Musings while Medicated: My response to someone about my mom's choice and um, yeah.

Being CF, pro-choice and mentally ill rant:
When you say that it's the women's choice and some douche asks "what if your mom had aborted you?"  "So what if she had? We'd probably be a lot happier. I wouldn't have been exposed to a childhood of narcissistic douchebaggery and domestic violence. I wouldn't have grown up with chronic pain, with frequent stomach aches that were never investigated. I wouldn't have searched for love quickly, stupidly and in all the wrong places. Meeting with that guy online and he used you for 4 months. But you couldn't tell your family. Avoiding it all together? Great!  But can't leave those emotions behind, chronic pain worsens, you can't work and the doctors put you on 20 pills a day. But your parents who didn't abort you are bitching about supporting you while you wait on the government. Too bad they didn't abort me, they wouldn't have had an expensive but defective child so more money and less heartache for them and I wouldn't have had such a miserable fucking life!

Driving out trauma with kindness and a love for music

I had music teachers who made a difference in my life. Some positive and some negative but let's go with the positive here.

By the time I was fully immersed in my music studies, my PTSD was raging. I didn't advance into higher choirs and had a ton of anxiety around this one professor who happened to be my advisor. I was taking beginning conducting from him and struggling with it. I found myself quite nervous every time I got up to conduct the class. I'm getting emotional now just writing this.

One day he called on me to conduct the class. I got up, took my baton and music, started to conduct. As I moved my hands, a dark cloud came over me. Like a dementor from Harry Potter. I got this awful feeling in my stomach. I looked at my professor out of the corner of my eye and I could hear the voice of my narcissistic grandfather who had died several years before. "You'll never make it, you can't do this, you won't go to grad school, what makes you think that you can sing, you can't even conduct, you're just a waste." Hot tears clouded my vision and my hands started to shake. My service dog was attached to my chair by his leash and was straining to get to me. I dropped my hands in the middle of the piece, grabbed my purse and my dog, and fled the room. I don't even know where I went afterwards.

That night I wrote a letter to my professor. I hadn't realized the extent of the trauma from my grandfather and I still realizing what had happened during the abusive relationship. I told him things that my grandfather had said about my original psychology major and how I'd never make it, that I'd be some two-bit social worker. How that it had been transferred to music by my brain. This professor physically resembled my grandfather and wore similar types of clothing. I went to school the next day, put the letter in his mailbox and fled back home.

The day after delivery, I went to school again. I didn't go to class but I decided that I better talk to this professor while this was fresh or I might as well forget about the music program. He was in charge of the two advanced choirs that I was having such trouble auditioning for. He saw me by his office and called me in. I was utterly terrified and almost in tears already. He had the letter on his desk.

The memories are a bit foggy, I was such a wreck and I've been in tears while writing this but I'm trying to accurately remember what happened.

I was shaking in his office. It was packed full of music and was a huge fire hazard. My backpack was on the floor next to his desk, I had left it in the classroom when I fled. He said that he didn't realize that I was holding so much pain as he always saw me smiling and laughing. He had no idea how difficult being around him was. He asked how he could ease the pain. Then I lost it. I started sobbing. Loud, hot tears that burned all the way up from the depths of my soul. He handed me some tissues and I constantly mopped my face. I said that I didn't know. I was just realizing all this plus some other stuff  (I really didn't want to talk about the rape) and I had no idea how to deal. He said that he realized why I was so nervous singing solo around him and that my voice coach said that I was ready for a more advanced choir. That put a small smile on my face. But I still had to deal with conducting class, now this choir and other classes. He asked me to stand up and conduct him playing the piano. I was handed a baton, music and a stand. It was an extremely simple piece, I could've played it. I gave him the cue and we started. As we started into the music, that dark cloud descended again. He was looking right at me which didn't help. Suddenly, he gives me this big, encouraging smile. My hands are hardly conducting but he says, "It's just me, Harley, not your grandfather. I want you to succeed and I'm here to help you." He kept playing and I tried to keep conducting. My service dog was nudging at me to alert to my rising anxiety but I tried to keep conducting. My knees shook. He got to the end without me. But we tried again and he kept reassuring me.

When it came to class, I wasn't sure how it would work. But he gave me that big smile and I could see him mouthing words to me. He gave me the courage to keep going. I got a B+ in Conducting!

The next semester came and I was given a clearance code for Madrigals. He came up to me after the first class and said, "Carol was right, you are ready for this level of music."

Thank you Dr. Mulienburg.

