24 September 2013

Journal 7

September 24, 2013. Tuesday. Hypomanic. Giddy.

Social anxiety low, but general anxiety about a 3. Went to GP and took xrays, pain 6ish. Xrays came back clean. Got celebrex samples. I guess I go back when I run out. It doesn't seem to be working. I relaxed enough thatI popped my back and hips. Before I was a ball of tension. Oh the conversations to be had when I'm like this. High and Manic. Extra YAY.

I know that if you go by my blog, facebook posts and journal it seems all I do is dance with Mary Jane. In fact, I smoke at a set time and journal my journey for the day. The words flow with greater ease.

Right now Saturday Night LIve is on and it's a two fat ladies parody. I laughed out loud while Buddy napped on my bed. Sir Yvain just looked at me and went back to whatever cats ponder.

If one were to look at my spine from above would they see curvature that an xray doesn't show? According to my chiropractor, my muscles are pulling portions of my spine out of place, if you will. I hypothesize that the problem is greater in my buttocks (my sacrum and coccyx are out more than not), because the muscles are tighter in my ass. As my massage therapist says, "I can bounce a quarter off of your ass." What it is, a big pain in the ass. I'm sure my coccyx is damaged. I've broken or bruised it severely twice. I was in 7th grade. Both the chiropractor and masseuse have to use pressure points to do their job. Shit I don't know what to do.


I feel more social today. But I don't want to go anywhere. That's why online kind of works for me. Though it's obvious on Facebook and the blog what mood I'm in, what point on the spectrum and how severe.

Why so public, Sarah?

To teach compassion and empathy. To have a living record of my innermost thoughts. To show others they're not alone.

It's also very cathartic to release everything.

Your internet name is scary. Why The Rage Consumed? I only bring this up because the doctors, Sharon, and their lawyer tried to use it against me in court.

#1. I listen to extreme metal. Death metal is about rage, or zombies, or current events, or gross things. I write death metal, and some black metal, lyrics. It's just a pen name.

#2. I came up with The Rage Consumed as a stand against injustice. The Rage has been Consumed through my soul against... whatever ... Mount the horses and draw your swords. I see myself as a knight for certain causes. Sorry I went poetic on you for a second.

#3. My mom was in the hospital while fighting stage IV lung cancer. My truck was broke down. I couldn't see her because nobody would take me. My cousin had the balls to tell me that not only was I not handling the situation correctly, I was stupid for going to school rather than working and moving out. My aunt, his mother, then got online and proceeded to cut me down, then came and got her damned dogs at 1 in the fucking morning. So to say I was pissed is an understatement. I was so pissed that it consumed me in a bad way. The. Rage. Consumed.

For what it's worth I sign my paintings Rage and photographs TRC.

It's an artists name.

Why Boudicca? Google Boudicca - Iceni Revolt.

Gruaim is the root word for the Scottish surname, Graham. One of the meanings is to have a stoic look. I look pretty stoic much of the time.

And for those that don't know, I'm a redhead now. This is Dave's 3rd bout with Lymphoma. For the 8 1/2 years we've been together he's always wanted me to go red. 

I did it just to see him genuinely smile. He did.

I'm not sure what Dave sees in me. Our relationship displeases some, but nobody takes into account our happiness. 

Fuckin' cancer.

Fuckin' diabetes.

Fuckin' meds.

I would like to make love to my boyfriend sometime.

I don't know what a libido is anymore. Or what "regular" means. I probably should subject myself to a pap and consult with a real oB. Pretty sure based on my reaction last time, sedation may be a valid option. Anxiety level 1010 OMG MATH GTFO!

My nice is coming over. I like her visits and the fact she's willing to come over here so I don't have to go out helps.

Jesus Christ my ass hurts.

Maybe I can get Dad to spring for a massage and adjustment. Adjustments don't last long though, like literally minutes after an adjustment I can pop my hip and feel pain in the bottom part of my spine. Car rides suck. Pretty well everything sucks. Standing. Sitting. I can lay with a pillow between my legs and be comfortable. Otherwise 10 mins and I'm in pain. There is honestly pain. But the x ray showed nothing. Sigh.

I'm looking at an e-cig. Maybe I can quit that way. The liquid is cheaper than regular cigarettes.

It's been awhile. A few hours. I'm calm after taking evening meds. Going to take my night meds and call it a night. Hopefully tomorrow's better. 

Journal 6

September 23, 2013. Monday. Dad was pissed. I doubled buspar and took a klonopin. Dad set me off but wouldn't listen when I told him he was doing so. Day started out Depression 8 anxiety 10.

