What it is like for me to be losing my eyesight, and why I’m not upset over it

I’m probably losing my eyesight and I’m not upset over it.  The reason is that it is beyond hilarious. I shouldn’t be losing my eyesight at 59 and I am sure it was caused by psychiatric drugs. However, clearly I am not going to mention this to the eye doctor or he’ll say, “Hmm, well you need to go to a psychiatrist then. Why aren’t you on psychiatric drugs now?” And he’d insist that I make an appointment right then and there. Not only that, but the ole diagnosis would get right back on my records. Do I want that? No. So I don’t say a word. I shrug. And I haven’t been back to an ophthalmologist in ages and ages.

I laugh over any errors I make. I lose many things. If I drop it on the floor, it’s as good as “disappeared” until I find it again, weeks later. Gone. Or I use the “sweeping it up” method. I do not buy dark-colored things that easily get lost. Not that I like bright colors but these are the only colors I can locate anymore.

Please don’t be a sobbing jerk and say, “I’m sorry for your pain.” I’m not in pain, if you have been reading carefully, or reading at all. I’m having a blast, living my life. How about you? I don’t want “services” that remind me of my “mental patient” days. I don’t want a van. That would be so insulting. I don’t want nurses. I want to be left alone. I don’t want a dreaded “program.”

People develop skills like anyone else. People figure out workarounds or substitutes. People make do. I can, too. Leave me alone to figure it out. I can, and you can, too. Don’t shove your “help” at me anymore. If I really wanted “help” I’d have asked for it ages ago.

So today I looked and looked for my clear “Magic” tape and realized I’ve lost two rolls of it. One that was on my desk and the other (in a bright green case) in the kitchen seems to be gone. I pawed around for it. That’s what I do. I feel around with my hands when my eyes fail me. That, too, didn’t work. So I used masking tape instead, and told myself I will purchase five or six rolls of clear tape and place them around my apartment from now on so this won’t happen again.

I write stuff with Sharpie markers, since now, I can’t see what I write in regular pen. I have a collection of Sharpies since if I only owned one, I’d lose that one Sharpie. I have Sharpies all over the house. How are you “coping”?

They didn’t teach us this in group. They taught us the opposite. They trained us to be dependent and needy. They taught us to fall apart and then, call the therapist and go running to the hospital on the weekend. Please tell me to fall apart and dial an 800 number for “services” that will make me helpless. I do not want that. I have learned.

When you read the media, read critically…..

Here is something I received in my email. I didn’t know what was but I opened it. I’d like to quote a sentence here to illustrate flawed logic.

“Modern philosophy views gender as an irrelevant fact of biology, as unimportant and changeable as the color of your hair!”

Here the narrator is making an analogy, or perhaps comparison, and trying to get us to buy into this analogy. However, the logic is flawed. Can you see just how? First of all, the word, “Philosophy” is used incorrectly, right? Probably a more appropriate word would be “society,” or, “media,” or, “many people these days,” or, as is typical, “liberals,” etc.

“Irrelevant fact of biology” also sounds kinda contradictory to me.

Let’s get to the analogy that doesn’t work here. Changing hair color, that I know of, is nothing like what people go through when they change from male to female or from female to male. Either takes years.They are both costly and extremely exhausting and taxing on the body so it’s a huge decision. You discuss this with your family and if you have one, a partner and your kids and you have to see a doctor. This would affect your employment, your housing, your entire life. Hair color most likely won’t. Unless you are a hair stylist.

Therefore the logic is flawed. Email deleted.

Okay, okay, if I ever ever turn gray, that will be a big deal and it looks like it ain’t gonna happen any day soon now. I’m stuck with brown. Shall we pray over it? Maybe I’ll grow a few inches taller first, but really, I’m a short person in a short person’s body so being tall might not be so great. It could really be creepy peeking down from up there.

See you all later.

How to put any of my FREE pdf documents onto a Kindle (or Nook) device for your convenience

I’m posting this post as a post, then moving it over to the PAGES section so it’ll “stick” so you can find it later.

You can copy any of the .pdf documents you find here and put them into a Kindle or Nook and then, read them on that device. I suppose also on a cell or in any e-reader you want, or a Kindle Fire, which is a type of tablet. These are convenient in my opinion for reading on a bus or in low lighting conditions, or on a long airplane trip. Some Kindles are nice to read in bed due to their light weight. Some have a backlight. Also, they have a great page-turn feature. Usually, .pdf’s can adjust to your liking if you are a little bit tech-savvy.

