Baba!!!!!

Baba is Arabic for Daddy.  This is what I call my father.  Today, right now, as a matter of fact, my mom and Baba are downtown looking over the results of my father’s PET scan.  My father has/had Bladder Cancer, stage II.  He didn’t finish chemo, physically he couldn’t.  My father is 78, will be 79 on the 28th of this month, January.

I’m terrified.  When my dad began this journey, he was going to teach me about financial advising,  So I could be armed and dangerous after he had gone.  I am renewing that pledge today.  I am praying for a good PET scan, but I am also preparing for a tough scan as well.  Cancer is a motherfucker.  I’ve survived a lot of shit, even been through Interferon, but never had Cancer.  Got damn near everything else, but there is nothing on this planet like Cancer.  I hate Cancer.  I hate how it erodes people’s spirits and wills to live; turns them funny greyish colors and makes their skin look waxy.  Turns their whole aura grey.  As someone who loves someone with Cancer, it is the most helpless, God awful feeling on this planet.  Watching someone you love succumb to this motherfucker of an illness.

My parts are cycling.  I’ve practically bit a hole through my lip.  I didn’t have ECT today because of the PET scan, but I will on Wednesday.  Since being diagnosed as mentally ill in 1989, I’ve finally found that ECT can work, and is replacing meds.  I will need maintenance ECT and how that happens, what that looks like, I have to call and find out, because of course, I’ve forgotten.  I haven’t been able to go and do therapy.  I’m sneaking in a session today.  I need to focus more on my faulty beliefs and not integration so much as cooperation.  I’m shattered into 452 pieces/people/parts.  Putting Humpty Dumpty back together again is impossible.  I am learning to accept that I will never be whole and that by the end of 2018, it could very well be just my mom and I.  How scary is that?  Very scary to me.  I keep trying not to think about it, but then Erma Bombeck’s final essay when she had Cancer, about burning the fancy candle keeps whirling through my mind.

I just accept that today is not going to be easy, simple or, “up”.  It is what it is, and that remains to be seen.

ECT

Listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers…one of the best concerts, twice, I have ever seen.  Highly recommended,

So, I’ve been MIA since Halloween.  About spring of 2016, I went to the Christian Psych Hospital, because I am all out of private Medicare days, and this hospital-Pine Rest-does ECT.  I have Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar Depression, ADHD Depression and PTSD Depression.  I hit the serotonin jackpot.  Not.  But I had 2 courses of 9 ECT treatments in the late 90’s.  The first course lasted about as long as this one- 1.5 years.  The second course, didn’t last a day.  But, we all know why that happened, cough, DID, cough.  So, right before Christmas, I was admitted inpatient, denied my swearing coloring books, but a small price to pay, and was set up for a course of 9 unilateral ECT sessions.  The last time I had ECT at Pine Rest they did an acute, 12 session, bilateral sequence.  I wound up with a brain the consistency of gruel, and a suicide attempt which landed me in a coma in ICU back in 2016.  So, about every year, I’ll have to go get ECT.  Small price to pay.  It works.

I asked the shrink this morning; “How much wattage goes through me?”  He said you know one of this little 25 watt Christmas bulbs?  Yes.  That’s what goes through you.  Huh.  For some reason I had like Frankenstein size wattage going through me.

So, I got discharged from the hospital so I could spend Christmas with my family.  My dad has Cancer, Frankly, I don’t know if this will be my last Christmas with my dad or not.  I made it a priority.  The hospital did too.  Which I appreciate.

Today was no. 6.  The world gets a bit brighter every time I get zapped- that is what I call it.  You get nono juice, anesthetic.  Bite guard, very humane.  And it works.

We had a super Christmas.  It’s always different when you’re playing for keeps.  Like Eminem says, that one shot.  Dad’s PET scan was yesterday.  He has Bladder Cancer, which can travel to his lungs.  But I say nay.  Nay nay fluffy.  Not getting my dad’s lungs.

