Here’s a copied-and-pasted bit from June 2013. To give you some background, Pearson coerced me to take Abilify, telling me I HAD to take meds. She insisted I was “manic” and that I HAD to take pills that would stop me from writing. She claimed my writing was a sign of psychosis. She claimed the human rights were trivial and that my blogging was a sign of “illness.” A symptom, she claimed. She also said that her hospital, or shall I say, “hospital,” was putting her up to this, MGH, telling her that they insisted on silencing me, of course because I wouldn’t stop outing what they had done.
So reluctantly, I tried the Abilify. Oddly, she claimed it would help the insomnia I had. I didn’t. It made it so bad I didn’t sleep at all for three nights straight. Also, the Abilify caused real mania. I was NOT manic to begin with, only tired. What now? Common sense told me to taper off the Abilify, but not really very slowly since really I had to get myself off of it ASAP and get back to some semblance of sleep.
And I quote….
“You are not crazy.”
Dang, I need to hear these words more often.
Folks, I will not shut up. This lady with the dog is here to stay.
Naw, they cannot drug me to keep me quiet.
The truth is that I am not psychotic like people think. My brain is starved, so I cannot tell a story properly and it comes out all jumbled and funny-sounding. But still, I tell a damn good story. Some look at me, shake their heads, and walk away and tell themselves I don’t make sense when I talk. Some think I speak in metaphor and dismiss me and just say, “Well, she’s a writer, they all talk like that.”
Some see the mania that was caused by the drug and they don’t see the person inside. They laugh at my jokes and think I should stay on this drug. But I have not slept in days. I explain that I cannot keep living like this or my body will deteriorate. But some like the me that tells jokes and puns and makes instant metaphor, and dislike the dark me, the me that speaks of death and cries sometimes.
I knew I had to come off the drug slowly, as slowly as I could, to avoid a crash. But I did crash. I awoke and decided I had to die that night. I don’t know what happened. Guess I fell asleep. I don’t remember. My body always wins over. I think should I truly succeed at this act someday, it will be the decision of my body not to interfere with my brain’s determination to cut my life short. It was around noon I decided I would reach out.
Several times, the people I was attempting to contact forgot about my existence. This of course should not happen and I am telling you, folks, life revolves around red tape. Why do I say this? Stuff like insurance can change the course of a life, and stuff like a number written wrong on a form can mean a payment not made, and a hassle that can change the course of a life. The wrong number called in, one wrong digit, can mean the EMT’s show up at the wrong apartment or home and that means delay. One wrong digit can mean the wrong medication is given. I have seen this happen. So that day, whatever day it was, red tape happened to me. The people handling my case forgot about me and it was up to me to phone them several times and say, “Hey, it’s me, Julie Greene and I exist in the world, and guess what? You might have a lot of patients who are cutting their hands off right now, and I might have this stupid vanity illness that seems very, very trivial to you, but I fucking matter and you know something? I’d like to inform you that people drop dead of this thing anorexia nervosa all the time.”
But I guess they forgot about me and kinda passed the buck or whatever…I felt like I wasn’t very important to them throughout the ordeal, that I had to keep calling them and reminding them that I exist. I never did get evaluated. I called the whole thing off, getting tired of feeling ignored.
The date of this is June 20, 2013, not long before my kidneys failed. Geez what a great FUCK YOU that was. I ask myself now…..Prior to all that, I sure got a very clear message, from my church, from various other institutions, that I didn’t matter, that I wasn’t wanted, that they sure didn’t care. I was shoved aside. Hung up on when I called. I tried and tried. Got nothing. I called and said I’d pay. Refused. Called Walden and begged. Called residential centers, local therapists, art therapy places, Called my friends. They didn’t answer. Tried three therapists, one called me an alcoholic. Well, I suppose I’m glad I’m glad I lived through it, but I ask now why after all I went through I didn’t even get an apology from the jerks that slammed their doors on me. No, they only turned away. Maybe out of sheer embarrassment.
Hey, I came back from the dead. Where the fuck were you when I needed you, eh?
That’s pretty much how it was. And folks pretty much had nothing to say.