forced psychotropic drugs again

10/13--

Severely depressed--but now I recognize without a doubt, I am being drugged.  I had to come home yesterday and sleep, and today, I am going out of my mind with this shit running through my veins and brain.  I suspect now that it has been going on for several days., because I have found it difficult to concentrate, exercise or even clean house.  I had started to write, but for the last several days, I haven't been able to focus well enough to write, or do anything else for that matter.  This morning, I was so my brain was so distracted I couldn't even read.  This has been going on for several days now---I remember because I felt so unusually bad on  Tuesday morning that I took 2 Relacore and 2 estrogen tablets on Tuesday afternoon right before yoga, and immediately I felt my energy come back, and my ability to focus returned.  So my guess is that they started this shit over the weekend or on Monday.  It also coincided with serious ongoing nausea, hunger, and weight gain (and these bastards are always going on and on, about me losing weight, but they and their stupid psychotropic drugs are responsible for the last 30 pounds I have gained--30 pounds that I have to sweat blood to lose)   But Relacore has very bad side effects for me--it has severe masculinizing side effects.  But if that is the only way I can feel like a human  being, then I will take it. Obviously my life and body is not my own, so what the fuck does it matter.  I am close to seeking sex reassignment anyway--it should be really really easy for me.  I won't even no damn doctor's approval.  OTC testorone and illegal steroids abound.  GET THIS ASSHOLES!!! Can you read?  My problem is HORMONAL, not psychological.  Hormones are what I need---not your stupid shit.  You have caused permanent damage to me me with your stupid shit.  I am in constant physical pain, thanks to your shit.  And even now, I am so severely depressed I can't function.  I have to go out of town tomorrow, and I don't even have the ability to get up and pack or clean my house.  I can't even read a chapter in a novel.  All I can do is rage and cry, and desperately wish for another lifetime where I am free of you and your poison.  But I know that I am drugged up.  I can't make decisions when I'm like this.  I desperately need to detox before I go home.  Time to take 2 Relacore to see if it will give me a chance to recover so that at least I can function.

dedicated to anna & alexander

Oct 8, 06--Barely able to sit at my computer.  The speed that I am being poisoned with has me high and in pain.  I can no longer sleep on my back at all.  My entire left leg is numb, and I can tell that the inflammation resulting from the speed has caused a painful pinched nerve right in the middle of my sacrum.   What kind of permanent damage the bastards will cause this time remains to be seen. But I am going to fight through it as best I can.  I started to write an autobiographical expose the outrageous abuse and violation that the Spiritual Life Institute originated; however it was erased when I attempted to mail it (I didn't have a floppy).  I should have anticipated that.  I know that the public library does not provide secure internet viewing.  I can literally see the other user on the network accessing it.  At the time, I wasn't so worried about my emails being blocked.  I was more worried about clearing my head after that smirking Christian sat  down next to me, spreading the same dope that the Christians have been poisoning me with ever since I got involved with the Spiritual Life Institute. (Oh, and by the way, tell that poor, psychologically blank, tabla rosa adolescent to go back to his Opus Dei or seminary studies.  He makes a poor shadowing tail, and one of these days I am going to shock his sorry, sheltered behind right into the blessed creation reality where a child of God truly belongs--oh but then he would be totally ruined  for the priesthood or Opus Dei, wouldn't he?  My pleasure, young man.  Give me one more chance.  I'm ready this time).

I'm not even able to write on my own computer.  Of course I knew it would be partitioned into a spy drive when I got it.  I knew that I would be unable to access Administrator account (that was the way it was set up before).  What I did not know was that I would not be able to write to either floppy or CD, making it impossible for me to keep a permanent record in easily accessible hardcopy.

That is alright.  The web is going to have to be the first choice of documentation,  even though it is subject to hacking and illigitmate editorial tampering.  But I am going to do the best I can--even handwriting out my notes.  I have been rereading a Scott Peck book, and in it he quotes a youthful unknown Sigmund Freud who was delighted that his future biographers would have such a difficult time deciphering him.  That has never been my aim.  As a matter of fact, more than anything else, I had wished to be anonymous to the world.  I truly found the seclusion and escape of monastic religious life appealing.  However that is not my vocation, and if I ever had sinful temptations to cling to such illusion, they have been completely dispelled by my long-suffering abuse at the hand of such religious communities.  I have also had to accept that  I am one of those individuals who others will probably be reading and pondering for a period of time, maybe a long time. So it is.  While I strive for clarity, both my own changing viewpoints, as well as the difficulty in preserving my own true writing  is going to make this difficult.  But I am going to give it my best shot. 