When I was in the hospital, I realized hand sewing, embroidering, soothes me.  And you get fruits of your labors.  I’m not supposed to drive today, but I may go to Joann’s and get some hanky supplies.  Make a couple of hankies for dad’s birthday and Valentines day.

I called the bariatric surgery place again.  I don’t care if I have to start all over, but my bariatric surgeon calling me, “Fat”, more than once?  Not acceptable.  You no longer get the privilege to cut on this body.  And if you had a boss, but since you’re a doctor, you’re equal to God, so no boss…

My parts have been active, but quiet,  December 15th went by relatively smoothly.  I haven’t been troubled by any memories, flashbacks, just overwhelming depression.

Daily living activities- I changed my sheets today, I’m eyeballing the shower, and this room, let alone this house, it’s a mess.  This is what depression looks like.  A mess.  A fucking mess.

I’m not calling myself a mess, I’m depressed.  There’s a difference.  Because I’m not a mess, i’m actually a little more together than your average bear, but I’m still depressed, so I won’t be winning any house frau awards.  Or any other awards for that matter.  But that’s okay, i’m not motivated by awards.  Hell, i’m barely motivated…guess I’ll go back to the swearing coloring book.  I’m coloring the word, “Asshole” for one of the nurses.  I gave her my Wonder Woman punching Trump t shirt.  She collects Swatches.  Remember those?  I always want a fancy watch, but I short them out, maybe Swatch is the way to go…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Hallows Eve

So, I made it through last year’s Halloween with zero flashbacks.  Not so much this year.

The flashbacks began Sunday.  TRIGGER WARNING (See?  I’ve learned a little)  I was 4 years old.  I had just begun being babysat by the Roaches.  I was four years old, in a brown robe, or piece of cloth with a white rope tied around my waist, and I was sitting in a dirt fireplace.  I was somewhere enclosed, but with a dirt floor.  Like a fire pit.  To the right of me was a severed Pig’s Head.  To my left was a severed cow’s head- guernsey.  I remember the cow, and when they put the pig’s head next to me, I know some shit was about to get hinckey.  They were like, you know how Holy Water comes out?  It was like that, but with blood.  And they were all staring at me, eyes as big as saucers, chanting (I used to love Gregorian Chants, but no man), and throwing dripping blood on me.  Weird. Awk-ward!!!!  lol

So, Monday, I tell my therapist this. SHe’s like it’s a pre, pre pre grooming ritual.  They were grooming you for the cult.  She said it’s very common with Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA).  So, in the world of cults and SRA, I’ fucking normal.

Well, yesterday was Halloween.  Big ole activity day on the Satanic schedule.  So, I had more flashbacks and memories.  I remembered being in the kitchen with Mrs. Roach while she was boiling the pig’s head (Why do I want to capitalize that?!), and making spiced/spike apple cider/mulled wine.  She pulled down from a cupboard above the stove a glass vial, with a stopper in it.  It was full of a chalky dust.  She opened it up, I asked her what that was, what she was putting in the cider, and she replied, “Angel Dust”.  Quite.  The PCP explained the frenzied behavior at all the times I went to events at the cult.  Like before they got into the funeral home in Oxford.

I also had a Mr. Roach sexual assault flashback which was just gross, and doesn’t need to be delved into here.

I was super depressed but it wasn’t my depression.  It was a part/alter named Elena.  Micheal help the initial/grooming memory and he told me this was only the beginning.  But I do remember Mrs Roach telling me about her childhood.  She grew up in a one room cabin with her father and sisters in rural TN.  Explains a lot.  She totally has a system.  Totally DID. When you have Did, you just know when others have DID as well.

But I was getting flooded there for a minute, I had to rest.  I’m afraid I’m going to have to wrap this up.  It’s 5 am and I’ve been up since 2.  I’m a lil tired.  Hope y’all had a nice holiday.

