Domestic abuse trap…No, you're not crazy at all

Domestic abuse is a trap. No, you’re not crazy at all. But the trap only widens and getting out isn’t as easy as they think. You can’t “just walk away.” Because where are you going to live? How will you get by?

Let me tell you that each step of the way, there will need to be trustworthy people in place to help drive each getaway car. Any fucked up links will muck it up bad, meaning you’re back to abuse. It could get worse the next time ’round.

There are traps out there, and more traps. Rescuers come in all shapes and sizes, angels and devils. I’ve seen ’em all. Most are out to make a buck. The rescuing business is booming these days. Watch out for that slick bedside manner especially.

And beware of the bottle. That too.

Academia vs avoiding the oversensitive minority of the LD community.

The PC police are at it again! I can’t be myself! Oh no, it’s now ILLEGAL to be intelligent. The Handicapper General is coming to get us all! Off with our heads to make sure we’re equals! Equality, fairness, purity reigns here! Compulsive neatniks, overly picky privacy invasion…I concede no more!

How much PC Big Sister policing is going too far and how much more of this downright constant beating and berating am I going to take before I scream:

Hey, get me outa here, and back to Academia! Please!

Calling out from the depths of the túnel. Scrambling for Plan B. Me and Puzzle. No one besides Puzzle gives a shit. When it comes to friends I am not believed, called crazy by those who have no right to claim that. Or just plain non-caring, nonchalant, in their own petty worlds. Petty.  No one is on my side right now. Damn, Puzzle, we’re alive. Run while we got a chance.

Petty, definitely that.

Plan B…..

I finished my massive writing project…now, Plan B….

I finished a MASSIVE writing project the other day. Yes, I’ve been talking a storm about this lately, the ECT down-classification. In case anyone’s wondering.  I am off Facebook and, I suppose, being off social media makes one invisible these days. However, what I do matters to me, and what I think matters to me as well. My life still matters and to me, my story is just as important as it always was. I was so exhausted when I was done.

Meanwhile, I have relocated….to a location non-specified, that is, not the specific village.  Anyway, that’s a bit in future notification, eh? I’m north of Montevideo away from the icky tourists. I wanted to be away from the coastline. Tourists means drinking means ungodly noise and high prices. Find the working ordinary people and you’ll find less flamboyancy.  Or that was my intention. Just the regular ho-hum. Quiet lives.

 

The human tendency to rationalize bad news

I have to laugh at the human tendency to rationalize bad news. Here’s an example. Say Ted has been dreaming of buying his first car. He’s saved up and saved up. Finally, after a few years of hard work at his job, he has the money and goes to the most reputable dealer in town. He buys a car on the lot that by all means, anyone might think would be a reasonable purchase.

However, Ted finds out that the car isn’t up to par. What the dealer told him isn’t panning out. The paperwork isn’t right. Something about the paint job doesn’t look right to him, either. He smells something indicating a leak, but upon having a check at the dealer’s on Friday, all checks out fine. Sure enough, a light turns on while he’s on the highway. On Sunday. He can’t get a repairman and the dealer’s at church. When the dealer comes in on Monday, he tells Ted, “It was your responsibility….”

Ted calls his buddy Rick. Before even hearing the whole story, Rick cuts him off and says, “Ted, that’s the best dealer in town. Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit? You’re just anxious because it’s your first car. Relax.”

Ted is shocked to hear that Rick would be so non-supportive. Why didn’t his buddy even let him finish telling him what happened? Ted needed a ride to work tomorrow. Maybe Rick didn’t want to be Mr. Carpool. Maybe that was it!

Ted decides to call his brother, Sam. After all, Ted’s brother knew a few things about cars, didn’t he? Sam said, “You were stupid to buy that car. What an idiot you are!”

Ted hung up the phone in dismay.  Had Sam always been like that? Although buying the car may have been “stupid,” and maybe bringing Sam along may have prevented the sale, name-calling wasn’t helpful nor productive right now.

Ted knows he’s right. He calls his local church and makes an appointment with his minister. The minister says, “Oh no, Ted, that’s not even possible. That dealer is reputable and God-fearing. You need to practice forgiveness. All that was in the past. Pray and meditate. Pray to Jesus that he is saved.”