I went to St. Joseph to apply to appeal my Medicaid termination. It turns out they didn't receive my bank statement so I faxed it again and they said I was good to go.

I took my evening meds (Buspar 15, Risperidone 3, Wellbutrin xr 300) and my favorite antidepressant. I can still feel depression but it's maybe a 3.

Dogs are chillin' with me. Buddy's demanding scratches while Cherry hogs the bed.

Talked to Dave a little bit, but his phone screwed up. That's what sucks about a relationship with him, he's always at a distance. He doesn't see the fight I put up all day every day.

I'd much rather sleep than do anything, though. I have to go to the doctor tomorrow to complain of my pain. I hope he orders xrays or an MRI. I just want the shit to go smoothly tomorrow.

I find myself missing Mom a lot.

Journal 5

September 22, 2013. Sunday. Depression and anxiety bouncing around. Went to Casey's and about spazzed because there were so many people. I got my lighter and the hell out.

I'd say right this minute my depression would rate a 5. I slept a lot today, didn't take any klonopin though.

My aunt said she'd be a witness for my medicaid appeal.

I still can't believe the state's doing that. I don't think I want to know what my prescriptions cost at full price. Then there's the cost of mandatory doctor appointments.

Anyway, slept and watched football. Not as excited about it as usual. I guess i'm in that stage of depression. Don't give a shit.

Apparently dad's stick fell out of his ass.

My dogs seem to sense something's up. Today I've had one or the other or both of my dogs at my side. Right now it's Buddy.

21 September 2013

Journal 4

September 21, 2013. Depression 7. Anxiety 9.

Bird died.

Dad's being a dick.

I really just want to be left alone. Took 2 klonopin so far today. Went grocery shopping. Ugh.

Really wondering how the hell I'm supposed to take care of myself without insurance? It's like they're trying to sentence me, punish me with my own disease. If I don' have my meds, life is 20x worse. Lots of mixed episodes and extreme ends of the spectrum. I could cycle several times a day.

I had to quit Chantix. Bad for me apparently. Smoking a pack or more. 

I did what a friend told me to, and smiled at a complete stranger, through the anxiety. She smiled back, but if she knew me and the battle I fight, would she still smile, or would she clutch her purse? Would she stare in fear and disgust? Would she be accepting of me, her neighbor, "The least of them."

It's like the more I try to be me, the less understanding and tolerant people are. The only time I feel at home is at death metal concerts. I'm a true metalhead. I fit in there.

I could use a hug from Dave.

Journal 3

September 20, 2013. Saturday. Depression 8. Anxiety 9. Took Klonopin. Slept for a few hours. Naturally, the problem didn't go away.

I now have to fight to keep Medicaid. I lose my insurance on the 30th, because, you guessed it, I'm not disabled enough for it.

Nobody will listen to me. I really cannot work. I can barely function on an even basis. Who am I kidding? I can't even do that.

I live my life on a minute to minute, day by day basis. I have to. Being bipolar taught me that. Being abused in every way imaginable taught me that. It is the best way to survive. Having no plans in stone is better, too. Less room for failure.

I've failed at life. I'm almost 33. I live with and off of Dad. I can't get a job, let alone keep one. Stress sets off my bipolar something fierce. I cycle almost daily when under extreme stress, then I collapse into a catatonic state.

I've already noted that my family sucks, on both sides. All they see is a kid when they look at me. And damaged goods. And treat me as such. It really pisses me off, everyone playing mind games with their passive aggressive emotional blackmail. Then they all try to intrude and act like they're my mother. They don't realize that Mom was on my side.

Anyway, this bipolar I have? Yeah, you could say it interferes with my life. I was forced out of college. I couldn't handle the stress of a full load of upper level literature and history classes. I'd go real manic at the beginning of the semester and as the work got more tedious I would cycle down, missing classes, failing tests, writing shitty papers because I couldn't spare the energy to do anything up to my standards. I even have a medical withdrawal one semester because the bipolar was eating my soul.

And today...

Stressful as well. Money, loans, medicine, this doctor, that doctor. Is anything really helping? They fucking know that I'm bipolar and they rip my insurance, leaving Dad to pay for everything. He can't afford it. He should be retired. He can't. Because of me.

For the most part, leaving the house is a chore. Too many people. The only place I'm comfortable out there is the lake. I force myself to call, text or visit with anyone right now. I just want to sleep and hide from the bullshit for awhile. But I force myself to be up, running around, so the depression doesn't devour me. I do know that if I didn't have these meds life would suck more. So they're working.