 

What the?

So, I had a dream this morning.  I dreamt I went to Lakeland, sought out Mr. Roach, and we went for a walk.  We’re walking down the road of his trailer park-that’s a fact, can’t make this hit up if I wanted to-and my weapon is constantly changing in my left hand.  We are walking side by side.  And I say something along the lines of, even though what you did to me was completely sick, depraved and null of humanity, I’m okay with it, because it made me who I am today, and the person I am today is a person I really like.  And then I woke up.  What the?

My old therapist kept pushing for integration.  I was informed by my new and improved therapist, we would never have integration, only cooperation.  And I am totally okay with that.  Why?  Because I have a realistic goal, and not some bullshit standard set by some practitioner that doesn’t know what the fuck they are doing.  So, we’re okay with that, we’re okay with where we are and we’re okay with who we are today.

I realized yesterday, I switch alters a lot.  My mom and I were doing a lot of house work.  I realized when I was folding laundry, I was co-conscious with someone.  When I fixed the toilet, I was co-conscious with someone, when I made lunch, I was co-conscious with someone, ad infinitum.

So, I guess, realizing that I have a very intertwined, multivariate and multi layered system, working out some recovery step work with my sponsor (sober 9 years.  8.15.08), and a whole lot of acceptance, I am at a peaceful place.

I would never trust the Roaches, in any capacity.  I would never take a walk with Mr. Roach on my own, I don’t trust them, I loathe and despise them, hell!  They still terrify me.  But I accept what all went on, and it’s not right, but it’s okay.  Why?  Because, today?

I’m okay.

 

 

 

 

 

Starting Over

Good evening all.  In case y’all haven’t seen the trend, women are changing their statuses on social media platforms to, : Me Too.  It indicates, in the wake of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, that you, or many women you know have been sexually harassed or sexually assaulted.  If you read this blog, I qualify. 6th grade.  Went to bed, the tit fairy came, woke up with 36B’s.  Not happy.  Not at all.

I’ve been busy.  My therapist and I have been chipping away at this system.  This Phylis, executive, Zuzu, host, then Richard-persecutor, Matthew-rage, Vicky-fun, playful and coquettish side, and Matilde-in charge of all my littles.  There is some overlapping.  Did I mention, that Richard, Matthew, Vicky and Matilde all have systems of their own?  Like, systems of 50+?

I gotta tell ya.  Thursday night, my neighbor and her man were having a drunken row outside my window at like, 4 am.  Friday was a sober, verbally abusive fight.  Last night was quiet.  Of course, her FB is look how perfect my life is bullshit.  And after Dave-got a new sponsor, polished up my step work, so he’s on my list-I knew I would not be with another man for a long time.  And, until Dave died, I would have no peace.  Well, Dave passed and no man.  Okay.  I’ve got a huge shit show psychologically to clean up, recovery to work on daily, a heart that still needs to heal and get to know itself, so after the dramatics of my neighbor this weekend, Thank God and Hallelujah I am man free.  I have always had relationship problems.  With men and women.  Way before the flashbacks began.  Residual memory or something.  But, after the show my neighbor put on- she was so drunk, she wasn’t making words, just drunk, mumbled sounds, I am SO glad I do not have a man in my life.  Earlier tonight, I was like, “God?  Thank you for not letting this opposite sex thing work out.  I am so grateful to you for this.  I promise I will keep working on me, and my DID.”  Holy cheesus.

So, every morning, I have morning meeting.  Sometimes in sobriety recovery I can get all clusterfucked and whackadoodle, and when they ask for a topic, I blurt out with desperation, “STEP ONE!!!!!!!!”.  And I go back to basics.  Having a morning meeting, setting down rules, like:  No new parts; Only I (The Host) can drive, stuff like that.  Communicating with my parts.  Learning what are my feelings in 2017, and what are their feelings from 1978, 1986 or 2015.  Cuz I basically lost my shit.  After the trial and the Interferon- which if you have mental health issues, you should absolutely NOT do Interferon, the cult memories  came, my mom moved here, deaths, people moving aways, relationships crumbling, the lid tore off my rage and never being put back together, weight gain, new psychiatrist, I mean my neighbor living with Dave’s bunky from prison right next door.  I fucking lost my shit.