Ted goes to his shrink, Dr. Feelgood. He has the prescription pad right on his desk. Dr. Feelgood says, “Ted, you’re clearly paranoid. You went to the best dealer in town and now, you’re saying this dealer sold you a bad car? Not possible! Here, take these pills and come back in a month.”

Ted goes to Facebook, posting a pic of the car. He asks if anyone else has had such a bad experience with this dealer and what to do about these leaks. His “friends” tell him they’ve never heard of such a thing. They berate him and tell him he has no expertise and must have been imagining that the light went on.

One friend privately messages him.

“Ted, thanks so much for speaking out. I had the same thing happen to me. Same dealer. I paid so much. My experience afterward matches yours. Everyone told me I was crazy, that it couldn’t be possible, that I was ‘just anxious.’ I was called ‘over the top.’ One person said, ‘abnormal.’ Or even ‘paranoid.’ Ted, I’ve never been called these things before. All I wanted was a car, not a bunch of labels used to describe mentally ill people. I ended up taking the car out of state and having it looked at by someone neutral. Yes, it was a total lemon, not what the dealer claimed it was.

“What I have learned, Ted, is that the human mind doesn’t like bad news. People want good news, so when they hear bad news, they blame the bringer of bad news instead of believing that the bad news could possibly be true. This is how the truth gets twisted around.

“This is how Hitler got away with what he was doing for so long. This is why racism exists still today. I’m sorry for what happened and for how you were treated. Thanks for speaking out. I am in full support.

“Me too.”

 

Disappearing for now…but will be back

Those of you who are regular blog readers know that I do this now and then. I disappear for a few days from cyberspace. However, my disappearance is temporary and I will be back. Now and then, I know someone’s checking up on me. You know, the ole “let’s check her social media…” blah blah blah…. Occasionally, I want to be hired, you know? After they decide they like me as an employee, they don’t give a shit. Or, if they don’t, then I don’t give a shit either.

See you later. I’ll still be writing. Only it gets amusing knowing no one’s there. If anyone ever was.

What's the incentive for picking up frivolous lawsuits?

If I were an attorney, why would I pick up a frivolous lawsuit such as “Hey, my latte isn’t full enough?” Surely, this must be big bucks indeed! And a jumpstart to the ego and reputation.

Meanwhile, attorneys around the world have to keep their phones turned off due to the hundreds of calls they receive each day from abused divorcees, abused children, abused family members, abused elderly people, abused rape victims, abused folks who  have fallen between the table cracks…Why? Because they were labeled. Because there’s no recourse for psych abuse.

Apparently, these frivolous, and highly caffeinated lawsuits bring in plenty of bucks. But let’s not spill the beans too quickly!  Psych abuse cases are not profitable. In fact, they could harm an attorney’s precious reputation. After all, he or she might be called CRAZY himself. God forbid. Of course, defending latte levels ain’t nuts at all, is it?

One man's hell is another's heaven

Here is a story to start your day of two psych survivors trying to get by. Each is in a different situation, but they are both survivors of psychiatry. This is fiction, but as you know, the boundaries between fiction and fact are blurred. Cars are real. Roads are real. This story takes place is a real country called the United States. The characters are fictional, invented by me. However, they are human, and I didn’t invent that species. All I’m doing is playing around with a bunch of facts here. That’s what we writers do when we write fiction, and that’s a perfectly okay thing to do. In general, we make it entirely clear within our writing what we are doing, and spelling it out as I am doing right here most likely has gotten you adequately pissed off (and awake, maybe a good combination with morning coffee?).

Diane lost her job after she ended up in the hospital from a drug disaster. She couldn’t pay her car payments, so she lost her car, too. Now, each day, to get to her new lower paying job, she has to pick up the #4 bus on the corner of the street and ride an hour and a half with a transfer to ensure that she arrives on time. All this is new to her.

The driver knows her, since he’s seen her a number of times. She knows by his smile that he’s trying to be friendly. Still, the drudgery of it all annoys her as she pays her fare and makes her way to an empty seat. What’s to do on the bus? Read the depressing news?

