honest, I am in constant pain with nerve damage to the left leg (caused by the speed) that is worsening to the point where I wonder if soon I am going to be limping on that leg for the rest of my life, so you can see why I love that fantasy. I also love the scene where he dances naked for God, and his arranged wife despises him, asking him, "what is wrong with you," and he replies, "I do it for God, not for you and not for proper decorum." Of course David didn't live in an age where religious and political fundamentalists could spy on and control everything. I keep asking, "what would Jesus do if he knew that powers and forces of evil had implanted psychotropic drugs and a tracking implant in his brain that tracked his every move, made him ill and unable to pray or relate to others, and denied his free will to choose how to live out his sexuality. I know Jesus in another realm understands my dilemma, but my brain cannot answer that question with what I know of Jesus from Scripture. I wish I could pray, but the drugs prevent that.
I had hoped to have just one person to talk to--Ana Huaman. Dr. Huaman has true genius of intellect--not because she is an MD (most of whom don't impress me at all), but because she, like me, combines a scientific mind (another secret people don't grasp about me) with an intuitive perception into reality. The combination of science and intuition is what constitutes genius--not how much information a person carries in their head. She is heavier on the former while I am stronger on the latter, and I think she could really be helpful to me in figuring out some of these intellectual issues I have been struggling with(sure, she has been briefed by the NSA but I would tell EVERYBODY to take what they say with a grain of salt. Their MO is lies and disinformation. They don't know the truth themselves, because they are "disinformed" as well). I just need one friend to talk to, to keep me from utter despair. Another image that comes to mind is from the movie, "Notorious." When Ingrid Bergman is poisoned by her Nazi husband and mother-in-law, she succumbs without a fight, and I don't think it was because the poison was so effective but because she felt no one (namely Cary Grant) loved her, and life is not worth living and struggling for without someone to love you. That is where I am at--not one person to love me and help free me from the poison, so it is just reallyeasy to lay down and die, especially when I am in such pain all the damned time. I am not a celibate--I have too much need of another human person to help me navigate life. I need a helpmate, a friend, and a lover. But once again, I feel like I am being forced into celibacy. I can't stress how hateful that concept is to me. I hate it. I am too sick to continue. It is time to stop. I don't know if I will ever be intimate again. For that matter, I don't know if I will ever be a human being again. I have a bad headache. Maybe tomorrow I will feel better.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
I had to take six tylenol last night in order to sleep--three Vicodins and three Tylenol PM's, and I actually felt pain where my liver is. Of course, I worry about pain and damage to my liver, but I was out of my mind with pain from muscle spasms and nerve pain in my left leg from speed. But it is not speed that is making my life a sheer hell--it is the Risperdal that I am being force fed. I know it is Risperdal because they forced me to take it for a month last year, and it has the very same effects that it had on me a year ago--muscle pain and weakness to the point of debilitation, headaches, nausea, autistic separation and alienation from reality, suicidal depression and murderous rage (you try being forced into an autistic perception of reality and see what it does to you, you fucking assholes). The most obvious handicap though (after all which one of my abusers care if I suffer, cry and scream in constant pain from the muscle spasms 24/7), is that I cannot walk. My legs are literally numb with no sensation in them at all, except for the tender to touch nerve pain of my left thigh, and even that I think would feel much worse if my legs were not totally numb. Even now as I sit here at the computer, I can tell that my legs are completely numb. I had difficulty walking last year when I was on this Risperdal, and I had to walk very slowly, so slowly that my aged, out of shape mother kept walking faster than I could keep up. But this is worse--my legs are so numb that I twist and turn them as I step, since I cannot feel or have any control over the joints as they land. It takes a monumental effort of will to lift and place each leg. I am the kind of person who pushes and pushes and pushes, but even I realize that soon, I will be completely paralyzed. Because it is not just the legs--it is the arms too--so weak and heavy that I can't lift a cup of coffee to my mouth or hold a shampoo bottle in my hands. But the arms don't seem to be affected as quickly as the legs do. Why is it worse now this year than last year? Because the pricks took my self-knowledge of my own body and ailments (that I stupidly gave them) to address the calcium imbalance in my brain and now my brain is absorbing the Risperdal much more rapidly, and so the extrapyrimadal symptoms are much quicker to show themselves. The worst thing about these symptoms that I learned throughinternet research is that they are not temporary, but rather that they are caused by damage and destruction to the motor neurons. This is why I no longer can do aerobic exercise. This is why I no longer have enough muscle flex to do a simple, single pushup. My motor neurons have been destroyed by these MORONIC PIECE OF SHIT FUCKERS, and I will never be healthy and whole again, thanks to you assholes. Now, you are doing even further damage--will you be happy when I am a total vegetable? The most depressing thing in the world to me is to not be able to exercise, and now I cannot even walk.
