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I’d like to share some recent photographs. The men in the photos are my neighbors with their pets. I took the photos for a project our tenants’ association is doing, and chose the best to show you all. In the other photos, Puzzle models the sweaters designed and knitted by Yours Truly. There is one more sweater I have to photograph but I haven’t gotten to it yet. Yours Truly also enjoys wearing a hat that matches Puzzle’s blue sweater.
CONSUMERS: AN OPINION
“Consumer” is a euphemism, and because of this, the user of the term is implying that our illness is of minimal importance; instead, our role in the economics of medicine is of more concern. But let’s face it: “Consumer” has nothing to do with mental health. It means Consumer Price Index or Consumer Reports. A consumer is protected by Ralph Nader, not the Hippocratic Oath. A consumer buys a car, a computer, carpeting, or coffee. Do we call cancer patients “consumers”? Certainly not. Consumers of what? CAT scans? Chemo? Who really does the buying here? The drug companies market to doctors, not to patients. For the most part, we have little choice regarding services; we use what’s covered on our insurance.
Okay, “consumer” implies one who discerns, makes decisions regarding acquiring something. A consumer needs or wants something and chooses what to buy, where to buy it, and by what means. A new TV. Gloves. Chocolate.
We don’t even get to choose insurance. We take whatever insurance we can get, from the workplace or from the state or federal governments. Most of us aren’t even insured. Very few patients choose their health care plan; it is decided for them, which means we are not consumers but recipients of health care plans and health care in general–and let’s face it: how many people afflicted with mental illness receive adequate care or any care at all? The inventor of the term “consumer” wanted to emphasize the pick-and-choose aspect of mental health care, implying that patients are discerning and proactive. But do we really need to be called “consumers” to prove this?
Truthfully, mental patients, as a subset of patients in general, are the least able to make choices about their care. The looming terms of “involuntary treatment,” “locked ward,” and “privileges” drive my point home here. Why should we cover up the fact that it is the lack of choices that defines us? Pink paper. Section 12. Restraints.
I don’t know if Patty Duke uses the term “consumer” to describe herself, but I do know she makes it no secret that she has bipolar disorder. Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill–“consumers”? You’ve got to be kidding. They also had bipolar disorder, both of them. And I wouldn’t be caught dead calling Michelangelo, Ernest Hemingway, or Anne Sexton “consumers.”
“Consumer” tells the world nothing about the pain I have endured and continue to feel. “Consumer” won’t tell you that when I first became mentally ill, I lost all of my friends because no one wanted to associate with a “mental patient.” A “consumer” might take medication, but a “mental patient” suffers the side effects of sunburn, dizziness, dry mouth, and constipation. “Consumers” drive prices up and down; “mental patients” live and die.
There was only one time that I was allowed to make a choice about my care. Due to the unreliability of Medicaid cabs, I had to stop seeing my therapist Dr. Barbara R, a fine psychologist who helped me immensely. I was given a choice: Dr. Elsa R, or another therapist whose name I forget. On Barbara’s recommendation, I chose Dr. Elsa R, one of the biggest treatment mistakes I’ve ever made. So much for choices and the good they do.
I choose to be called a mental patient, a person with a mental illness, a person with schizoaffective disorder, a person with an eating disorder. I have been hospitalized for a mental illness, I have been affected by mental illness, I have mental problems, I have a psychiatric disorder, I am mentally ill, I’m in therapy, I see a shrink. I choose to be called by all these terms because they are accurate and unsentimental.
The most important choice a person with a mental illness ever has to make is the choice to seek treatment, the choice to cooperate with treatment, and the choice to be willing to heal. The meaning of the term “consumer” doesn’t include this willingness. “Patient,” on the other hand, specifies a person who is a recipient of medical care. “Mental patient” is a person receiving mental health care. Not all mentally ill people are patients; many do not enter treatment, sadly. But people who recognize their illnesses generally are those in treatment or seeking treatment, those that should be proud to be mental patients, those proud enough to shove away the hands of those that pat our heads, beam with token pride, and call us their little “consumers.” God help us.
If I were to throw a party commemorating my induction into the fifties, you’d think I’d wash my hair first, right?
Somehow, I managed not to exhaust myself.
As QB’s birthday approaches, I am becoming very sad.
Lately, also, I’ve been having a hard time grieving for Joe. I miss him and it sucks that he’s not around.
My neighbor was “taken out” (our little expression here in the building which means transported by ambulance) to the hospital over the weekend and now he’s having an operation. I just found this out yesterday. He is the only neighbor of mine who is a friend as well.
Those are the only reasons I can think of for why I had trouble last night.
I’m not sure what happened because my perspective is skewed, but I remember noticing my mother seemed very confused and unfit to travel to Greece. She is leaving this coming weekend on an Elderhostel trip. She is 81 years old. Mazel tov. I called my brothers. Then I was the one confused.
I started getting messages from the radio, all kinds of messages, some originating from certain people and some just from radioland. The DJ’s or interviewers would say something and it meant something just for me, a special message that had meaning for me, or instructions. Sometimes I listened very carefully to the radio and other times I wanted to block the sound out of my ears but was still very fascinated so I didn’t shut the radio off.
Then the voices started. The voices were at first instructional. They told me “Meet me in an hour,” things like that that I could ignore. When I got near my living room desk where I keep my pills, they told me, “Feed Puzzle (my dog) your pills, one after the other!” Thinking quickly (or as fast as I could in that state) I put her in her crate and shut the bedroom door, where she would be safe from any pills. I told the voice to fuck off.
The most horrible thing that the voices do is to tease me and mimic me. When I think something, they say it out loud immediately after. Only they say something that’s deep in my mind. It’s very embarrassing, because although I know nobody but me can hear the voices, I feel deeply shamed hearing my own thoughts. Or I worry needlessly that the neighbors can hear my inner thoughts. I am so shamed in fact that it is torture. It is like being ripped apart, having my head split open for birds to feed upon.
My therapist called me (on my request) and we talked for a bit. She denied sending me evil messages. I took some extra Thorazine with my bedtime meds and some extra Abilify this morning. I do feel better. In fact I feel totally back to normal.
Time to feed the dog. She just reminded me.