Love, Julie and Puzzle
So, pull the plug? Who decides? As I see it, if every human is autonomous and is the best authority into his/her own condition, then what if we are left to this thing, “Guesswork”?
I ask you this: What if the person (this is what we all are, that is, people)
cannot breathe on his own
cannot eat on his own
cannot speak out loud or with the aid of a device
cannot communicate verbally in any manner
cannot move his body voluntarily
cannot digest food
cannot eliminate in the usual manner
cannot let us know his wishes.
Well…the nurse didn’t write down when the last cigarette was, but they think it was weeks ago. What then?
Or, maybe I should reword this:
He doesn’t breathe on his own
He doesn’t eat on his own
He doesn’t speak out loud and a device is no longer attempted
He doesn’t seem to communicate in any manner verbally, but we don’t know anymore
He hasn’t moved, but didn’t someone see something? Or was it a shadow?
The aide is tired of cleaning up shit.
We are all worn out here.
I ask you this: When loved ones make a decision, it’s a loving decision, is it not? Based on mutual consent…I know sometimes people disagree or bicker, but isn’t it usually in attempt to live in the person’s shoes and hope that we all do what that person would want? No one knows. Not one person except the person who is remaining mum right now. Perhaps for a darned good reason. He knows far too much.
I don’t believe in my heart that any one human lacks insight on this god-given earth. Not one. To pull the plug….I have not been in this position.
So what right does any doctor or legal person have to take away decision-making from a person, I say
PERSON, who indeed has capacity to
breathe on his/her own, ambulate, speak, create wonderful writings, communicate, love, eat and digest food and love an animal?
To claim another person lacks insight is to steal their humanity. That’s murder.
It’s time we brought the true killers to justice.
Last night was the pits. I told myself I wont give that store my business anymore. I guess…I don’t really know what to think but this kind of thing happens to me all the time and I never talk about it with anyone exactly.
I go to a store…and I hear them talking in Spanish. Most of the time, harmless stuff, I suppose, about the weather, you know, that’s the way they were back in the states, people just talk about meaningless shit most of the time, right? They say their bus is late or they say their paycheck got taxes taken out. Well, duh, that’s normal crap and those things been happening for about a century now, right? Since buses been made they been late and taxes been taken out since the paycheck was invented. Grow up or don’t take buses and quit your job.
But…sometimes, they don’t talk the usual stuff. I can tell. I see it in their eyes even though I don’t know espanol….I understand more than I speak. I see their gestures and smirks. Of course I do, and
THE WAY THEY LOOK AT ME. Um, yeah.
So, I’d say most of the time, cool. I’m cool. And yesterday I had a cool time at a place trying out my espanol trying to tell folks Puzzle’s name was Puzzle. Finally gave up, picked her up, brought her in in my arms, and showed the gals Puzzle’s tags.
Wow, everyone was bursting out laughing then! I was so, so glad I delivered that punchline! Laugh of the day. You mean a dog, a chica perra, can be named Puzzle? Si! That her nombre! Puzzle, or, Poooz-lay!
Yep, but anyway, last night, not so cool. It was late. Okay, switch gears late. You know, the town does switch gears. Not much open, and Disco closes at 9:30. There’s a mad rush when folks come in from the outskirts at around 9:15 for supplies, and rush out with whatever…toilet paper, whatever they need at the last minute. The guy that runs the place across the street has it down. The rescuer who captures those that miss closing time. Yep.
Two dudes work there.
You got it. Who goes in there late at night? All sorts of people. Jesus, the late night convenience store people in the USA must know all sorts of secrets. And those folks…do they talk, or no? Do they? And the ones at the CVS, too. Some are open 24/7 and at 3am, folks come in from god-knows-where.
He sells booze, cigarettes, basic food, paper towels, nuts, chips, cookies, tuna, bottled water, soda, cleaning supplies, probably newspapers, lottery tickets…Am I missing anything? I don’t think you can recharge your phone there.
When I first got here I took one bite of their junk food and I thought, “Oh great, these are the grossest and driest cookies I have ever eaten. That’s good, I’m not likely to buy these again….”
Then I found Nancy cookies. Uh oh. And they have this stuff called Dolce de Lieche or somthing like that. I had no clue what it was but…it’s wicked disgusting and I am sick from it for days. The best pastries are made from it. But eat that stuff straight up….Not that you are supposed to but….
Most of the time, I stay to hell away from all that stuff. I don’t eat it or buy it, period. I can tell you just where, in that teensy shop, he keeps those Nancy cookies. Um….
Anyway, I remember before I moved here I asked myself, “What’s it gonna be like? Will it turn into one big binge fest?” I was so, so scared that it would. Honestly, you have no clue how scared I was.
I will go for a week without binge eating, then it will start up again and go on and on and on…I will tell myself I really gotta get out of this town. I am so sick from it I can’t even get up outa bed.
Some days, I will cook up a huge batch of lentils and eat those. Or whatever. Or buy something no one would even think of as binge food. Veggies, too. You have no clue.