What are some other symptoms of this forced Risperdal in me? Well, let me just concur with what some other people have experienced: risperdal: Side effects, ratings, and patient comments
"weight gain (10 % body weight in one month!), increased appetite, sore feet, muscular tiredness/weakness have discontinued due to weight gain M 46 1 months 8/31/2007
1 to janssen rep side effects are SUPPOSED to go away after taking a medication. I'm impotent, have no libido, can't feel any emotions, have no motivation, have no interest in life or doing things, etc. as an ONGOING, CHRONIC effect of taking your medication."
Yeah--no emotions that is a good way of describing the utterly desolate hell that I experience. This is why I cannot pray or read poetry--because for me that involves emotions, desire, joy, meaning in life--all of which are zombied out by this drug. Even contemplative prayer involves desire and yearning, and late at night it is my custom to reach into my spirit and reach out for God in contemplative prayer, and you fuckers have taken all that away from me. You have denied me my spirit, my emotions, my libido, my joy in life, and I don't know if I ever will get it back.
How about this one?
"Cognitive impairment, substantial weight gain (puffed up like a balloon), zombie-like apathy"
I never will forget the stupid dumbass psych Dr. Cameron Johnson asking me the day after he forced me his goddamned poison down my throat, "Now aren't the 'racing thoughts' starting to subside?"
YOU STUPID GODDAMNED FUCKS--I don't have racing thoughts. When I am healthy, what I have is an incredibly quick, intuitive mind that is capable of picking up multiple impressions and sensations, and analyzing and processing them rapidly so that I can respond optimally. For me, as an autistic, this is absolutely imperative because I don't have the ability to emotionally read people that 98% of the population has, so I have to do extra work. I have to be alert for extra cues and process them so I can relate to people without offending them, a feat I had mastered and now have completely lost again. Thank you you fucking assholes for making it even more difficult for me to relate to people than it already is. Thank you for healing me of my ability to interact in, and master reality as an independent, successful, healthy person.
The "good doctor's" utterly stupid and presumptious comment reminded me(and it is the image that keeps floating over and over again into my mind) reminded me of a scene from Babylon 5. A corporate CEO (and psychiatrist himself) wants to control the psychics (why?--because they have a power he cannot understand or control, and he has to control everything). So he creates a fatal virus that will impact only telepaths, to which only he has the antidote for, but to prove the effectiveness of the antitdote he has to condemn to death numerous telepaths. It is a horrible virus that causes intense suffering before death, and this "doctor" is making his rounds in the condemned ward, and the sick telepaths haven't a clue that their disease and suffering and death is caused by this man. The doctor takes the hand of one dying telepath who tells him how bad he hurts and how he just wants it all over, and the sick, evil doctor pats his hand and says "don't worry, soon the pain will be all over." I am that telepath, and the unnamed psych (though I think I did see him onceat ALLtel), is the evil doctor who has created my pain and suffering, and whose idea it "being all over" is the destruction of the essence of what makes me human, and enables me to function in society. And why? Because I have a giftedness they don't understand and they cannot control.
How about some other testimontials to this cash cow for Jansen?
"Lack of intrest in life, no will to carry on living.Constant need to use go to the bathroom.Constant headache .living hell! "
"Horrific, turned into a suicidal zombie. Weight gain, constant suicidal thoughts, no motivation.Lost a court case as gave up fight. meant to be delusional about being raped. Sick Australian government. Now have vision problems with damage to retina.Brain scan showed diffuse damage"
"Extreme lethargy, confusion, forgetfulness, sleepiness, zombification."
"I've got pain all over my body. I feel weak and don't like to stand up, or stand up for several minutes. The most worrying pain is in my back and sometimes I need painkillers and cremes angainst it. At the beginning I had lots of sideffects that were mental and still have them a bit. I am more depressed and suffer more from anxiety and that scares me. Can anybody tell me if the pain will go away and the feeling of weakness?"