Maybe I'll write a book about bipolar: The Cycles of Life or some such cliche.

7pm Depresson 4, anxiety 5.

19 September 2013

Journal 2

You're probably wondering why resurrect a dead blog? Well, because I want to journal every day to capture just how much I cycle, what way, when. You get the drift. Plus I got shit I wanna get off of my chest.

Depression level 4, a little less than yesterday.

Anxiety right now, none.

September 19, 2013. Thursday. 1 year since I got locked up, lost my freedom. As I've said, it was politics that got me locked up. A relative was assaulted by another relative's husband. As I've said before, I was abused by Mike from 8-13.

I wrote a book after Mom died, detailing everything I had suffered. Chapter 8 was about the sex abuse I endured. I had never laid it all out in one place before I wrote that chapter. The damage it did, the fears it instilled in me, everything. Family reunion 2012. Sept. 16. I handed copies of that chapter to relatives that I thought would give a shit about me.

I also gave copies to Marsha, Jennifer and Mike. Included in Marsha and Jennifer's envelopes was a letter to them. I explained sex offenders to them, I tried to point out the victim's side. I cursed at them. I called them out on the war they ignited because of the husband's actions. I told them to knock their shit off.

I gave a copy of this letter to her boss as I ask for my medical records, give notice as to who is allowed to touch them, tell her about the HIPAA violations going on under her nose, and to question the bullshit psych referral they gave me. The nurse honestly told me to Google this apparent Dr. Khan. There's no Khan or Kahn in Cameron. I also gave her a copy of my actives and motives.

I threatened malpractice because they did nothing to help me when I was in duress because the Effexor was killing me. Dr. Vineyard wouldn't treat my psychiatric problems beyond Sept. 4, 2012. I was doctorless and psychless while taking a very negative medicine prescribed by the very doctor that dropped my care. They didn't make sure I was covered until I could find appropriate psychiatric help. That was Thursday. Friday, I tried to get them to tell me what to expect because if they weren't going to help me, I was stopping the Effexor cold turkey.

I had weed and klonopin. I was prepared, I thought, until the heroin withdrawal symptoms hit 3 days into it. I guess deep down I knew I was uncontrollably manic, I just didn't know how to say it I guess. But I did ask for help.

I got a new GP that told me how to taper down with what I had and convinced me that I wasn't dying, in spite of the 141 heart rate. That I'd had for a week. And his office set me up with my current psych.

Before the hospitalization. I was set up to go and my feet were on the ground. I just had to make it until October 16 and the new psych could clear all that shit up for me. (Yeah she just had me thrust into her face. Poor thing lol).

The affidavit that the sheriff used against me was 2 weeks after I had written those letters. It says that family members were concerned that I was a threat to everyone's safety. On it was my Grandmother (that still doesn't know me or my demons) and an aunt I was estranged from at the time. The sheriff refused to call my father, the person I live with. My family member helped get me locked up due to her ignorance and bigotry, said she feared I was going to kill my father in his sleep.

Just. Because. I'm. Bipolar. Turns out Marsha and Jennifer had been filling her head (as well as the heads of the Maysville Doctors) with "Sarah's scary, violent, mean" you get the picture. It was Jennifer that told the doctors I had used Facebook to threaten to shoot named people in the head. This was verified by the victim advocate. She flat said that it was Jennifer. The only problem with all of that is... I didn't bloody well do it. I've already said what I did.

So I got locked up, handcuffed like a criminal and paraded around the ER desk. People actually grabbed their kids and stared at me. My treatment by the person doing the psych triage was disrespectful, rude, threatened me, and was in general a big fucking bitch. And she lied to me. Everybody lied to me. From the sheriff down to the nurses on duty until night shift.

I was wrongly diagnosed as having schizoaffective disorder and was told I was delusional. Nobody would listen to me. I was denied a patient advocate of my choosing, or one at all. I was treated as a pathetic lunatic rather than an intelligent, non-delusional human being.

$250 to name POA's that will go into effect should I ever be hospitalized again, will take care of that little patient advocate problem.

By the way, the ex parte orders were dismissed when I finally went to court. That didn't stop the judge from ignorantly cutting me down in his statement. Yes my behavior can be atrocious. And the weed and klonopin got me through, Sir. HA!

Anyway after I was released, I was paranoid. Every car was them trying to start shit. I went as far as cleaning the shotgun so I'd be prepared. The only reason the house is even open right now is because I like the sounds of nature. Otherwise it'd be dark and I'd rarely emerge. Hell I'm a recluse now even with the house open.