Good news?  My mind has returned-and I’m stronger than ever.  Bad news?  I have to start rebuilding the Zu.  How do I do this….

Regular communication and love and attention to my systems.  My therapist told me that people who have survived cult abuse have layered, and very intricate and multivariate systems.  with cult survivors, there is no one and done.  I wish, but no.  I broke down the guest bedroom, because I have no friends or relatives who visit, so I turned the room into a healing arts studio.  I have craft paper, and one of my first tasks, is to draw out Richard, Matthew, Vicky and Matilde’s systems.  Then break it down and down and down and down.  I have a bookcase in there and tons of books on trauma, trauma and addiction, the reparenting yourself book, shame books, PTSD books.  It’s a wonderful thing my depression has abated, because I can read now too.  So that should start the end of this week.

I got new tattoo.  It’s on the inside of my forearm.  It reads, ” WARR;OR”.  I find that it fits.  It’s crooked and not perfect and I’m grateful because I’m not perfect, so neither should my tattoo.

Lots has been happening.  My dad has Cancer.  I’m debating placing a complaint on my old therapist.  Do the next right thing, but is that the best thing to do?  I don’t know.  I’m waiting on that…

I’ll write more often, I promise.  I’ve actually had complaints that there haven’t been any new posts.

Hot and fresh out the kitchen, here ya go!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Like the Phoenix, I Shall Rise

Good morning, all the parts at sea.   I’ve been gone a long while; a lot has been popping.

My health is awful.  I have a case of Osteoporosis everything, getting steroid injections from a pain clinic, bariatric surgery is what’s next.  France got postponed for a year-which is awesome, cuz they didn’t allow enough time for anything.  Let alone the 6 weeks it takes to reinstate or procure your passport.

‘But, my new therapist is a Godsend.  Just an angel directly from heaven sent for me.  Every morning, I get up, open my computer, start a new note and have a morning meeting with my system.  Every.  Damn.  Day.  And it’s working, I’m learning when I’m switching or that I have totally switched  My spare bedroom has been cleared out, and is in the process of becoming a healing arts studio.  Somewhere where I can paint, draw, read, journal, blog, and use craft paper and the wall to map out my whole system (400+ parts/alters).

I am working on my house.  Like finally-a place for everything, and everything in it’s place, you know.  Cuz I moved to this condo and shit hit the fan, pronto.  There wasn’t even foreplay, just, BLAMMO!!!  So, going through all I have been through left my housekeeping skills-I used to be a janitor, maid and senior home aide, so it’s not that I don’t know how to clean, it just, staying alive became paramount to a clean sink.

I was suicidally depressed from 2012-2016.  Was not a fucking picnic.  It sucks cuz I see these people in my 12 step meetings and they’re getting married, having babies, starting careers-living life.  And the co-occuring disorders population here in Bland Rapids ain’t all that big, so I don’t have a lot of people similar to me.  And if I did, it would be very unhealthy.  I’ve tried to be friends with other DID women, and it’s just a bad idea.  As we say in recovery-“Two sickies don’t make a wellie.

August 1, of this year will mark a HUGE milestone for me.  It will be a full calendar year that I was not hospitalized in a psych facility since 1997.  20 years, every year at the bare minimum, one hospitalization a year, but this year?  None.  That’s huge.  My therapist gave me a present.  I met her in outpatient hospitalization in 08, whenI was diagnosed with DID and sobered up.  So, we go back a long while.  But, we’re thinking of going to Chicago.  I’d like that.  I love Chicago.  8/15, I’ll have 9 years sober.  Been officially exiled from one of the cliques I used to cruise with in recovery.  So, because of trauma/shitty ways I treated people, I’m exiled.  Okay.  I left Junior High in 1987, and haven’t looked back.