A woman boarded with two whiny children. How can Diane turn her ears off and not be annoyed? Two stops later, a man who appeared homeless boarded. Diane wanted to slap herself for falling for stereotypes. She couldn’t help herself. She felt that she loathed him. Stop it, she told herself. He reeked of booze. Stop it. Stop these thoughts.

Why do I have to ride this bus with these annoying people? I hate that I lost my car, where I had freedom and privacy. These kids are too much. Why can’t that woman keep them quiet? Her kid keeps throwing his toy in my direction. The smell of booze is gross. I want to shut all this out. Maybe someday I will not have to ride the bus. To me, the bus is hell. Someday, I will get a better job, and I will not have to live like this.

+ +

Brenda was released from yet one more hospitalization imposed upon her by her abusive husband, Rick. She lives in a cozy suburban neighborhood. She doesn’t drive. No, he husband Rick does all the driving and she’s “at home.” Rick keeps her there. And no one knows.

Do they have friends? That’s what they asked at the hospital. At the “hospital,” at the “family meeting.” Rick had answered for her. “Yes, we do.” Yes, they did have friends. His friends. In the cozy suburban neighborhood, “their” friends were his friends, not hers. She didn’t have one ally, not one person there she could trust.

Brenda knew one thing. Rick would have to go see his pusher on Thursday. She’d overheard him on the phone. She knew when he’d leave. She knew how long he’d be gone. This was how long she would have.

The day of her return from the “hospital,” she gave Rick a bunch of excuses for not unpacking her knapsack. As soon as Rick went to the bathroom to shave and admire himself in the mirror, she added a few “sharps” and other items not allowed in “hospital” captivity, personal items such as dental floss. How insane it was that a person would be deprived of such things.  She packed what could be carried.

In Brenda’s cozy suburb, the #4 bus passed by at just the right time, in fact, the #4 was the only one that served Brenda’s cozy suburb.  The driver didn’t know her. She smiled as if she were only running errands, trying to appear casual. At least she had exact change. Drivers like that.

The bus smelled like muddy footprints. This was freedom, since it wasn’t the hell of her kitchen appliances.

A dollar fifty? I know what I am doing. Sure I do. Act normal.

As she sat down, she tried to calm herself with a book. The bus stopped to pick up a mom with two kids and then, a homeless man. She wondered where he had been, about his life, and why he had ended up homeless.

Glancing at her watch, she knew when Rick would come home. She had not left a note. She didn’t want to know what he would think nor wonder how long it would take him to realize she was gone.

 

**

Dear nitpickers: It took me about 30 minutes to write this and I didn’t bother to proofread. I’m sure it’s riddled with errors galore. Please do not send me berating commentary telling me I suck as a writer due to grammar errors, verb tense errors, repetitiveness and all that I didn’t bother editing out. To do so is not priority as I have other writing to do today. I do this ENTIRELY FREE as a gift to you all because I feel like it.

This is why criticism against the quality of my blog writing (grammar errors, imperfect spelling, etc), which is generally NOT proofread but written “in the moment,” is baloney. If I were to go back and edit, I’d inevitably also meddle too much with my own personal history. People change. I do, don’t you? People are entitled to change their minds, making drastic lifestyle changes as we have seen in my characters Brenda and Diane.

Dear readers, Change Your Minds today. Pick up your bags and go. Take the bus. Or hate the bus. Turn that bad day around. If it’s hell right now, remember, write it all down or keep it in your memory stored away, because all this is going to make a great story (or joke) when it’s over.

 

 

What is ORTHOREXIA? Is it real?

What is Orthorexia?

You may or may not have heard of this. As you may have guessed, it’s another one of those “disorders” that appears to have popped up out of nowhere. I will explain what it really is in not-so-plain English for those of you who are wondering what my thoughts on this happen to be.

Please do your own Google search if you wish. But here’s the NEDA definition for those of you who might be wondering:

https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/orthorexia-nervosa

(Please note: NEDA claims to be THE authority on eating disorders. That is, this organization claims that only their information is valid and that you can trust NEDA and no one else. Note who funds them! Remuda Ranch and others…….So? How valid is NEDA as a source of information? Personally, I’d rather consult a variety of sources, and would recommend the same to anyone.)