I got another dog for the purposes of alarm and protection. It's because of my dogs I feel safe.

Oh and I sometimes sleep with a knife.

So really, hospitalization did more damage than good for me. And made your job that much more difficult.

Until Tomorrow.

18 September 2013

*updated* Mom's Birthday

September 18, 2013. Wednesday. Mom's birthday. Depressed, moreso than yesterday at psych office. Smoking heavy. Tomorrow's anniversary of getting locked up. Still pissed. Miss Mom. I feel she's the only person, aside from Rachel, to understand me and my bipolar. I'm even an enigma to Dave. I guess at least he loves me. Pissed I have to have bipolar to such a degree that I have 6 medicines to take, plus marijuana to keep it remotely under control. I still cycle, a lot, but I don't feel right if I were to call at every swing. That'd be like every week or so. All I can expect from medicine is to lessen the severity of active symptoms. The anxiety never completely goes away. It ebbs and flows. Some days I can handle being around 2 people, others I'm a recluse, like today. I don't want another hospital stay, ever. But I know that's an impossible goal. I'm a severe bipolar. It's going to happen. Just a matter of when. My guess? When this cocktail loses potency. I showed everybody, though. I stayed out of the hospital for a year. HA!! I still have my advocacy/reform goals. Still penning Nyla. Still continuing life. It'd be great if SSI would come through. Going to Mom's ashes to smoke a joint and meditate with quartz and petrified wood. Maybe I'll get a visit.

Mom's grave.

Who was your mother? 

Mine was my rock in a very hard life. She was in an accident in '01. It almost killed her. I was an off duty EMT in the county she wrecked in. I almost went. My gut told me to keep playing video games. It's nasty out, they don't need to pick you up too. Soon dispatch called on the radio for me to call my boss at Cameron Hospital. What I heard next from a friendly voice scared the life out of me. "Sarah, your mom's been in an accident. She's hurt pretty bad, you should come."

She was gorked out on morphine with a shattered pelvis. Shattered. The x-ray looked like a jigsaw puzzle. She also broke her foot almost in half. She was fucked up.

Before that moment, Mom was just an abusive bitch out to ruin my life.

After that moment, she was a person. For the first time in my life, Mom was a person, not a monster. And around that time I became a human to her.

I visited her at the hospital and when she came home on bedrest. We chatted. We played games (always killed me in Scrabble). Watched TV (Dr. Reid or Ageng Hotchner arguments ensued when Criminal Minds came out). I cooked for her, cleaned her, helped her to the commode.

I mothered her.

We grew to know one another. We grew to love one another.

She stood helpless as the bipolar began to take over my life like a cancer. She stood helpless staring at the cuts on my arms. I wanted it known. I was at the edge of suicide.

She stood in my thoughts as I contemplated, even attempted suicide. She stood helpless as I fought the fiercest demons for my life, not knowing what was going on, let alone how to fight.

I wasn't diagnosed with Bipolar until I was 24. I blindly fought for years before then. That confirmed my suspicions that I was indeed fucking crazy. Neither one of us knew what. the. fuck. we were in for. Once we had a diagnosis, we researched. She learned my patterns. Oh the arguments we would have after she shot down my mania. She armed herself with knowledge.

Together we fought it tooth and nail. It wasn't controlled, however. Nothing worked medicinewise and I was too caught up to consciously realize I was out of control.

The day Mom was diagnosed with Stage IV Lung Cancer is the day I began to die. I was just getting to know her, she couldn't leave already. She wasn't allowed to. I was her primary caregiver as she slowly wasted away. She declined treatment, which pissed me off. I couldn't lose the woman that became my best friend.

She stood by me as I stood by her, protectively. Through long conversations and countless hours at the computer researching bipolar we figured out that she was likely bipolar too. We fought the same demons, just by different names. Though I can't prove she was bipolar, we bonded, we understood, we knew.

She knew so well that she got me a grief counselor while she was hospitalized the final time. She even tried to educate and prepare Dad for the whirlwind that is me.

Who was Mom? A human being. A friend. A companion. A cheerleader. A mother.

14 February 2013


So. Quick review.

Last summer I was put on a bad medicine, and the dosage was a high one.

I had my usual 8 week depression in july/august/september.

I went manic.

I lost my GP.

I had no psych coverage.

The medicine was killing me, literally.

I wrote 3 letters and gave copies of them to my now ex-general practitioner in an attempt to out the corruption in her office, thinking that a doctor would have given a shit enough about ethics and the law to fix the problem. My mistake.