Ableist family bullshit

I am in an absolutely "don't fuck with me" mood. For those who don't know, my sister is kicking me out so she can spawn with the lazy douche she's married to. So I'm back up in my college town, trying to find an apartment. The hemming and hawwing of my cosigner already caused me to lose on the best options. Now I have to go through property management, request access, call my doctor at home and get a letter, background check, blah, blah, blah. I didn't have to do any of that for this other place, I have a personal relationship with them. Just sign the rental agreement, pay the deposit and be done. My mom and sister are already packing my stuff.

I call my mom today to tell her about this place I am looking at and to see how my rat Ginny Weasley is. Then my mom dropped a bomb on me.

I'm ending this trip to go to my cousins  (who couldn't identify me in a Starbucks line) Bat Mitzvah which is a Jewish coming of age ceremony. It's at a private venue, owned by a synagogue. It's a summer camp that many of us went to and there's lots of wildlife.  My cousin says they said no dogs. I email their offices as a camp alumnae. I went for 4 summers. I get an email back from and Max is welcome. After I tried to get a hold of my cousin to no avail, I just said that I'm going and Max is coming. I find out that the RSVP wasn't mailed for weeks after.

My cousin's dad calls my parents. He couldn't call his own first cousin to tell her that her medical equipment isn't welcome at this family event. My uncle wouldn't even call me. They couldn't say it  directly to me. "Sorry, your life-saving medical device isn't welcome." It's at a fucking summer camp next to the beach! You own two dogs you twat! Do just not want my "problems" to ruin her special day? Without him, it would be even worse. I'd scream in the middle of someone talking, storm out of the room in tears and probably hurt myself trying to get to the beach via the old basketball courts. Can't have the oddball cousin ruin your princess's big day! It's a Bat Mitzvah at a summer camp, not a debutante ball!

This shouldn't surprise me, almost that whole side of the family is filled with narcissistic, snobby assholes. Only 5 decent people. My grandfather was my major childhood trigger. I wasn't good enough, I wouldn't make it, why was I doing something stupid like that? That asshole verbally tore me apart.  Now I'm supposed to go to an event full of people who love without one of the best tools in my toolbox? My family didn't even stand up for me, they just took it! My mom telling me how she'll help me. I don't want my mother to help me! I have several things  to assist with independent living, just let me use them! Being doped up the whole time won't help.

I'm sorry but if Max isn't welcome, neither am I. He saved my life, I wouldn't be here without him. So no Max, no me.

Leviticus 19:14-"You shall not curse the deaf nor place a stumbling block before the blind; you shall fear your God - I am your Lord."

I am highly medicated on controlled substances right now. I will likely spend the rest of the day eating trail mix while watching shit on YouTube.

Hypocritical Family Voices

I'm so angry with my parents! They say that they want what is best for me but they never listen! For 2.5 I've been saying how much I hate living in that town, I conflict with my sister and I want to move. But the family keeps saying that I'm not ready, I can't do it on my own and I shouldn't live alone for my own safety. Then my sister decides that she wants me out. BAM! I am moving. None of those previous concerns are brought up, I need to move. And not to a local apartment, those are too expensive. But back to Humboldt where it's cheaper.

The talk of "You should be close to family" and "We'll help you heal" is gone. I was a temporary pain in the ass and they want me gone. I didn't "get better". PTSD doesn't just go away. Fibromyalgia doesn't heal, colitis doesn't leave the colon. THIS IS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!

Now I'm back here in Humboldt. Last week I was offered a decently priced apartment. I know the owners personally, they weren't going to demand a background check or an application. But my parents wanted me to look at other places, pointing out flaws with the offered apartment. I wanted to see pictures of the place as it was recently redone. I emailed the landlord and asked for some. She didn't have any but I needed to let her know about the apartment soon as they'd start advertising next week. So I called my mom and I said I wanted the place. But..long story short, between Thursday night and Friday night, the apartment got rented to someone else. Now I have to keep looking which is really stressful, educate about service dogs like mad, pay a bunch of application fees and spend the next 2 weeks grinding my teeth between trips to the toilet!

I was offered the place last week! If my parents had listened to me, it would be mine! I know the rental market here, I know it where they live. They have no clue. Their tenants are ripping them off! Treats one of them like a son! He doesn't pay rent, they go to the movies, dinner, the zoo, the beach and we're not invited. But he won't keep his greasy hands off me! We dated for a few months back in 2012 but he cut off contact because I wouldn't put out. Dude knew that I'm asexual! Now he's acting like my brother from another mother but still comes onto me, nasty! I'm just so angry right now!