Today, I downloaded a picture of Anna Politkovska--a Russian journalist who spent recent years uncovering and fighting abuse and torture committed by her own government and its allies (wow! sound like something we could use in this country?--while ourjournalists spend their best efforts trying to btain salacious, muckracking sex chatlogs...).  She has just been murdered.  I downloaded the picture, because I identify with it.  For all of her worldly savvy, (journalism is a hard-boiled, tough-nut profession--when it's done right--not the Katie Couric, inane stupid fluff that is the stuff of rapid promotion and high ratings in our society), her eyes are those of an innocent.  She is the kind of innocent that believes good and justice and morality prevail in the world, and is utterly shocked and scandalized to find out that really there are overwhelming forces at work to derail this So now she is dead.  But before she died, she courageously persevered in uncovering and presenting the truth. 

The other Russian to whom I dedicate my entry, and my committment to persevere is of course, Alexander Solzhenitsyn.  I finished his Gulag Archipelago trilogy, and apart from sheer awe at how such a sensitive intellectual survived such inhumanely harsh concentration camp life for ten years (I would be a "goner" within one--those Russians have incredible constitutions), I was most impressed with how people fought to keep their humanity.  The Christians and Moslems continued with their prayers, hiding and memorizing tiny copies of Scripture and even making rosaries/prayer beads of dried bread.  While I believe that AS was a man of faith in a non-demonstrative way, he attempted to fight for his humanity by maintaining his vision of human rights and dignity, specifically through literature and memory. 

In the camps, they were not allowed to write (amazing how subversive the truth of th written word is).  So AS, and a few others like him, "wrote" by memorizing hundreds and thousands of lines of verse they had created and never committed to paper for more than a brief few minutes, if at all (and here I complain if I cannot have access to immediate editing tools of software).  When he did write, he had to hide it (or go to solitary confinement for punishment), in a multitude of hiding places from the insewn hem of a pantleg to a underneath a brick at the work site.  And he did all of this writing imprisoned with no access to reading or writing implements, on starvation rations, doing hard labor for 10 hours a day, six days a week in Siberia, with nothing but a flimsy padded jacked and cap for warmth in subzero weather.  And I complain because I have to catch a bus, and hope to use a public computer for an hour or two at a time.   Even as he did write the final draft, he never had the entire manuscript in his possession.  It was pieced together, literally in pieces from hiding places of sympathetic friends and colleagues. 

So, like AS, I will have to beg forgiveness from any future readers.  It is not my desire to be difficult or disjointed to read.  Some future editor is going to have to do the best they can with what I have left behind.  Unlike Freud, this is not by mischievous willfulness I had wanted to leave a clear presentation, but the persecution and pressures I experience make that impossible. 
I promise to do the best that I can....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

poisoned again with psychotropic drugs

Oct 10th--My body is reacting to the severe poisoning I am getting with nerve and joint inflammation.  My back hasn't hurt so bad in years.  My leg is being permanently damaged with nerve pain, and now the inflammation is starting in my right leg and my right wrist.  If my right wrist becomes as bad as my left I will truly be screwed.  I won't be able to do yoga at all.  I am trying to hang in there God, but I don't know how much longer I can hang in there.  I am gaining weight again, so my guess is that I am being force fed antidepressants.  My eyesight is becoming dim again, and I am getting the same old pain behind my eyes as well as having nerve pain in my left sinus cavity.  Haven't these bastards done enough damage to my body?  I want them out of my life, forever. GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT, and take your stupid damn corrupt religion with you.