First of all, Orthorexia isn’t some newfangled disease that has popped up out of nowhere in 1996. Nor is it a result of the diet fad media. Nor is it a result of people being fat nor a backfiring of Michelle Obama’s campaign to make us all think the definition of “health” is “diet and exercise and lose weight.”

As a matter of fact, orthorexia has always been around. It’s been around ever since we’ve had to eat. The word was invented in 1996, only the word. However, words have power. Do not underestimate the power of words. I’ll get back to this in a second.

Have we always been obsessed with food? Of course! It can indeed go too far, and it will. It’s no fun when it does. Is it a disorder? I, for one, would not call it that. Here’s why.

Food obsession, like any other obsession, can be bad or good, depending on how it plays out in a person’s life. A chef can make a living being obsessed with pleasing other people with the most exquisite food he can make. Some food-obsessed people are getting rich (even off of you and me) by inventing food gadgets or writing wonderful books about food. People open restaurants and bake bread.

On the other hand, I’ve seen people tortured by food obsession. I’ve seen people nearly die thinking they were “eating  healthy.” I’ve seen folks paralyzed by indecision that results from food fears. They cannot work, they ignore dirty laundry and can no longer leave their homes nor care for children and pets.

In truth, this type of obsession isn’t too common, but it does happen. I believe that the media is implying that it is more common than it really is.  I personally see this more often among folks that are isolated and elderly than among younger people, but I’ll bet it pops up on college campuses as well. It’s just that I don’t personally don’t know that many college students.

There are two concerns among those of us involved in Human Rights:

First of all, Orhorexia could be overdiagnosed.

Secondly, as soon as it becomes a diagnosis, it ends up a Proclamation from MD. “You have orthorexia.” This statement alone could be as dehumanizing as “You have schizophrenia” or “You have bipolar.” The implication of a person’s lesser worth and the implication of permanence, and being told this by an authority figure is likely to exponentially lengthen the person’s suffering.

Yes, orthorexia is very painful. For godsakes, I hope it’s never permanent, and to call it a diagnosis seals it as such. Imagine some 20 or 30 or 40 years later seeing that on your medical record!

Does a person require treatment for orthorexia? Just because a person is suffering (that person may not be, please ask!) does not mean “treatment by therapy and pills” is the best or only option. Ask!

On the other hand, a few people have told me, “I had orthorexia and no one even knew nor cared!” This saddens me since it sounds like no one even asked! For some, giving it a name makes it far more likely that these questions might come up in conversation or an evaluation. For those that were unheard, their concerns are now validated.

However, even with such validation, what’s out there for “treatment”? Same ole. Cookie cutter Those I have known with such obsessions (broader, obsessed with many other things as well) needed a completely different approach. Yet everyone gets shoved in together.

For those of you out there who are questioning if orthorexia is real, look around you or look into yourself for a minute. Have you ever watched the Dr. Oz show? Did you watch the whole show to the end? Did you ever buy an overpriced diet fad product? Did you ever follow a fad diet? Did you ever pay way, way too much for a diet product or join an expensive, overpriced fad diet gimmick club then….oooops……..Have you ever clicked on “lose ten pounds in a week” and then found your Inbox so full of spam you cursed for the next five years? Have you ever read a diet article and followed the diet or read a diet book and fallen for it? Or have you known someone who buys a product because it says “natural” on the package? Or do you know anyone who you know, in your heart, is a diet idiot and you just don’t have the heart to tell her? “Honey, yes, your butt looks fat in that, and you aren’t going to lose ten pounds by eating doughnuts and taking those pills from India for a month…..”

Psssst: I have. We all have. Admit it. Fess up.

If you answered yes to the above, and I assume you have, Orthorexia is just like that, only an extreme version of that Yes. Orthorexia is painful and paralyzing for anyone suffering from it.  Orthorexia is real, but it is very very rare. Don’t label, this is temporary. If we do not label it will remain temporary.  Care instead. Never push away a person who suffers. Ask why.