I got hospitalized for 5 days against my will beginning September 19.

September 21 I get served 3 ex parte orders. From Dr. Vineyard, her father - Dr. Keihl, and Dr. Keihl's wife, Sharon Keihl. It's a good thing I was taking a shit when they knocked on the door at the hospital to serve me.

September 24 I get out. YAY! Someone tried to get them to keep me. The wonderful Nurse Liz sat on my bed next to me during my discharge interview. She looked at me and said "You really pissed someone off." I was like, duh? "Someone called up here from the DeKalb County Sheriff's Office claiming you've been using the phone to make threats." I kinda giggled and rolled my eyes. Dr. Shuman turned to face us and said "I haven't heard any threats. On with the discharge."

Only now I'm too paranoid to go home until Dad gets home so I hang in St. Joseph all day.

My aunt, Marsha, was calling and going to the sheriff's office complaining because I was released from the hospital.

She has no ex parte on me, why the bitch fit?

Court Date 1 - October 4 (see how long they gave me to gather a defense?) postponed due to death in my attorney's family.

Court Date 2 - OCT 30. Continued due to other lawyer having a jury trial that day.

Court Date 3 - November 30. A mother fucking circus. Seriously. I was waiting for a goddamned clown to jump out and squirt me with a fake flower in his oversized overalls. It was brought out in court and in the ex parte orders that I had threatened to kill:
Dr. Vineyard.
Her husband.
Her 2 (I think) kids.
Her father.
Her mother.
The staff at the doctor's office.
The patients at the doctor's office.

With a gun. Me going and killing people with a gun. Let's think about that for a moment. If I'm going to be a killer I'm going to choose the weapon that makes the biggest amount of noise because I really want to get caught or die by suicide by cop. Yes, that makes sense.

There's also the fact that my firearms are not equipped with 30 round magazines, nor can I modify them to fire automatically. Unless I planned to buy a Tommy Gun and a violin case.

And. Well. As Dave so eloquently puts it, "You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if your life depended on it. Give it up and learn to throw rocks, you'll have better luck." Does that say anything about my marksmanship? Not that I apparently cared about collateral damage.

It was bantered around by my family at around the same time that I was going to kill my father in his sleep. That I shake because I'm violent. I twitch because I'm violent. I breathe because I'm violent. I just spray out fucking violence from my aura I guess. That helped get me locked up in the first place.

It was said, in court, that pretty much I'm a mass murderer and baby killer because:

I have bipolar disorder.

Yep. I have a mental illness therefore I can and will snap and kill people because those of us with mental illnesses are scary mother fuckers that should be locked away for life. Yep.

Ruling: In my favor. Sort of. The judge chewed me out and said my behavior was beyond unacceptable after quoting something he supposedly saw in evidence "I have enough weed and klonopin to get me through." The funny thing about that is... I don't remember (I'd have to look and I'm too lazy) ever putting that in print. It was not said in court. The only person I said "I have enough weed and klonopin to get me through" to was Stephanie, a nurse at the doctor's office. She was not present at my hearing. Now I'm going to have to find out what exact pieces of paper were put in as evidence so I know what to read. Nice. Anyway. I got the hell out of there.

The victim advocate told me that it was indeed Jennifer spreading it around that I'm a scary crazy person and I've threatened them with violence before and they're oh so scared of me.

Also. Marsha attempted to get another aunt to expose that I hear voices, in another very bad attempt to get me committed again, like just hearing voices means I have to be in a hospital. That is kinda funny. Except I had fun while I was there. And I made friends.

Oh shit.

I united the crazy people too. That's how scary I am.

I started a support and advocacy group. Check it out here: http://stdymphnasmh.bravesites.com/ and the blog here: http://stdymphnasmh.blogspot.com/

I was in the paper twice, once here: http://www.newspressnow.com/life/health/article_21cdc383-164f-5529-a445-01c250e8b603.html

By the way, I don't hear voices. My own is loud enough inside my head, I don't need more. Thank you.

I have a new GP, a new psych, a new counselor. Everything has changed. Except for one thing. Everyone else gets to get away with their actions in current time, but, karma, will indeed fuck their worlds up as much as they fucked mine up. Seriously. Count on that right there.

I lock my doors as soon as Dad leaves for work or I come home. Seriously, as soon as he's out of sight, the locks click.