Pharmalogical cause of depression

9/27--The depression continues---worsening to the point that its getting harder and harder to do or care about anything.  But I know now, the cause of the depression is not my own personal issues I am dealing with--it's pharmacological--the result of me being doped up against my will.  As a matter of fact, when the goddamn poison is out of my system, I deal with things pretty good.  But right now, I'm flooded with the shit (I took some OTC vitamins on an empty stomach--only guess what?  They are not vitamins.  I think they are some kind of serontonin anti-depressant, and they are driving me into despair, wanting to be free of this horrible, emotionally and physically debiliating influence.  Not only that, but they are increasing the pain in my belly, and I have to hold on for surgery with a dr. I trust.  The emergency room would just do a hysterectomy, and then I'd really be in a hormonal pickle.  I think it is aggression causing the pain.  I want to smash somebody's face in.  I want to kick them in the balls, blow their face away, I want to cut my arms and empty this hateful poison that is killing me out.  But I know this is not really me.  This is the drugs and I have to endure.  I must endure.  I cannot stop this evil from happening to other people if I do not endure.  I know who is ultimately responsible for this, and I know that I am called to fight them--and I cannot fight them if I am dead.  So I have to hold on, and try to sleep this shit off, and do everything in my power to escape the drugs. 

coming to terms with damage done

9/25/06 Truly depressed, and in pain over the past couple days. Looking at my past login, I see that absolutely nothing has changed—I’m still in chronic and severe leg pain from being doped up, and while my house has actually been inhabitable for the past couple of days, I am horrified to realize the full extent of the damage done by the psychotropic drugs. I think the last time I took psychotropic drugs was a couple of nights ago, when I took a Flexiril for terrible back pain and leg spasms. It definitely was not Flexiril, and what I am realizing now is that the depressive aftereffects of psychotropic drugs can last for days, weeks, months (????). I have so much poison in my brain and body right now, I doubt that I will ever be completely cleansed of totalitarian, Big Pharm chemical shit ever again. In addition to lithium, anti-depressants, and various psychotropic drugs including Olanzapine, I think I have been put on speed, cannabis, and some mild form of LSD. I empathize with Mother Earth to a degree that I have not done before, as I realize how weakened and devitalized she is with the poisons an abusive patriaptionrchal mindset has flooded her eco-body with. That is me, although truly, after spending the last five minutes in the kitchen crying, I think somehow, I still am being doped. But even so, I know the acumulation of poison is palpable, real, and still negatively affecting my mood. I know by the symptoms of autism, and when they appear. I can feel it in my legs; I can tell by the differences in sensory perception, and flatness of affect. I used to start experiencing autistic symptomology after three or four days of solitude in the wilderness (the lack of stimuli, I think lulled my brain back into its autistic state. Now, a three hour hike has the very same debilitating effects. It used to be that I experienced numbness in my entire legs, only when I was dealing with very deep and painful emotions. Now, I experience it all the time. I remember at work, I had to change queue from a demanding and emotionally challenging queue—where people were frequently irate and difficult—to an easy one. I no longer could handle all the emotions being thrown at me. I would take an irate caller, and my legs would go as numb and restless, as if I were talking to someone about sexual abuse or my sister’s death. Before, I thrived on, and excelled at meeting the challenge of difficult calls and circumstances. Now, I do everything possible to avoid them—I no longer can handle it. It stresses me out negatively rather than positively.

My language skills have deteriorated significantly. In addition to a very real loss of memory of names, ability to fix dateline chronology, and vocabulary, I no longer have the hyper-verbal ability that I once possessed. Before the chemicals handisapped my brain (oh geez, there I go again—evincing thought disorder. Better be careful. Some stupidass psych will request the meds to be doubled), I used to "see" the words before I spoke them. I used to see entire sentences in super fast rapidity. I don’t think this was a neurosis or psychosis, because whenever I used to talk to people who talked in tongues, or who interpreted them, they used to say they could "see" the words, and then they would say them. I think this was a tremendously great gift I had, and now it is destroyed, probably forever. I speak English now, like I speak Spanish—without conscious awareness of what I am saying until I actually hear myself say it. This is very humbling and disconcerting. I have no idea what I’m going to say until it’s already said. I actually used to be able to "see," and then edit, what I spoke, before the words ever left my mouth. If I struggled for a precise word, I would "see" like a hand of cards on the table, all my alternative choices and know their subtle meanings, and I would, in a micro-second, choose the one word that had the connotation and shading I desired. Now, if I struggle for the precise word, and it happens more frequently than it ever has in my life—for even simple words—I grope in the dark, and sometimes I can’t come up with an appropriate word at all. I can’t see the whole range of choices in the split second. I can’t see anything at all. It sucks. I feel like a freaking retarded kid when that happens. Compared to where I was before, retarded is a pretty accurate word. At least that one came out right on the first try.