Most of us are indeed more obsessed than we need to be. Just eat. Eat what tastes good. Eat what you like and quit fussing. Quit complaining and quit bickering. If you need more, ask.  Share your leftovers, save for the doggie, too.  Life is just too short and it’s not worth the brain space. Use your brain space for brain stuff and get the laundry done.

Responses to remarks from Dr. Bill Cassidy (R-La) and Chris Murphy (D-Conn)…were either of them ever locked in mental wards?

“Our mental health system is broken. The Mental Health Reform Act of 2016 begins to fix it. We have all seen a promising life destroyed by untreated mental illness. Destroying not just the person, but also their family,”

–Dr. Bill Cassidy (R-La.)

“Our mental health system is broken.”

I have seen many promising lives destroyed by the Mental Health System.

Untreated mental illness, however any society defines it, if a society indeed recognizes such a concept as valid, may get worse, may stay the same, or may improve.  That I know of, this is a statistical fact that has been true since the beginning of time.

Who determines who is “ill” and who is not? Is psychiatry all that smart? Is the USA treating “illnesses” that aren’t illnesses, such as shyness, left-handedness, homosexuality, stage fright, fear of public speaking, fear of flying, seasickness, grief, pregnancy, carsickness, fear of having one’s blood drawn, normal childhood nightmares and bed-wetting, anti-vac activism, getting one’s period, or being 13 years old?

“Our mental health care system is failing those who need it most. Individuals struggling with mental illness may go years without receiving treatment, ultimately suffering in isolation, or being cast aside and abandoned by the very system they should be relying on. Too many Americans with serious mental illness slip through the cracks, and Congress must act to stop it,”

–Sen. Chris Murphy (D-Conn.).

Our mental health system fails anyone who walks into the doors of the System.  Many spend years healing from the harms done by the System itself. The isolation is caused not by illness, but by the System. We should have been relying on friends and family to begin with, but the Mental Health System isolated us from our real friends and family. We became strangers to them. We became drugged and we adopted a new language handed to us by clinicians that was not ours. Why should friends and family take these drugged, babbling, useless and wasteful monsters back?  The system made us into lepers.  We have slipped through the cracks because the System broke us, and now, society blames us further and demands more “treatment.”

More “treatment,” either treatment of those who are better off not receiving it, or wrong treatment (for instance, drugging a child instead of finding out who is stealing his lunch every day and seeing to it that this stops), is harming thousands of people each day.

It is true that many suffer psychological woes. We need to listen first, and if a person wants to change, help that person make the changes he or she truly wants. If a young person suffers, we need to help see to it that that kid’s dreams come true. Instead, the Mental Health System destroys more young people’s lifetime dreams than I have ever seen.

The more treatment is available, the more our society will demand mental health standards for humans. But who shall set these standards?  What god-like person shall determine our mental worthiness?

I wrote in a previous post about my childhood experience glancing through a book about dog breeds. To make a dog breed, many puppies were killed. We don’t even want to think about it when we see our happy purebred puppy, whether she is a Golden or a Beagle, licking our faces and only wanting love, but it’s true.

It goes beyond ear-clipping and tail docking. They really did kill many puppies to “perfect” the breeds. Or toss them out or get rid of those that didn’t fit in or make the grade. Is this what we want to do to humans, too?

I got news for anyone who doesn’t know where I am headed with this. We’re doing it already. We’ve been doing it for 100 years. We lock up those who don’t make the grade. We put them in mental hospitals and institutions. We drug them to “fix” what ain’t broken. We give them brainwashing therapy to “correct” what we don’t like, playing God and treading ground no humans should tread.

Brave new world. I hear many breeds have eye problems, such as Pugs, and among the Goldens, many are born with hip problems.

Do we want another Hitler to rise to power? We’re headed in that direction. Only this time, it’ll look nicer. It’ll happen right in your doctor’s office, and it’ll be covered by insurance. It’ll look so nice, that no one will even notice. Why? If everyday folks noticed or cared, they’d stop it.

“I warned you,” said Nature herself.