From what I know, these devices will go into “USB” mode as soon as you connect them to your computer. You do not need a driver so long as you aren’t using Windows 98 (please tell me you aren’t). So connect your device to your computer. A window will open. That’s your Kindle window. Click on “download” in your browser. You will be asked where to download to. Now, download my .pdf file into your “documents” folder within the Kindle folder.

Properly detach your kindle from the computer. Many people are uncertain how to do this. If in doubt, just shut down your computer entirely and then, detach your kindle once the power line closes down. You are finished.

Chester Bennington…I wanna know…

They say it was “depression.” I wanna know was it so-called “depression.” Or was it Treatment for depression? Was it lifelong therapy and pills and identifying as depressed and hopeless? Was it the death of his friend that caused him to further identify as depressed? Drinking and drugging sure makes a person more depressed, too. It mixes badly with psych drugs. I don’t recommend it, never mind the life of a rock star most likely is exhausting.

It’s a one-way street, folks. Walk into the diagnosis, you won’t walk out until you stop believing it’s an actual disease. The United Nations says it is NOT a disease, by the way.As of a proclamation it made this year.

Live your life.

What’s in your toolbox? kindly note sarcasm here.

What is in your toolbox? I can tell you what is in mine! A calculator. A real one, not a cell phone one.

Sharpies. Lots. A few extras to replace the ones I lose.

Masking tape. I just got some.

A broom. A dustpan. Not the crap kind. A good one and a brush to go with it.

A window squeegee to clean out the shower. No, not an expensive gizmo I saw on TV. Those didn’t exist when our parents had hair, and they didn’t have drain clogs, so I think I can live without expensive stuff, too.

Cheap solvents. Lemon juice, peroxide, baking soda and the like. Ethyl alcohol. Cans of sterno fuel, which I’ve decided are okay after all.

A pocket knife. Candles. A barbecue lighter. Two.

A ruler and a tape measure and a bathroom scale.

A basic sewing kit. Very basic.

Soap. Soap to wash with, Laundry and the like.

Pens. If I lose them, I replace them.

Shoes. Only enough so that if one pair gets wet I have another to change into. No extras, nothing fancy. I give away any clothes I don’t wear anymore to charity.

Oh, never mind my glasses, but I replace them if I need to. If they ever break I fix my glasses myself with a mini screwdriver. I figured out how to write my own prescription in a pinch. If I ever have to. Remember that calculator?

This covers pretty much anything you’ll EVER need to cope with life. This ends coping skills group forever. You are free to leave. You are now equipped to deal with anything life throws at you. Please leave out those locked, one-way doors of deception and don’t ever come back.

2013, revisited

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.

Facebook and human response

After I was abused in a hospital, I was treated very very badly on Facebook. This was in a couple of social circles. I have already taken action and gone to the leadership in one of these social circles where it occurred. I know that one person was behind it. I know already that this person, for his own personal reasons (that didn’t have much do with me), disliked me and told other people to cease all association with me, that I had “bad karma,” etc. That I was a danger to the group. My complaint went nowhere.

In the other social circle my credibility was harmed. I was called delusional and psychotic. I suspect that notion is kinda fading away now. This was institutionally done by the Boston folks that harmed me, to protect themselves because of course no one likes to say they’re sorry. Of course there’s no grounds for their claims. Do I act nuts? Do I say Martians are coming down in a spaceship and have landed in my yard? More and more are realizing the truth these days.

I am looking back on the years 2012 and 2013 when i was rejected over and over on Facebook and realizing when you are treated THAT badly, it makes sense that you’re gonna feel bad. And in fact, that’s not even a mental disorder. IT’S HUMAN NATURE. Here’s the study that shows just what happens when humans are treated like crap on Facebook.

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2014/05/140508095456.htm

I have a little solution to Facebook rejection. It will help self-esteem and actually fix up the ole reputation. It will probably make you look nicer to an employer in case of a “Facebook check.” Not that you should make stuff public…..And no, I am not talking about “positivism.” Yuck.

They say you should have a profile to look “real” these days. Otherwise you’re suspect. You can’t win these days no matter what you do, it seems……..

Common sense, incarceration, and the penal system

Fact: The number of people who are locked up who are black get longer sentences no matter what crime is committed. The sentence is not chosen by the jury, but by the judge, by the way.

This is not some opinion of mine. It’s not a symptom of some “mental illness” they claimed I had. This is a well-known fact, and you can even look this one up in each state’s statistics. All this leads to larger numbers of black males locked up in our penal system.