I got a new guard dog. She's my companion. Between her and Babygirl, my half pit/half lab, and my Border Collie/Husky mix, I feel safe. Nobody that is not supposed to be here is going to make it up my driveway without me knowing about it. Cherry sleeps with me. She's chow. She's rarely 5 feet away from me. She would tear someone up to protect me. She won't let people get close to me. She won't let animals get close to me. She keeps me a safe distance from "danger."

I'm paranoid as hell at times. What was that noise? What was that shadow? Who's gonna get me next? When are the cops going to come get me again because they believe Marsha and Jennifer's lies?

The events of being locked up were atrocious at best. That failure for a sheriff pretended to do it because I needed help. This was two weeks after I wrote the letters. I was called on the telephone and asked to come in because "Wes wants to talk to you." Ok, fine. I go in. "You're suicidal. You're going to the hospital." OK that's fine and dandy. Bite my shiney metal ass, they'll see I'm not a threat to anyone and let me loose. So I thought. So Wes told me.

I was such a threat to myself and others that he really bothered himself to gather backup and come get me like he did to that guy in Cameron that said something to his counselor. I was denied the right to see the affidavit that got me locked up until I was released and got a copy of my medical records.

It was all lies. None of it was based on an interview with me or my father. Oh yeah, I live with Dad. Wes refused to call Dad to get him to lock me up. Let me back up a bit. The day before I was violated, Sheriff Wes called my grandmother and my aunt, both of whom I was pretty much estranged from at that point in time. Therefore they know nothing of my moods, my meds, my doctor appointments or anything personal. Sheriff says "People are gettin' fired. She's crazy. This is crazy. She's gotta be stopped, XXXXXXXXX" Yeah, I gave you real lawbreakers and you bloody have me locked up to scare me into silence because it's ok for them to break laws and HIPAA. Thanks bud. Dick. Actually, I like dicks and pricks, so we'll call the Sheriff a case of Vaginitis. (18+ Blue Waffle Disease).

I really did wonder if I was going insane due to the stress and pissed offness of the situation. I'm sane. Thankfully, though not for lack of Marsha and Jennifer's trying.

I gained a new relationship with God and the Spirits.

I'm more in harmony now.

I sleep with a knife.

My room is booby trapped.

I know who I am and what I am.

I know my core values and beliefs and I hold myself to a higher standard because I am mentally ill.

I've learned from warriors and generals past.

I've a new look on life. Live it now or just die. So, I'm living.

I'm writing a book series, with spinoffs and study guides and trivia books.

NW Missouri will know me quite well before I'm done with St. Dymphna's.

I want to submit a mental health patient's bill of rights to the state of Missouri congress.

When I was locked up I was denied a patient advocate of my choosing and declaration. The social worker's manners and give a shit about the patient lacked a lot. Seriously, a lot. I was initially diagnosed as having schizoaffective disorder. The affidavit that Sheriff Vaginitis got through the judge said that I was off of my psych meds. Which I wasn't. It said that my family members thought I was a threat to others. That would be Marsha and Jennifer and someone they'd been snookering. XXXXXXXX mentioned earlier was included on the affidavit as a contact to back up the affidavit when she clearly told Vaginitis to go to hell, she was not going to lock me up and Vaginitis needed to call my father, whom I live with.

It took me 2.5 days to get the staff at the hospital to call another aunt (whom in the meantime was threatening lawsuits just to make sure nothing happened to me, like Haldol, again) to back my story up. They asked her if it was true. She said hell yes it's true.

Oh, side note. I'd written my memoirs of the time a couple of years ago to help me cope with mom's death. I included a chapter entitled "Don't touch me there," detailing my sexual abuse fiasco. I revised that chapter to change the fake names to real names. I printed these chapters and put them in envelopes. I gave them to members of the family that I thought gave a shit about me. I also gave Marsha and Jennifer a copy of it, along with a copy of the really pissed off rant I wrote for them in which I called them the spawn of Satan and unchristian. It turns out that one of my abusers showed up that day and he happens to be closely related to Marsha and Jennifer. I gave him a copy of the now infamous Chapter 8 of the book fiasco. He spazzed, though I did think he was gonna piss down both legs when I handed him the envelope.

Yes, I outed my abusers at long last, freeing my soul and finally gluing the last piece in place of the broken girl inside of me. She's reinforced with steel, mettle, determination, courage, will and the ferocity of a very pissed off mama wolverine. My inner child has healed and grown. We are one now.

I am rising from the ashes and setting myself up for success in the future, in my life.

I have a boyfriend that is deeply in love with me. I make him happy and he makes me happy.

