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.