I could copy and paste dozens of the same testimony of the same horror, devastation and damage done by this drug. But I just recommend you to the link. Just one little side note that I find interesting--this damned drug even damages vocal cords through spasms--that is why my voice is changing.
I am too sick to go on. A plumber is coming to my house today, and it is a mess, and I am too sick to even clean house. Tita Zombie signing off
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Dreamed last night that I was a slave--a prophetic dream for sure. In the dream, I was a little three or four year old African slave boy. I was travelling with a group of slaves and life was hard, and times were tough. Everyone was beat down and weary. A mother offered me her breast (though it was a perky, girlish breast rather than a full, maternal breast). In the dream, part of me was an adult and I thought that I was too old to take the breast. But there was an anthropological commentary running too, and it said, "when life is a constant struggle and food is scarce, mothers suckle their young for extended periods." I took the breast. The rest of the dream I will keep to myself and wait to see if it reveals itself, but I will say that I am very much looking forward to being received into the Episcopal Church by a Black woman bishop. That setup is so perfect--I couldn't have prayed for it any more perfectly. It also is very reassuring that apparently the rector, Fr. Brian went to seminary with her (and I assume, he is the one that invited). That speaks volumes of her character and spirituality to me. I indeed am blessed, even though tonight I feel the burden of slavery very heavy.
My body is totally broken down from the constant drugging of speed and psychotropic drugs. My arms are so heavy that they cannot lift, and my muscles are all painflully spasming. I have a constant headache, and a full, "bloated", fluid-filled head that makes it hard to think or feel. My heart is constantly racing, and I don't even want to know my cholesterol level (lithium raises cholesterol, too). Arthritis and tendonitis are attacking all my joints--those are the ones that working. The psychotropic drugs totally deaden my knees and elbows so that I cannot even walk normally, and it it painful on the knees to not track properly. The interior of my body is in pain too--something is wrong with my espophagus (I think--I don't know what the hell it is), and I feel organ and deep abdominal pain, but I don't know what is causing it--it could be all this extra weight, that is truly disgusting to live with and accept, especially knowing that it has all been incurred through personal bodily violation by people I cannot stand. But I am slave. Even my own body and brain does not belong to me, but to religious parasites who want to force me into a sickening, idolatrous image of holiness that they can feed off of. I am tryingto hold on, but honestly I don't know how my body can continue to live with this kind of heaviness, pain, and suffering. I saw a former aerobics instructor today, and I was so depressed, because when I used to go to his class, I used to be full of energy, vitality, life, and joy, able to do a full hour of aerobic exercise, and then go on to a yoga class. Now I cannot even do an aerobics class at all. I can barely walk. I cannot even do yoga. My arms are too weak and heavy to do even the basic poses. And I know, from before, that damage IS permanent. I haven't been able to do one pushup since the lithium caused the muscle rigidity two years ago, and now the damned slaveowners are forcing more of the muscle destroying poison into me.
Then there is the autism. That is a whole another story. I wanted to freak out in Walmart today--just couldn't handle it. Instead I went to a changing room to try on clothes where I could have my own space with no stimuli, but the stupid clerk drugged it with psychotropic drugs. And I knew, I knew, exactly by that smile she gave me that she was going to do it. It is the smile of a stupid sheep Catholic--that is, the smile of a codependent with no self-aware, empowered, interior life or depth of spirituality. She doesn't feel in control of her own life, so it is so satisfying to her to steal the self-esteem and self-control of another who would be sovereign in her own life. The amazing thing is that I don't pick up that co-dependency from the Episcopalians at St. Michael. I also don't pick it up at yoga--my inner intuition tells me that people of my yoga class have been praying for me, and though most of them probably cannot stand institutional Christianity, they are truly spiritually powerful and sincere people, and I "feel" their genuine and benevolent intent for me, and am grateful. So see, even a slave gets offered a breast every once in a while (this image just reminded me of the disgust on Dave Denny's face that I observed while someone was talking of an animal suckling--true patriarch that he is, he despises feminine nurturance. But I don't. I am a slave, and my life is hard, and I am humbly grateful for any true nurturing, nourishment, and support that is offered to me. I thank God I seem to finally have found an institutional community that truly cares about me, and I thank God for all the people who truly are praying for me--specifically the people of my yoga class and at St. Michael's.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Woke up this morning in severe pain from my nerves in my left thigh--a sure sign that I am being force-fed speed. Actually, I didn't need the pain. I only slept three hours last night before completely waking up unrefreshed--another sure sign of speed, and a mind control tactic used by cults and security organizations--sleep deprivation. Instead of feeling suicidally depressed this morning, it took everything I had not to hurl the teakettle against the wall. I am full of rage at my pain and suffering. It doesn't help that I perused a web site on brain injury this morning and recognize that I am suffering both permant and current symptoms--memory loss, loss of word choice function, fatigue, disorganization, sensory overload (definitely related to my autism and definitely severely exacerbated by these psychotropic drugs), depression and anger. I do not to what extent I will ever be able to heal from this damage, but God told me at the time of the original lithium injury that permanent damage had been done, so I am not optimistic.