The worse part though is the bodily damage and loss of joy and vitality, spontaneity and exuberance that I had before. I’m in a lot of pain right now. My left leg which was actually getting better, relapsed significantly on Saturday, when the house was so full of chemical fumes that I got sick to the point of fainting the instant I walked in the door. My body won’t take poison, but I worry especially about my back, because it already is chronically injured, is not strong enough to recover from all this shit. I don’t know if my leftleg will ever be normal. I don’t think my joints will ever recover from the arthritis created by all the poison in my bodily eco-system. So yeah, I’m depressed, and I haven’t even touch on what is really depressing me, but one thing I’ve learned from 8/15/03 is, don’t even go there, Tita, unless you want to be thrown in jail or a psych ward for expressing your feelings. According to the patriarchal mindset, you don’t have any right to feelings or thoughts unless they think them "appropriate", and you know, Tita, they would not think this appropriate. And you know, you don’t want to go to jail or Kasemann, so you are better off bottling up those feelings and being depressed.

But all is not hopeless. More and more, I appreciate Solzhenitsyn. As I finished up the second volume of the Gulag, and he talked about the "personality" of the "zek," I realized the enormity of the tragedy these people endured. They may have kept their physical life, but the inhumane injustice and conditions they endured, kept them from fully ever living out their lives with joy ever again. A zek was severely depressed and devitalized, as a survival mechanism. And to be honest, when I read AS, that is how I felt he was even in the 70’s living in Vermont. I don’t think he ever regained his joy and vitality ever again, and I share this in common with him and tens of millions of zeks. Physically, I may have survived (and I know by what thin of a margin, while all the rest of these psychs don’t have a clue—or else the doping would have stopped after the lithium). But he still had a vocation, and even though it had to tear at his heart and sear his psyche, to write down his memories, I would never have known the magnitude of suffering and injustice for those millions if he hadn’t. (That is why I read the books so slowly—I keep praying for all those people who suffered so terribly). I am not Sozhenitsyn—for one thing there is no haven for me in Vermont, but even more limiting, I will not have his longevity of life (oh there I go again—thought disorder). Very well then, I have a strong intuition that I don’t have longevity of life. That means, whatever I am going to do, I have to do it now. I can’t feel sorry for myself, or make the excuse that I’m doped or depressed. Hell, I’m willing to gamble money that half of the very people who are doing this to me are doped and/or depressed, and they still are able to function—committing their evil deeds. If they can function and do evil, then God grant me the strength to function and do good. Help me God. Only by my written witness am I going to be able to find any kind of justice before I die.

 

9/11/06

first morning of unemployment

9/11/06

I am sitting on my front porch writing this morning’s entry, as I realize how sick my home, and especially my room makes me. I still am being doped up with speed, and it is tearing my body apart. I had to take a Vicodin last night in order to go to sleep, as my body and muscles started spasming again, with the consequent nerve pain and numbness in my left leg that is just unbearable. Even during my sleep, the NSA is able to dope me up, but last night I slept on the kitchen floor with the door wide open. The breeze comes in the strongest through the kitchen, but I am uncomfortable with leaving the door open, because there is no security lock, and it opens onto an alleyway here in downtown, where all kinds of predators prowl and addicts scavenge. But last night I didn’t care. I was sick with nausea, and hurting with pain. I went to bed still wearing my bra and shoes, and didn’t even brush my teeth. I woke up with a lot of muscle pain and spinal tenderness, but with more mental alertness than I have in some time. The buzzing in my head was more subdued than usual. I always know how much speed in my system by how loud the buzz is, and sometimes, it is a deafening roar. Candace Pert, a molecular biologist, wrote a book on noise in the body, and she brought up a point that I have found to be very true. Our bodies are full of sound at the molecular level, which we normally do not hear, and when everything in our bodies is in harmony, the musical sound of our bodies comes across as silence. I long for the days when my head knew utterly complete and peaceful silence. Ever since I have been doped up, I always have a buzz in my head—sometimes it is subdued, and sometimes it is a roar, but it is always there. My body and brain no longer are working in harmony, and I suffer, and sometimes, like last night, I suffer terribly.