Anyway, I still was stuck in the hospital due to a med change, thankfully to medicine that's not killing me and is actually working. The nurse practitioner happened to be someone I worked with at the prison. She remembered me and recognized me right away as the people escorted me to the psych ward. She remembered that I write. She said at one of our check ins, "You're writing aren't you,  you're doing it right this moment? I can tell!" Damn she called that one right. "Let me get you a journal and a pencil." I wrote and wrote and wrote, I planned my approach to my wonderful attorney to get her to take the case.

Dr. Vineyard and her mother, Sharon Keihl took the stand, both bawling because they truly and honestly believed the lies that Marsha and Jennifer filled them with. They actually believed that me, the one that crys every time she shoots a deer or fillets a fish, could senselessly slaughter approximately guestimated 20 people. For absolutely no reason, according to them, other than I'm bipolar therefore I can be violent.

Sharon Keihl lied in her ex parte order. She said that it was in my records that I have been "more and more unstable over the years. She's abusive towards staff, including myself." First, I haven't seen the woman since before Mom died over 2 years ago. My father paid for my medical records. They're incomplete... and they say nothing about me being abusive toward staff. The only thing in there is some asshole that doesn't know me advised Dr. Vineyard that I might need committed. So now we know where the idea to lock me up unnecessarily came from.Oh, Sharon isn't a doctor, isn't my doctor, and as far as I knew had no right to read my records to know what's in them, let alone disclose that information to the public.

It also says that I had just pulled up and was sitting in my truck in the parking lot. I was indeed handcuffed and in Vaginitis' patrol truck, extremely pissed off. How the hell was I in two places at once. Oh yeah, I'm a witch! Although I do identify with many Pagan traditions and cultures, I do not practice Wicca or Witchcraft. Just not my thing. It's cool, though. An' it harm none, do as ye will.

The doctors were more succinct: "Threatened to shoot myself and my staff."

The victim advocate told me or led me to believe that Jennifer, with Marsha's help, was spreading it around that I had threatened to shoot people on Facebook. The stupid bitch had me blocked. How does she know a damn thing. I hated even seeing her in the doctor's office. I avoided her even. Now I really do. I don't want to be collateral damage when Zeus shoots her ass with lightning. Karma's a bitch.

By the way, these, things, Marsha and Jennifer, do not know me. They've never gotten to know me. They don't care about me, nor have they ever. So why the hell believe them? Why not just have a set of nuts and ask me?

I have become a warrior with mental health patient rights as a cause. We are people too and we demand equal treatment.

But if you really want to know what pisses me off: It's the fact that those assholes sat there and nodded when the judge said that they would call the cops if I showed up on their property. Even though I won. It seriously pisses me off that Dr. Vineyard can cry because she thought I was going to kill her and her kids, and then cry because she thought that she failed me, when I clearly stated in the literature I gave her and Stephanie that I indeed thought she needed to go on and specialize in something and get the hell out of family practice, she'd be happier and we need more specialists. I even said that I didn't think she failed me. That tells me that Dr. Vineyard was responding emotionally and illogically to my letters. I guess I was too honest and brutal about what was going on under her nose, or for all I know, with her help.

It's the fact that nobody had the intelligence to comprehend what I had written nor the balls to ask me about it.

Finally: Fuck you, Sheriff Vaginitis. Marsha, Jennifer; May your crotches rot with the real vaginitis.

18 January 2013

Crazy in America.

What makes someone crazy to the outside world?

Take me for instance.

Am I crazy because I listen to death metal and dress in band shirts?
In the metal world it is an honor to have your band's shirt be worn. To them it means that their music has touched a fan enough for them to show support for them. We as fans know that at the local level, at least, bands rely on merch sales.

I get loud when I'm excited or passionate about something?
I really cannot help it, and often do not realize how loud I really am. I am outspoken. I express my opinion just as others do theirs. Perhaps it's because I'm so passionate and when I'm passionate about something I act on it and crave the debate?

Am I crazy because I take anti-psychotics and anti-depressants? Dumbass, they're supposed to keep me from going "crazy" whatever the fuck that is.

What about because I believe these Christmas lights help me write? They remind me of the days gone by where people used candlelight. When I'm writing, I imagine myself sitting at a desk in a room lit by 50 candles. The only noise is the noise in my headphones. The outside world does not exist while I'm writing. I'm busy plotting my character's next move or the next twist in the book. And yes, I wear a magical writing shawl crocheted (?) for  me by a bestie.

I bet I'd be labeled manic right now, simply because I'm daring to dream big and actually go for it. It seems society doesn't like that.