24 hours of Anxiety-laden hell!

TRIGGER WARNING
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When you have to sift through boxes of stuff that you haven't seen since you left your husband and need to be stoned to cope. Then you find the blue tyedye beach throw that you were raped on. The one that you were going to burn with yout new boyfriend-financeé-husband-lying, cheating, fucking asshole ex husband! That damn hippie throw followed you across the state, probably packed for you by the evil ex. Then you see it and you start to dissociate until you almost have a seizure. Flashbacks, wee! Then you break down sobbing in your mother's arms. Your sister tries to help your mom and the two of them half carry you inside while your service dog keeps circling you. Then they lay you down on your bed while the dog covers your face in kisses. Then you fall onto the floor and it feels like there's  snot on your face. Using the selfie function as a mirror you see that there's no snot. You decide to share it on Facebook. While writing about the snot, you wonder why you are sharing it on Facebook. You realize that you are still stoned. Did the THC stop the PNES? Interesting thought...

I spent over half of yesterday reliving hell. This morning, my parents dog jumps over our wall to go visit other dogs. We get a new couch and the old one gets put against the wall until free dump day. I mention that it needs to be moved before she arrived. No one listened and she went visiting today. I thought she was in my housemate's room and he thought she was in my room. But she took off before the owner of the other dogs could catch her. The woman stopped at our door and told us. The lady took off after her in the car, housemate when in another direction and I went in the direction the lady saw her go on foot. Barefoot, no cane, no meds, in pajamas with a dog leash in hand. 

I got around the corner, still calling for her. A police car pulled up and asked me if I'd made the call. I looked in the back of his cruiser but no dog. Confused, I asked him if it was about the dog. He said it was about a child. He asked me where I live and if it's a medium black dog. I tell him where and yes. He said that a tall guy just grabbed her. I turned around, feeling every tiny pebble under my feet. The kind lady gave me a thumbs-up and I waved to her, yelling my thanks. Housemate came and found me but I stumbled my way home. 

Blasted dog greeted me happily, couches have been moved so she can't jump again and both dogs are in my room. Housemate went to pick up a prescription at my doctor's office and get us donuts. Double dose of anti-anxiety meds down the throat.

Family is NOT getting told. The two of us will get blamed for it and my dad will trigger the hell out of me. Not the idiot who enabled her to escape. Staying in this bed for the rest of the day. Can't handle shit right now.

Having a Severe Mental Illness Means Dying Young

People diagnosed with serious mental illness -- schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or severe depression -- die 20 years early, on average, because of a combination of lousy medical care, smoking, lack of exercise, complications of medication, suicide, and accidents. They are the most discriminated-against and neglected group in the U.S., which has become probably the worst place in the developed world to be mentally ill.

In many previous blog posts I have bemoaned the shameful state of psychiatric care and housing for people with severe mental illness. My conclusion was that the United States has become the worst place, and now the worst time ever, to have a severe mental illness. Hundreds of thousands of the severely ill languish inappropriately in prisons. Additional hundreds of thousands are homeless on the street.

But it gets worse. Having a severe mental illness also means that you will probably die very young. I have asked Dr. Peter Weiden to explain why, and to suggest what we should do about it. He is a professor of psychiatry at the University of Illinois College of Medicine and has spent his professional career working on improving outcomes and reducing side effects and complications for people with serious mental illness.

Dr. Weiden writes:

In the general population, our life expectancy in the United States is approximately 80 years (77.4 years for men, and 82.2 years for women). This is a stunning improvement in life expectancy since back in the 1970's when life expectancies were a full decade shorter, around 70 years. The rapid and profound decrease in smoking is probably the single most important factor.

Certain groups do not share this good fortune. For example, black Americans live about 5 fewer years than whites. But one group suffers by far the most- with an average of 20 years of reduced life, in the ballpark of the life expectancy in Rwanda or Afghanistan.

Who is dying so young? You might think it would be people with HIV or severe asthma or some other serious medical condition. But it is not. As you have guessed by now, the group in question are those with a diagnosis of serious mental illness-schizophrenia, bipolar disorder or treatment resistant depression.

It has been known for many years that individuals with serious mental illness were more likely to have medical problems like diabetes, hypertension, or heart disease, but most of the mortality concern was on suicide prevention and other kinds of injuries that come from poorly controlled psychiatric symptoms.

The wake up call came in 2006 when a groundbreaking study of mortality statistics showed that individuals with severe mental illness were dying ranged between 13 and 31years early, averaging to over 20 years of life lost relative to age matched general populations. Their causes of death were actually very similar to the causes of death in the general population, only happening on average about 20 years earlier.