I saw my old therapist at Costco.  She’s itty bitty right?  So, I see her and she’s trying to reach something over her head on top of a shelf.  I had my back turned, but I heard this loud, CRASH.  Shit all fell down on her.  I had to go down the next aisle cuz I was like, Sometimes Karma, we get along very well.

Went and saw Red Hot Chili Peppers in June.  Fucking religious experience.  I went by myself, cuz thats how I roll.  T shirts were $45.  I bought the album, The Getaway, which is their touring album.  Amazing.  They’re an awesome live band.  Just fucking incredible.

But ever since I do the morning meetings, I’ve been able to stay out of the hospital, clean and organize my house-I mean like washing walls shit-get ready for a trip.  It’s, it’s crazy when I think of where I was this time of year last year.  I was in PsychLab.  Fucking scary place.  Never again.

I’m learning how to take care of myself emotionally, and stay around safe people, and get to know people over time, have boundaries, and my values got a facelift.   So much has changed.  And more changes are coming.

This is a short entry, but I’m still working.  And each time I need to, I’ll write.   Apparently people read this blog and it helps them.  That was the whole reason I bought this address.  DID is, there’s just so much ignorance and bullshit surrounding it, I wanted to come out, and be like: This is the face of someone with DID and I’m doing just fine, all of us, thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Nose Diving To Thriving

Yeah- I like that better than the whole: “Surviving to thriving” shit.  Cuz, chile, let me tell you:  My shit was in a straight up Nose Dive, okay?!  Shit was not pretty!  Mmm.

So, today on Social Media, 5 years ago I, along with an awesome Infectious Disease (ID) doc who is part of the U of M-Yes, That is THE U of M- Hepatology program, along with her awesome staff, an awesome hospital, an awesome support system, and a fucking amazing faith and an HP that is the answer to all my problems and questions, Beat Hep C’s bitchy little ass today.  5 fucking years ago.  It was touch and go, cuz it’s like you do follow up blood tests, to make sure you don’t miss/catch something new, and as of today, 3.28.17, I am still Hep C free.  Which I got from a fucking tattoo.  My sobriety tattoo of all things.  He did my back piece, but that when was when he was policed.  Better shop.  Anyways.  So…

Was on my way downtown to the hospital.  And one of the streets was closed and there was a detour.  I saw it.  Prospect St.  8.15.08.  My last drink.  Dave came home at 4:30, with a 6 pack, and pulled out a bottle with yellow, kinda heavy liquid in a bottle with no label from a cupboard I had never saw him opened. Agave Juice from his time in Mexico.  He lived in San Diego.  That’s where he got “sober”.  Toliet seat around his neck-whole 9 yards, anyways, they had a meeting at work.  He hadn’t been getting work.  He had lost his job.  Basically.  I had been drinking for three days straight,  Talking to old, male friends, that, yeah, I’d been with, but I was his.  Now I know.  Once you’re done, you don’t go back and check on your vomit.  So, that didn’t help matters either.  I was basically, drinking on psychotropic medications of all different classes, and then?  Drinking some more.  The pills helped my pain and my sleep.  But, that night I went psychotic.  Went into the bedroom, I’m surprised Dave didn’t kill me that night, and I poured a palmful/handful of Valium in my right hand, and slammed in my mouth, and slugged the Pacifico Clara to rinse it down.  Lightbulb moment.  Dave came barreling around the corner, I met him at the corner of the bedroom and told him what I had done, that I didn’t want to die, I just wanted to sleep, “For one night!  For God’s Sake Dave!  I’M TIRED!!!!”  Grabbed me by the elbow, throws me in his truck- yeah, what’d you think a serial killer would drive?  Blasts down Prospect- we lived on Prospect off of Plainfield, across from the school, so he blasts down Prospect at Midnight- we’d been at it for 8 hours-grabbed me, hollering at me- Don’t you fall asleep on me!  Don’t you dare Fall asleep on me Zuzu!!!  Goddamit!  Talk to me Zuzu, Talk to me, don’t sleep, god dammit.  I just remembered like spilling out of his truck at the ER, and out from there.  I came to for a second, I was on a steel gurney, behind a white sheet of a curtain, Dave was sitting, on my right side, at my waist, like someone had just told him the love of his life had died.  In a way, and literally, someone did tell him I had died.