We're all supposed to just mindlessly earn enough paycheck to survive week to week... then have our taxes increased on us. We're not supposed to question authority or perceptions. We're supposed to accept our fate.

Are all big dreamers crazy and are all crazy people big dreamers?

Would Martin Luther have done what he done if he worried about being called crazy? I mean, seriously, he was excommunicated because he dared to defy the authority of the church and interpret scripture on his own. He dared translate the Latin Bible into German... a grave sin. He nailed his arguments about the church TO a church door. He also burned his excommunication.

Awesome stuff.

By today's standards he would have been labeled "crazy."

He would have been forced somehow into treatment, most likely because a person with his temperament, intelligence and balls is not going to be able to function in today's society. He'd be living off of Mommy and Daddy or sleeping on some dude's couch, trying to make ends meet. He likely wouldn't have insurance, or if he did he couldn't come up with the co-pay for psychiatric treatment if he did seek it.

How do I know? It happens every day now. Non-conformists are persecuted as crazy. Crazy people are still persecuted today. It happened to me. It can happen to anyone. No they're not tying us down with sheets and shocking the piss out of us anymore, but they are binding us. We're shunned because we are different. People can sense it. Some are more sensitive to it than others, but most people sense it. It scares a lot of people. It really scares people that I'm so open and honest about what I face and what I see other people face every day.

I've suffered through the system enough to know the most likely outcome of today's version of Martin Luther. He's going to be trapped in the system with endless red tape. He's going to fall through so many cracks it's unimaginable. When he decides he can't work because his job and living situation are driving him to suicidal thoughts, he has to lie about why he quit the job so he's not burned a bridge unnecessarily. He's going to apply for disability because his mental health is so unstable. He'll be denied 4 times. He'll be caught in that system as well. It's never gonna end for him until he wises up and figures out how the system works.

He would have been pumped full of drugs to control his behavior and mood. He'd think life kinda sucked a bit until he has his epiphany and puts his skills to use to try to change things and fix issues. He'll finally find meaning and purpose in life and feel like a human again and he'll make a name for himself, inadvertently, in this incarnation.

That's my version of it anyway.

So, am I crazy, eccentric or both? Does it really matter in the end as long as I use my energies to better mankind?

17 January 2013

A Day of Reflection

Today was my counseling appointment. I showed up, we had deep conversation, I left and went to a friend's house. She is someone that is the epitome of awesome. We grabbed the kids from school and engaged in conversation.

We listened to the kids playing spy vs. spy or something like that, we laughed, reminisced about our childhoods, the chainsaw messed up twice. Third time was the charm.

This woman has picked herself up by her bootstraps. She makes due with what little she has. Her boy, if all children could be this well behaved... yeah he gets in trouble, but overall, he's a great kid. He barely knows me, but he hugs me every time he sees me. Apparently I'm something special to him. He is being raised by an excellent parent. She is the type of mommy I would love to be.

I'm proud to be her friend.

I took some time to meditate and self reflect today. What if it was fate that I was hospitalized, how I was, who was involved with the ex parte orders, all of that good stuff? What if it is MY purpose in life to help people and advocate for the mentally ill and their rights? I've always considered myself to be some sort of warrior. That's probably why I wanted to be a Marine and took martial arts years ago.

I had my charts read a few years ago. She called me the Mystical Warrior... that I hate injustices with a passion, I'm equality all the way baby. What if I'm a champion that just found her cause?

I got to thinking "Well played, God, well played. Let me question my faith for years. Let me question your existence. Then set everything up. Mental health is finally getting its stance in the media. I felt destined to make the support group. And you made me smart enough and intellectually and spiritually curious enough to ask questions and find my beliefs, (Christo-Pagan), your "tests" throughout my life has strengthened me rather than wore me down. I was a metaphorical block of marble and you the sculptor. I am coming into my own. Thanks." I'm sure he smiled.

It's no wonder I feel a strong connection with Archangel Michael.

I bet I'm doing Saint Dymphna proud as well.

I'm sure Mom's sitting in a meadow in heaven, watching the bluebirds, glowing with delight because her daughter finally is doing something right in her life. Dad may or may not be proud. I don't think he understands my quirks... and hates tolerating them sometimes. My Grandparents in heaven are proud too.

I received a wonderful e-mail the other day, a gentleman that is smart enough to attain a Ph. D. and I have barely communicated with, said that he was proud of me for turning a negative into a positive and helping people while I'm at it. I'm still high off of that.

It is my war, the battles are mental health issues.