While suicide and accidental deaths are still much more likely to happen in the severely mentally ill relative to general population, these are still relatively uncommon, whereas there is a doubling or tripling of the mortality from heart disease, diabetes, respiratory ailments, and cancer. People mostly die in their 50s of the same problems that kill off the rest of us 20 years later.

Many reasons conspire to create this shameful statistic. People with severe mental illness are less likely to take good care of themselves, more likely to smoke heavily and have sedentary lifestyles, and have more difficulty than most negotiating the complicated medical care system to go for appointments and follow-up care. And primary care physicians are not well trained or compensated for the additional complexities involved in diagnosing or treating medical problems in the severely ill.

A word about medications for mental illness, and their role in mortality. It is a complicated question because medications can be very effective in controlling psychiatric symptoms so that patients are better able to reduce medical risks and actively participate in medical care. On the other hand, some medications cause significant weight gain and dyslipidemia (increase in triglycerides and cholesterol) which can make the already bad situation worse. This dilemma is better now that there are effective medications that do not often cause weight gain or elevated lipids. Though this remains a vexing challenge for mental health professionals, the major problem seems to be the greater number of medical risk factors among persons with mental illness and their lack of access to high quality medical care.

A growing research literature shows that bringing the medical doctor to the psychiatric patient works much better than trying to bring the patient to regular medical services. The merging of primary psychiatric care with primary medical care is urgently needed.

Is this too much to ask? When we get surgery we expect other doctors to be available. The surgeon will be surrounded by a team including radiologists, anesthetists, and if there are heart problems a cardiologist. Having an appropriate medical team working together is usually not available for those who have psychiatric conditions.

Which throws the basic inequality into stark relief. Society would not tolerate 20 years of lost life expectancy for other groups, even those that also suffer discrimination like Latino or blacks or gays. If this were HIV or breast cancer or multiple sclerosis, we would not tolerate the total fragmentation of healthcare as we do with mental illness.

We are complacent because the lives of those with severe mental illness do not matter to us. Unless the person dying young is your parent or your child, or your brother.

Thanks so much, Peter, for this glum but much-needed assessment. Until recently I assumed that the reduced life expectancy in the severely ill was attributable to the "big four" factors of lousy medical care, heavy smoking, sedentary lifestyle, and antipsychotic use. To my great surprise a large and well-conducted study recently found the lowest mortality in the severely ill who had received low to moderate doses as compared with those who had taken no medicine or high doses. This is just one study, and it can be interpreted in different ways, but it does suggest that antipsychotics are less the culprit in early death than I had imagined.

This possibility should focus our attention even more on lousy medical care and smoking. Clearly we mustn't just improve the totally inadequate psychiatric care and housing currently provided for the severely ill. We must also follow Dr. Weiden's suggestion that medical care be an essential part of the package, along with smoking cessation and exercise.

Will anything change? The (non)treatment of severe mental illness in the U.S. is our national shame. This is a voiceless constituency in the U.S. that very few people seem to care about. It is different in much of Europe, where enlightened policies and adequate funding for the severely ill lead to decent lives in the community and better health care.

There is always an outcry from the media and our politicians when there is poor health care for the military, children, women or ethnic minorities. Everyone went crazy when one person died of Ebola. We should be deeply ashamed of ourselves for neglecting the severely ill, creating a system that imprisons them, renders them homeless, and allows them to die so young. We need a Charles Dickens to illustrate their plight, and a new Pinel to free them of their chains. Two centuries ago the Age of Enlightenment banished the idea that mental illness was caused by witchcraft or possession. As Harry Stack Sullivan put it, people with schizophrenia were more simply human than otherwise. It's long past time that we remembered this and acted accordingly.

Allen Frances is a professor emeritus at Duke University and was the chairman of the DSM-IV task force.

http://huffpost.com/us/entry/6369630

Ice Inside

There's ice inside of many of us. But so many people think of this particular kind of ice belonging to veterans. But many others also have this ice. We need to raise the awareness and break the stigma of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, no matter what the cause.

Ice Building Up

I've been so cold lately. The depression, pain and anxiety are just building up more ice in my body. I just want to stay bundled up in my bed with the TV, my phone or both. I need distractions to keep my mind off of how cold I am.  HE is home more and that just sends me to my bed more. When he's not here, I'm warmer. I get out of bed more, I want to do things and I smile. He's going to be gone tomorrow and I'm already planning what I'm going to get done. I'm looking forward to my chores. How sad is that?