That whole memory, and night, played through my mind in mind bits for the next, like five minutes.  And I looked around, and I was driving to the place that had saved my life, numerous times, and I kicked Hep C five years ago, The Trial with Dave, Dave’s Death- the loss of the love of my life, he had already killed me but he loved me enough to save my life.

Let that sink in.

Yeah.  I don’t expect you to understand.  I also don’t expect you to understand that he was the love of my life.  Cuz he was.  He and my Meezer, Forrest, whom Dave affectionately named, “F-Dog”, yeah, they had a Bromance way before Obama and Biden.  Way before.  Obama hadn’t even won his First election.  I’m just gonna leave that right there for now…But, yes, Dave was the Love of My Life, Joshua in Greece was a modern Affair to Remember.  And Boogie.  Hmm, I’m lovingly referred to-not anymore-as The Boogie.  He was Boogie and I was Booga.  We were best friends, lovers, enemies, compatriots, competitors, therapy, lifesaver, everything.  My heart was always full when I was with him.  But, clearly, you can all see, I’m quite mad.  And I knew I was, even way back then.

Boogie wanted to be James Bond.  Like, no fingerprints, eyeball scan man.  I wanted him to be that too.  I knew I as a Liability.  So I shoved him away, over and over so he could soar and be happy and marry a blonde and do all the things and be all the things he always wanted to be.  And, as far as I know, he I think, is doing at least, very well.  So, Duty is more important than love.  I’d take those words back if I could, but I was meant to stop Dave, and go down my path.  Which, is beginning to clear.

Five years ago today, I killed Hep C, was in the middle of a VERY public Criminal Trial with Dave, and after Dave went to Prison in August, F Dog got a brain tumor and died 10.08.12.  Dvaes birthday is 11.18.60.  A month apart.  One left and one had his birthday in prison.  Fuck.

So, After the trial, my pain, which I have had for decades, and I forgot to mention, Neurontin makes me pee my bed when I am asleep, and drool when I am awake,  Lyrica makes me look like I have had 6 Tanqueray and Tonics- heavy on the Tanqueray.  So, my pain went through the roof.  My grief was at an epic high.  Lost Dave.  Lost everything and most everyone I knew.  Was just terrified 24/7, my C-PTSD was, omg, my ANS, I don’t know how I still have an amygdala.  Np Spell Check, thank you.  I was on crisis, high alert, grief stricken, rejected, isolated, lonely, alone, then that fall?  The cult memories began.  I went insane.

I stayed functionally insane -Listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers new album, The Getaway.  Dreams of a Samuri, and a few others, but I swear, Anthony Kids and I went through the same shit.  I swear.  Fucking bizarre.  But I stayed functionally insane.  My Psychiatrist retired.  I had moved, switched home groups, switched sponsors, could barely get dressed, couldn’t take a shower barely anymore without someone in the house.  I was stone cold sober- no drugs, no booze through all of this.  But I lost my motherfucking mind.  Oh!  And I reunited with Greek Joshua only to be rejected for his already there girlfriend.  So, I left him, and was devastated all over again.  But at least that fucking bullshit is done and over with.  I just, then the fucking cult.