In addition to engendering muscle spasms and arthritis in my joints, the speed also affects my ability to concentrate. I have known this for sometime at work, where I could no longer concentrate so completely on every call. I had to get out of a heavy retention queue because retention calls require so much concentration, and I no longer found it easy and natural to concentrate. It required too much mental energy that I no longer have. Instead, at work, I found my mind just going on "automatic pilot," and being resentful whenever, I had to take it off automatic pilot. I just was not up to being challenged anymore, even though normally, when I am healthy, I thrive on challenges, and they draw out the best in me.

The night before last, I had slept in my bed (my bedroom has the highest concentration of dope in the air—I’m not sure why, but I have a couple of unproven theories—still working on it), because my back was in pain. I woke up completely doped up on speed. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t function. I couldn’t even concentrate to read. I was looking forward to reading a little more in depth than usual, now that I am unemployed, and pulled out a book of John Donne poetry. Now admittedly, Donne is advanced level reading, but I have read him multiple times before, and am familiar with the archaic syntax of his poetry. But yesterday morning, my level of concentration was so poor that the words were nonsensical. The symbol of the word was meaningless. This morning, I read some Donne, and to my great relief, I don’t think that I have lost massive IQ. I still am not reading with my pre-lithium level of concentration, but at least I could comprehend the words. This also explains why I haven’t been able to pray as deeply as usual. Prayer, in the briefest of definition, is focussed concentration—at the spiritual level. Over the years, I have developed an intense ability to concentrate at the physical, emotional, and intellectual level, as I dedicated myself to, and matured in my prayer life. But the drugs completely wiped out years of disciplined work, and I still haven’t fully recovered. Depending on how much speed I have in my system, I struggle to get out of the imaginative realm and into the spiritual realm. This is very clear to me in yoga, during the final meditation. A couple of times, I have nearly fallen asleep, because I am going into the imaginative realm of the dream state, rather than the clear, pure awareness of the spiritual realm. It is all a matter of concentration, and speed can completely undermine my ability to do so. Imagination is important too, and there is no doubt that my imaginative abilities are much greater than my contemporaries. But that is their loss, not mine. So much of my giftedness is directly related to my superior imaginative faculties, but they think that neurotic, and in need of pharmaceutical correction. I think they are narrow-minded, pathetically handicapped idiots, who nonetheless have tremendous power to wreak great destruction and suffering—and in my case have done so.

I am unemployed now, and I intend to do something with this time, even if I cannot live in my own, contaminated home. I will do everything I can to avoid the drugs, and be productive, and regain my health. Even though my musculo-skeletal system is in really bad shape, I think I am finally losing a little weight, because an OTC pill is jumpstarting my metabolism for the first time since jail, when I went into starvation mode. On that positive note, I will end my writing, and start taking care of all the little details, I have to deal with….Thank you God, for allowing me to escape the drugs and have some energy today….

Pain

Well, so much for my "good" weekend as I got slammed by dope and pain again.  I am in pain as I speak, with my left leg all spasmed up and tight from the overdose of whatever psychotropic drug got in my system on Sunday night, leaving me in agonizing pain for Sunday and Monday nights.  I have had to take major dope to even sleep for the last two night, but my left leg and hip and sciatica are still messed up.  I'm tempted to quit work today.  Maybe I will.  These bastards think they are going to set me up for a mental hospital stint.  Wrong.  I think they overestimate my intention to cooperate anymore with them.  The only "carrot" they had to motivate me--Augusta--has left me, and I have nothing left to inspire any desire for cooperation on my part.  It is too hard to write when I am in such pain.  The pain drives out any ability to make rational coherent sense.  I am tired of being in pain--no, I am tired of these motherfuckers causing me pain.  I hurt too bad to continue--