Right now though I am just trying to survive--to escape the hell of this speed and psychosis inducing drug, but it is so hard when I can barely walk. My muscles feel like they are atrophying, and through it all Dave Denny keeps IMing it. Get this Dave, FATHER (if that is what it takes to get you to listen, powertripping patriarchal abuser). GET OUT OF MY LIFE. NOW. FOREVER. GO FIND A GIRL TO GIVE SPIRITUAL DIRECTION TO AND PROJECT YOUR STUPIDITY AND ARROGANCE ONTO. I AM NOT AVAILABLE. I WILL LEAVE GOD TO JUDGE YOU, BUT YOU HAD BETTER HOPE THAT GOD DOESN'T ASK FOR MY INPUT.
Hint Hint: The power of the poor (the powerless)pierces the cloud", and right now, as for the last ten years, I know God has heard my prayer of agony and anguish--angony and anguish, pain and suffering initiated and orchestrated by you. Good luck with your life and eternal judgment. Just leave me alone.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Incredible sickness and suffering with these drugs that have left me practically paralyzed and in a severe autistic state. I cannot walk. I cannot drive without freaking out. I cannot read. I cannot listen to music. People talk to me, and I feel like I am mentally retarded because I don't understand what it is they are saying to me. I am not in reality. All I can do is watch TV, lay in bed and cry--oh and one more thing, praise God for getting me out of the Roman Catholic Church. Unfortunately, it didn't happen before the bastards did irrepable damage to me--and still is doing it--but at least I know that if I die (and my desire to live is so low now that I don't know how much longer I will be here on this earth), an Episcopalian priest will perform my burial. That is so important to me--that a cleric who is MAN enough to accept a woman as a full and equal partner in the mystery and vocation of faith is the one who I want to administer sacraments to me--not these sick misogynists with their specious arguments on how women aren't fully in the image of the divine. Bullshit. I only bring this up because I see the SLI (Dave Denny or one of his RC fundamentalist or Opus Dei cohorts) are still stalking me online. Fortunately they are easy to ignore, for I am much too sick and out of touch with reality to have a conversation with anyone.
I don't know how much longer I can hold out. My days are hell. My nights are hell. I don't know if I will ever have a free future again for the SLI and Opus Dei have gotten the NSA involved (no wonder--they are exactly alike--both entities treat people like slaves and things to be controlled, used, and manipulated instead of as free human beings). I have already gone through ten years of this torture, and I will not go through another ten. I feel like a kid trying to cover myself up while I just keep getting kicked and kicked and kicked. At least when I was a kid, I could heal, but my body and brain have already been so damaged by these bastards that I know my healing capacity is severely compromised. I am so tired of suffering. I am so tired of being alone and celibate. I am so sick of not being in reality, of not feeling joy and happiness, of not being able to read or play music because I'm so drugged up that I am a nothing but a vegetable. God help me.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
A mixed day as I managed to recover from a severe bout of autism earlier in the day. More and more it is apparent to me that all of these psychotropic drugs cause an exacerbated autism in me which is a truly hateful condition. My response ranges from fierce rage (the extreme frustration of a usually "normally" perceiving person to someone who is completely overwhelmed by, and unable to mediate reality) to near catatonic psychosis (I know when I fixate my gaze on one thing that I am going catatonic, but I fixate the gaze because I cannot stand any more sensory input).