So, for about 3 years 2013-2016, I was crazy ass, insane, breakdown, in the hospital every other month, blowing up friendships, Oh, and Dave Died.  I actually saw him a month before he died, before he moved to Lansing.  He was so happy to see me.  And he was so very thin.  He either stopped taking his meds or because he was an ex con, he never got them.  Personally, he had a lot of health issues.  A lot. And he was 13 years older than me.  And he had lived hard.  Really hard.  But that broke my heart too.  It was like, I’d just get back up, and I’d get punched in the face/gut-take your pick, sometimes both, and then my heart would get broken all over again.  And I’d fall apart again.

7.11.16 I almost for sure had my last tango.  I had spent a month in a psych facility, getting ECT. I’ve had ECT before- twice.  It is the gold standard for people with treatment resistadepression.  It is very humane.  They knock you out, bp monitored, full staff, bite guard, they administer the electricity, your brain floods with neurotransmitters, they jump your brain, you seize, you recover.  Your memory is for shit, you don’t remember shit, because you’ve got all these neurotransmitters swirling in your head, at least they got rid of the god awful headache you used to get, it’s better.  But here’s the thing- you only do an average of 9 treatments, 3 days a week and they’re only supposed to do one side each time alternating.  What is known as unilaterally.  Not BILATERALLY FOR 11 TIMES LIKE THIS FUCKING JOINT DID AND TURN YOUR BRAIN TO JELL-O.  My fucking God, I should sue.  Found out that little tidbit after the shit show that was July and August of 2016.

Here I was, completely broken, severely depressed, I mean like SUICIDALLY DEPRESSED EVERY DAY SINCE 2012, and they zap both sides of my brain 11 times.  What would it do to YOU?!

So, before you judge me for taking a bunch of pills, think about these blogs.  Think about my fucked up, day;y fucking hellish journey of fighting like a motherfucker to get back to life.  Think motherfucker.  Yeah you.  Setting up in your motherfucking 2 kid, one, fat husband, great ass bullshit life looking down your nose at me.  I say this to all y’all like yous: Go fuck yourself.  Cuz I’m trying to untuck myself, and you’re judging the fuck out of me for it.

So, yeah, I feel better after that.  So, then we all know about psych lab.  Funny.  When I was in CCU-at the same hospital that saved my life 8 yrs prior from an OD, 4 years prior from Hep C, and I fluttered my eyes and my ID/Hep C Doc was at my bedside.  She was resting on my bed rail, her hair was all down, and she looked so forlorn.  I called her name, and fell back.  Next time I came to my ID case manager and her were there.  Then I woke up in Psych Jail.  PsychLab.  Run but he same motherfuckers who bilaterally ECT me.  Run by the same hospital that saved my life.  They need to look into their psychiatric practices.  There’s a letter..  That’ll ax out a few jobs.  The PA, Brigid left.  She told me she was, she had secured a new job.  I hope she’s happy and well.  But, they have a long way to go.

So, since August/September? It has been a rebuilding.  And there has been some some destroying.  New therapist.  But as much as I hate, I mean detest and have zero respect for the way she let me go, my old therapist, really?  What could she do?  I was in a complete nose dive. She’s older.  She’s worked hard.  She doesn’t need someone like me, who is more than likely, out of her therapeutic aptitude,  No mean, just truth.

So, it’s 8:50 EST, I started this at 7:15.  I have sobbed, been angry, felt my soul break, and ache all over again.  But my HP as my witness, at least for today, I will never willingly and either knowingly or unknowingly, attempt to take my life ever again.  My pain will end, but so many other people’s pain will begin.  And I, Daves email was brsamsara, it’s like Buddhist purgatory.  I don’t want to end up like Dave.  He’s free now.   I’ll talk about my gypsy gift and the two curses I broke using my gypsy gifts.  Both gypsy curses too.  Not easy ones to break.

 

“My Dear, you had the power all along.”~ Glenda, The Good Witch.  The Wizard of Oz.

 

WARR;OR- that’s mine.  But if you qualify, what’s mine, is yours.