At night, all the places close down. He’s the only place open, this shop, that and the Licoria. I’ve been down to the Licoria when I’ve been desperate. I don’t keep food in the house, not much, for safety’s sake. The pizza places are open late but I can’t afford…God help me if I get into that.
So last night….I was at that teensy store. God help me…there is that one nice guy…but this one…no, he was talking, talking in espanol with his pal and I saw it in the looks they gave me, joking. I was in a panic. I froze right there.
Okay, first I went and got some eggs. Innocent enough. And cheese. Innocent looking, too. So I tried to look like I knew what I wanted, and didn’t want expensive shit, either. I grabbed a big thing of peanuts, called mani here, which wasn’t expensive, but I was stuck…pasta? Naw. Those were tiny bags of it. Soup…but that cost a fortune….did it not? I spent forever looking for it and this was getting embarrassing. Then I thought, pan, that’s bread….Where the heck does he keep it? I didn’t want USA style pan, I wanted panaderia style..but he had only USA packaged type. He had dry cookie type, or, rather, these budget crackers, these were large and they look like pitas…naw. I was getting lost.
Okay, they were talking now, I could hear them and they were laughing at me. I knew it. That I had been standing there, completely indecisive, for how long? Grabbing this and that junk food, and in fact getting dizzy cuz I am in fact EXHAUSTED and sleep deprived as usual, I want to tell them in inglese, GO TO HELL! BY SUMMER I AM GONNA BE SKINNY SO JUST GO FUCK OFF.
it all comes to over UY $200. Yeah, that’s a fair amount. Those dudes were laughing at me, joking in espanol.
This is my life and I think I will not give that store my business when that clerk is working there. Only the nice one.
So from now on, unless they change their ways, I’ll walk in, and if the mean one is there, walk out. Nice one, give him business. Mean one, just say hola and don’t buy a darned thing. I’m not dealing with this shit no more.
my landlady says she’s got the downstairs apartment ready for me tomorrow. Dang.
I love it up here and have fallen in love with this tiny apartment. I had been hoping it would be permanent up here, but no, no go. Dang. Oh well, I told ya the roof leaks anyway. But I LOVE being able to walk right onto the roof here, and the sun coming in, and the privacy, and being able to look onto the town. It’s a bit noisier up here, I do hear the motorcycles. But the lack of privacy down there…that’s a serious concern.
I hope she goes away all summer long. Maybe I will be lucky that way and she’ll just spend the whole summer in Montevideo, and will only come by for the rent. Jesus I really need her to be gone. It’s bad enough with those people coming and going all day, peeking in.
First things first…..
I was at a thrift shop in town a few days ago (yes, we do have one, more than one). The guy who runs the place is cool. I think it’s a couple of guys. We have a fair number of discount places and consignment places….you gotta find the cheaper places cuz some aren’t cheap. This one is good. He had a nice curtain there. The word for curtain in espanol sounds like curtain…so that’s the first thing I will get…If that curtain is still there. Apologies to my landlady…I know she put up a “pretty” curtain but seriously I want one that you cannot see a darned thing through. Totally nothing. I wish I could replace the whole door with a board! So you didn’t even know if I was home or not, cuz it’s none of anyone’s business!
I need to do this tactfully. I don’t wish in any way to appear hostile. It’s just that with people peeking in…It upsets me, reminds me of a mental hospital. The way those nurses would “check” on us. I don’t need that. I am an adult. Only infants need to be checked on, because they are fragile and they need their diapers changed, and they need to be held, too, and fed properly, till they can do this ON THEIR OWN.
I’ve een saying all along that my eating issues were nutritional, but perhaps they were sociopolitical in nature as I originally thought as a young girl. Perhaps what I’ve always said, “Keep your comments off my body” is about the right thing to say at this moment. Or I can just laugh.
I can state that I was on the right track all along in late 1979, to pursue feminism as an answer to undo the brainwashing that had been done to me by the Moonies. It may very well have worked just fine. I took on a self-study of feminism. What went wrong? Clearly, there was a clash of ideology there, right?
Yeah, clearly. Cuz I went horribly astray, and this is where I got stuck. Therapy couldn’t undo it cuz obviously this was NO ANSWER. Those therapists didn’t know a darned thing about what I was talking about. I had more education than any of them, in the arts and politics, was more widely read and was far more creative and innovative. They wanted to make me more tame. I needed to get more extreme in my thinking and ideas. After all, has I stayed in school, wouldn’t I have soon been in graduate school, where original thinking via a thesis is a requirement?
So here’s where, perhaps, I got stuck. I was living in a community where Christianity, that is, Evangelical Christianity, was getting stronger, as it was all over the country in a much bigger way. I went chuch-shopping, as I do once every five or ten years now and then, showed up at a church, was turned off and decided, “It’s not for me.”
I don’t remember how many services I went to there. One or two at most. The second, I’d say, was a bad enough turnoff to keep me away. I made friends with a few of the members but never went back even though I was invited. I couldn’t. I didn’t think it was right, so I politely put my foot down without saying my reasons. Gradually, I distanced myself, trying to be polite. I lived in small town Vermont at the time. I was 21 years old. How perfect. Coming-of-age.