Anyway, it was very unfortunate that I was so autistic this morning because I spoke with Fr. Brian regarding reception into the Episcopal church. I wasn't really in reality, and so was not able to engage and interact with him on a human level (which makes me feel bad, but my God, how long has it been since I have been able to interact with people on a real level. I feel like the character in "Castaway", deserted in solitary for four years, arriving home on a jet plane, and not knowing how to engage people and the reality of the civilized world again). He was kind and let me ramble on about intellectual and ideological differences with the Catholic Church, which are very true and valid, but I never broke the personal plane (and believe me I can cry oceans over it), on how it feels to be an outcast in a Church, to have your gender denigrated, restricted and defined, to have your sexuality termed "disordered" and sinful, to be frustrated at every attempt to fit into church life while the so-called "spiritual directors" even interfere in my worldly life--to the point of being fired from jobs, thrown in jail, and being denied personal intimate relationships. And as I sit here tonight, in more possession of my faculties than I have had in recent weeks, that is the most painful of all. I do not wish to be celibate. I do not have a vocation to celibacy. More than anything else, I hope and desire to share my life with a significant other, but instead am forced into this miserable aloneness. I envy the partnered people I see around me. At the SLI, they were always trying to arouse envy in me, but the truth is that I really don't envy others very much, but I do envy those who have someone to talk to about their deepest pain, I envy those who sleep next to an inviting warm body, and I envy those who have partnered intimately for life. I know that God knows my prayer and my gifts and my sexuality. When will I be free to exercise them? (Wow, I must be feeling good--I'm actually dealing with real issues, instead of the omnipresent crush of praying for release from the drugs).
Monday, November 5, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Finally, some relief--I think I have been released from the hell of psychotropic drugs. I still cannot concentrate, and suspect some kind of speed (or maybe, my system is just still trying to clear out the drugs), but I feel SO much better, that I cannot help but feel grateful. I tried to memorize Psalm 6 yesterday while I was in the bosque. I failed pitifully because I could not sustain concentration from one line to another, but God must have heard my prayer, because there was an answer. Just in time, too, because my ability to perceive and interact with reality was becoming tenuous to the point of being unbearable. I could drink an entire bottle of wine and not feel drunk--only slightly better. I had taken a garbage bag from the kitchen and meant to throw it into the outside garbage can on my way to the car. While driving down the road, I wondered what I was smelling, looked over, and saw that I had throw the smelly garbage bag into the passenger seat instead of into the garbage can. I was losing track of days and dates, and somehow (still haven't figured out), missed certifying for my unemployment benefits, which is the most important action I do each week to ensure "my daily bread." Not only did I forgot to certify, but in addition, I went to the post office twice, looking to pick up my check, absolutely certain that I had certified by phone as required. The first time I made the mistake of going on Tuesday, and checked myself when I realized that I had went on the wrong day, telling myself, "you know better--you should go on Wednesday." But Thursday came around and no check. I called, and learned that I had neglected to certify. Geez. That extent of cognitive deficiency is more than forgetfulness--I was "losing it." I was losing my ability to dream too--literally. It is very weird. I know that some images must have been going through my head in my dream world, but they were so far away that there is no way I could relate to, or capture them. Even last night, my dreams were like that, but I had one weak memory of an image of a female senator, and I woke up feeling like I had worked out something in my dreams. However, the dreams the two nights previous to that were truly nightmares. I only remember one weak image from each night--they were the same. In both of them, I was bleeding to death. In the image from the first night, I was tied to a stake, helplessly unable to move, while I was being bled to death (by others). In the second image, I was bleeding to death through my feet, and it was very helpless to know that I could bleed completely to death through my feet. Anyway, I think those images are interesting because last night, I had an incredible blood rush to the brain. I was a little panicked as I felt the pounding and heard the whooshing of all this blood rushing to my brain--especially since blood rushes to the brain are accompanied by severe migraines, and I worry about aneurysms on account of all the drug traumas and damage my brain has suffered in the last two years. But I survived with neither migraine nor aneurysm; instead I woke up with the strangest craving--for pancakes. I never eat pancakes. I don't particularly like pancakes, and most certainly not for breakfast. My body cannot handle sugar and carbohydrates on an empty stomach. But the craving was intense and undeniable, so off to McDonald's I went. Surprisingly, the pancakes didn't cause that sick, blood sugar spike and hypoglycemic crash like it normally does.
So what does all this tell me? I am almost afraid to say as I fear that I will provide more ammunition to my enemies, who I am sure, are not done yet with force-feeding drugs into my traumatized and exhausted body. (Who are my enemies? My enemies are those who will not accept my free choice and free will in deciding, affirming, and committing to identity and action, but instead, constantly abuse and damage my body and brain in an attempt to coerce me into an image that conforms with their needs and projections. No matter the excuse they cite--saying that I am "schizophrenic," or "manic-depressive," that they are protecting me from HIV, that they have a great role for me to play, etc, all their efforts boil down to one essential element--preventing me from being sexually active in a lesbian relationship, no matter what the cost. They have already failed, and their abuse has alienated me to the point past any return). All this being said, I know that there are medical professionals out there who do really care about me, and I know them when I see them (even if I seem to be in a proto-psychotic state), and sometimes, even when I am separated from seeing them. So I will say that my dreams were telling me that the anti-psychotics were somehow depriving my brain of blood and nutrients, so that a blood rush ensued once the constraints were lifted, and an intense craving for blood sugar glucose resulted. (I wonder if blood-glucose starvation were the reason my legs and arms were heavy to the point of numbness and immobility). It would have been a good day to go to the bosque again, but I am so exhausted that I just want to stay at home and rest, even though I still feel that I am being drugged. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Terrible--that is what my body feels like, my mind feels like, my life feels like. I am being force fed the psychotropic drugs again--I can tell because my feet and legs are numb (do you know how difficult it is to drive when you can't feel your own legs and feet?), my back muscles are spasming, and my arms are so weak that I cannot hold the phone to my ear. To add insult to injury, I am being force fed speed, which I can tell because of the agonizing, fiery pain it causes in my left leg.
I cannot remember the last time I felt like a human being. I just keep plugging away, hoping and praying that God will give me my life back. Not much of a prayer though--I cannot pray when I cannot concentrate. And even though I went to Church on Sunday, it was obvious that I wasn't in reality enough to pray. But God knows that it is not my fault so I hope for mercy. I pray for health. I am so sick of suffering this torment.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Paralyzed. When I was a college sophomore, I had a severe neck sprain (falling from a bunk bed in my sleep) that left me almost completely paralyzed for several hours. I was sent to the ER on a backboard, where I waited for about three or four hours for treatment. It seemed like an eternity. They wouldn't give me any painkillers because they said they were worried about possible head trauma. So for hours, I agonized in the most exquisite of pain, but couldn't even move, besides fluttering my fingers and turning my head. It seemed so unfair. If I couldn't have painkillers, at least I should have been able to writhe in agony to release some of the horrible pain. The image that came to my mind while I lay there in mute, suffering agony was that of a live butterfly on a pin.
Well this butterfly is on a pin again, wings soaked in chemicals and transfixed in agony by a pin. The psychotropic drugs have completely cut off and/or deadened from my emotional and spiritual life--in short, from those capacities that make me human. I know that this disconnected, alienated, cocooned person is not me, but I am too anesthized to do more than cry and long for an end to this hopeless misery. I am paralyzed. To make matters worse, I am in terrible back pain. I know from yoga class last night that the drugs are having a very definite impact on my muscles, causing spasms, tightness, stiffness, and a sense of arthritis in my joints. My legs and arms are so heavy that it takes a massive act of will to move them. I can barely turn my head when I drive or wipe myself after relieving myself at the toilet. But the most unbearable part of my pain comes from my ribs, lats, and thoracic (sp?--too sick to look it up) spine. Just lifting and extending my arms--to take a drink or a bite, to type on a typewriter, causes unrelenting, excruciating pain. I recognize that thoracic pain--it is part and parcel of my original back injury from 10 years ago. And I learned how to cope with that pain teaching myself to self-medicate through prayer and meditation. But now, I am cut off from the capacity and ability to pray or mediate, and thus I am completely unable to heal my own pain. 10 years ago, I was in despair at the thought of being in chronic pain or dependent on painkillers for the rest of my life. Now I face that despair all over again. This pain is not tolerable.
My dream last night indicates the destitute position I am in. I dreamed that Debbie C. had to move into a a totally derelict apartment--a completely ramshackled, rotten, and ugly place tenanted by dope addicts. There was vomit on the walls. Debbie C, for me, stands for a prayerful and mature Christian. Debbie metamorphed into myself, and I was the one living in this horrible place. My mom was coming to dinner, and I told myself, "at least I should clean the vomit off these walls." But I was too sick to do anything. Someone gave me some stale restaurant bread to feed my mother, and she was so pleased when I gave it to her. She actually took it as a sign that I liked my new place so much that I had cooked in it, baking the bread for her. I was shaking my head at her naivete. "Typical Mom", I thought, "she doesn't have a clue what is really going on with me or my surroundings. How could she think for one minute, that I could ever cook in this hideous, derelict place?" Int.--my spiritual, prayerful self has lost its beautiful environs (my normal, "mildly schizophrenic" personality, and is now housed in a hateful, ugly place where it cannot function or be creative....