I had attended a Sunday service and it was very nice, I thought, but the sermon was the main turnoff. I remember when I had been a rather young girl, my dad used to get riled up about certain sermons and late at night, and I’d hear arguments between many of the men from our synagogue over Israeli politics. But that was so long ago. Now, I was grown up and able to make decisions for myself, and I had attended a service of a religion that was not my own. I wasn’t happy about what this minister had done. He had been manipulative with his own congregation.
I heard what he had said in his sermon and had listened along with the others. But I wasn’t going to fall for it and I felt that it was wrong and I felt angry. I observed the woman next to me. I didn’t think she had much money. Clearly, she couldn’t afford dental care for herself nor her kids. I was saddened by this. The minister said that the people in the congregation were sinners, but this woman and her children who sat beside me were not any worse sinners than he was, or I was, as we all sat there listening to him speak. What sort of lie was he telling us?
The Moonies, I knew, did the same thing. It worked fantastic. Foolproof. I knew this is a great selling technique. You knock ’em down, then build ’em up. So tell ’em what shits they are, then tell ’em of That Great Idea You’ve Got. Bingo.
So of course, the Moonies timed their meals just so, and sleep deprived us just so, and loved us just so. That’s brainwashing to a T. They knew just how.
The psych hospitals and the entire System, I would learn in the years the followed, do the very same thing. Very, very structured. They encourage structure. They tell us we will fall apart without them on the weekend, and that we have their “help” lines and emergency rooms to go to when their “staff” are on vacation should we be “having a hard time.” They know how to keep us hooked for life. Meals timed just so, groups timed just so. They know just how and when to get their bullshit information into people when “it is best absorbed.”
If you take your meds and do your therapy diligently, and stay with us, we will love you more. If you don’t, you will be “unstable” and horrors will happen to you. Repeat forever.
So, what was this lie? He said they were sinners. Knocked ’em down, then told ’em to give the church money. That lady fell for it bad and I watched her write a check for five dollars, which back then was a lot of money. It was 1979. If this had been a synagogue, it wouldn’t have been okay to write a check because in our religion, you don’t write checks on the Sabbath. You don’t write checks nor handle money.
In the synagogue where I grew up, in another town altogether, we didn’t pass the basket, but of course it was similar with a rather large yearly dues that was expected that my dad never told us about. It covered Hebrew school and the like. It’s beyond my comprehension how much my parents must have paid, because it covered three kids, fancy food, and high holiday services in a rather young but growing suburb. In a few decades, that town would be one of affluence, but not yet.
I learned of feminism around then. I heard about this thing “coming out.” I hadn’t heard that term before. Why call it that, anyway? That made no sense. Come out to what and why? Come where? Who? What closet and why should there be one? What was there to hide? Why hide anything because that meant shame? Why was whom you love, or the gender of whom you loved connected to feminism? This didn’t make sense, and still doesn’t.
If there’s a closet, it means shame. We need to obliterate the damn closet and the damn hotline that implies shame. Yes, you can and should tell your friends and family. I was here all along.
The hotline isn’t there. You can’t pick the phone and call discetely anytime and get anonymous 1-800 help. There is no discrete help. Get rid of the damn discretion and let’s be open and honest and loving.
There seemed to be a clash right there and that’s where I got stuck. God and feminism. Too much clash. There was no clear theory there. I couldn’t find my way. It was all breaking down. The movement? What movement?
And so, I starved myself.
Yes, this was a political move. Very much so.
Today, I know. Knowing that Forced Psychiatry Has Been Illegal Under International Law Since 1948…and that under international law, No Person Is Mentally Incompetent…Nor “Lacks Insight” and this term is completely useless bullshit…to me, I am now vindicated, I suppose.
I am a writer of memoir. I know that memoir is far more powerful writing and far more beautiful writing than their medical records, which are full of inaccuracies in both small details and larger concepts about me as a person and my life.
Their medical records stand…and yet….I am a writer. This is politics. Very much so. I have a wonderful life.
If if was, or is, in any way, a political issue, I can now rest.
I believe wholeheartedly that forced care is wrong, so I joyfully signed this petition. I joyfully disclosed my full name and stated that I am proud of Nolan for speaking out and doing what he believes in. I stated that I went along with this “care” for over three decades. What they were doing was not “care” at all! I was coerced into going along with it, because they lied to me and said I had a “disease” that was supposedly lifelong, that I certainly did not have! They ignored most of what I did say.
Best to you, Nolan, I am sure you will win this battle and have a very good life. Please continue to speak out. You will do great things someday and you will live a long, long time.
I love you all, Julie and Puzzle
Please note my commentary below the article. I am not certain the Patch has even been publishing my comments lately…. If they aren’t, I wonder why, cuz the commentary on there is full of all sorts of baloney worse than I ever write….
Love, Julie and Puzzle