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Raging at the tormentors who drug me as I am made miserable and oppressed by the speed they keep forcing on me. I go to sleep high. I wake up high. But it is not a pleasant, recreational high. It is a physically draining high that leaves my body so heavy that I feel like a fish flopping on land, lifting legs that feel like stone columns. Even typing is difficult since my arms are so heavy, and the muscles in my back and shoulders tighten and spasm from the speed. A typical night for me is going to a unrestful sleep after 3 am, after I have ingested copious amounts of OTC sleep herbs, pills, and whiskey. After an unrestful night, I wake up 5-6 hours later, unrefreshed, and as high as I was when I went to sleep. I long for the days when my morning routine began with spontaneous inner joy and praise to God for creating and gracing me as a free child, and raising the dawn. My contemplative center was so easily accessible to me, and it colored my whole approach to life. Now I am alienated from my spiritual center (and I can tell it, just by looking in the mirror at my eyes. When I cannot see my soul in my own eyes, but just a glazed, glittery shine or a dark chasm, I have physical proof of what my emotional and spiritual faculties already tell me--I am separated from my own ground of being--my soul. It is the most hateful and horrible feeling in the world, and is scary how much damage these psychotropic drugs really cause. It doesn't completely separate me from God or prayer, but it is a very unsatisfying relationship and prayer. The closest I have ever experienced such an alienated prayer was when ,as a teenager, before my conversion experience, I would pray while I was drunk. I was sincerely praying, trying to reach out to a God that I hoped existed, but incapacitated in my will and mind to fully receive or cooperate with any movement of grace that God might make towards me. This is what so frustrating, and even enraging for me--to not be fully able to initiate, cooperate and respond in prayer, but just like a spiritual baby, able only to self-centeredly plead, "God help me endure," and know that yes, God is there.
I have been wanting to go to Eucharistic services at the Episcopal church, since I am more and more committed to entering this communion, but the truth is that I feel so terrible in the mornings, that I am ashamed before God to go to a public place of worship. I wouldn't go to church while drunk, and there is absolutely no difference in the spiritual incapacitation I feel under the influence of these drugs. In addition, I feel agitated and angered, knowing that these drugs are forced upon me by doctors who have never once had a conversation with me, and ignore clear proof of how debilitating these drugs are to me, while they destroy my mind and body. The only doctor who has truly listened to me regarding this is Dr. Huaman. When she told me that I was "mildly schizophrenic", and it was clear to my perception that she supported the idea of anti-psychotic medication, I humbly listened, and I took that damned Risperdal for another week, even though I knew that it was killing me. But I think that Dr. Huaman has also seen how symtomatically miserable and debilitated I am on that medication, and does not support forcing it on me.
So I am "mildly schizophrenic"--and I wish that I, at the time, would have sought greater clarification on what she meant by that. So what? I am very functional in society--or I was, before I started being force fed multiple kinds of psychotropic drugs. I don't think that my "schizophrenia" is an illness that needs to be redressed. It is an eccentricity that I need to be aware of, but I think of it as an easy accessiblity to my unconscious which is not only a great asset, but also a great gift from God, and I am truly handicapped without it. I don't if my brain in an attempt at natural healing and function, rewired that way, so that my autism wouldn't be pre-eminent to the point of dysfunction. I do know that every drug they have force fed, including the speed, increases my autism, sometimes severely so, as in the case of anti-psychotics.
One of my favorite original Star Trek shows is that of Captain Kirk being split into two selves during transport. One self was everything that was good and noble and conventionally admirable in him. His bad self, which got thrown in the brig immediately, had all his bad tendencies magnified to the point of vice--his womanizing, his snappishness, and the need to control and dominate everything. The irony of it all though, was that the "good" Captain Kirk absolutely could not function without the input from his shadow qualities. He lost his nerve, his decisiveness, his ability to command and inspire confidence from others without it. Now Captain Kirk is not my favorite Starfleet captain but the truth of that show carries over to me in my situation. Whatever my giftedness and vocation is (and I think I know now), I have to have my shadow side, my eccentricity, my "mild schizophrenia" in order to succeed. I cannot function without it.