Many people are locked up who did not commit crimes. Some are awaiting trial for a long time and during that time cannot afford bail. So they spend this time incarcerated, assumed to be criminals. Whether or not they are acquitted, imagine how being in a jail while awaiting trial affects their lives.

This can happen to anyone. Your car might look like that car. Or you might be the same height or wearing the same jacket. Or you were in that store that night. Or have a similar name.

You were on your way to class and then the next thing you knew you were in a jail cell and no one in your family had the money to get you out. You were there for a whole month. Nothing.

Two days after they took you, you asked for at least you clothes back. They wouldn’t give them to you. You got food, though. Sort of. The next day a guy, god knows who, fondled you, the rest, well, you were told not to talk.

Your lawyer didn’t show up. You asked for a phone and a guy came in saying in a hour. No phone. Nothing.

Your lawyer was supposed to show up Thursday and didn’t.

“Well, Honey, you were there, see, it must have been you. It looked like you. Fair is fair. You’re looking at at least five years.”

Yes it is that bad. Don’t tell me it isn’t.

While the rest of us go about our lives and claim it doesn’t happen. While we claim slavery was abolished around 150 years ago. While we claim blacks and women have this thing called “equal rights.” While we claim we live in the land of “opportunity” that actually doesn’t exist for those that can’t afford it.

I ask why we choose to turn our backs. I also ask why we choose to slam the door shut on our neighbors in the name of “boundary-setting,” a closely-related concept that needs to be chucked. I ask why we deny common sense and basic human dignity, and continue to lock up human beings. Meanwhile, we obsessively buy cage-free eggs and call ourselves “civil.”

How can incarceration be called “justice”? How is Justice at all “served” by putting people behind bars? Our penal system dis-serves any concept of Justice ever thought of, disgraces the very idea of what it means to be human.

 

What they assumed and what in fact was happening

They assumed, a few years back, say, back five years ago or so, that I was “constantly in crisis.” I have to laugh now, looking back.

Yes, it appeared that I was always in crisis. However, WHO CAUSED THE CRISES? They did. They caused them, they instigated them, they provoked every single crisis.

They even claimed I was “addicted to crisis.” I sit here laughing my butt off now. THEY were addicted to crisis. They loved it when I ended up in the ER, since this satiated their need for crisis. This was THEIR fix, and every time I called 911, or they called the cops on me, this fulfilled their need for an utter panic and their need to be the Savior of the moment. They were so hooked on using me as their little pawn.

Only you can get out of this situation, if you’re trapped in it. Only you can end THEIR crisis addiction. They cause it, but YOU stop it. End THEIR addiction. Don’t feed into it. Don’t keep playing that role of patient. How?

You are only an actor. You are acting that role. You took on that role as hiree. You’re actually getting paid. Did you know that? You really benefit. If you weren’t benefiting in some way, you’d have quit a while back. I really believe this.

“I am STAYING sick because_____”

You are staying sick for the benefits, benefits far beyond that obvious monthly check, and that’s just pennies as we know. No, there are more.

The pats on the back. The little excuses you can make. You don’t have to work, work in the sense of DOING ANYTHING. You don’t have to think for yourself.

I repeat, can I say this one louder…YOU DON’T HAVE TO THINK FOR YOURSELF.

You were excused all those years.

You have the capability, and always were capable of thinking for yourself and there was never anything wrong with your ability to make decisions, but you gave that up years ago.

Take it back. Do it.

When you do, it’ll be scary at first, but that’s how you get well. That’s how you break free from being a patient. That’s how you quit the acting job. Tell them you won’t do it anymore. You aren’t a patient. You are you. You are going to make your own decisions from now on.

This is why I don’t have any crises anymore. I am not emotionally “all over the place.” I realize my therapists sure were “all over the place.” My therapists “couldn’t handle their emotions” and for the most part used their patients to act out. They used their patients any time they had their own personal crises.

Don’t fall for their crap. Get rid of the whole shebang. I have a decent, enjoyable life now and I didn’t do it by seeing therapists or getting “help.” End the patient addiction. YOU CAN!

Me a decade ago, me now

Maybe a half hour after I woke up this morning I suddenly felt nauseous. Had it been a decade ago, I would have panicked, pressed the metaphorical panic button, and then, gone running to the phone and dialed my doctor’s number. I had this number memorized, or, perhaps, had it in my “speed dial.”

Now ten years ago I would have sat there, completely helpless, while the dutiful Answering Service picked up (it’s Sunday morning, folks) and I said, in a hushed panic, “Can you have Dr. ___ call me, please….” and the cross lady would have asked for my name and number.

Oh, poor me…..

So I would have recited it back to her. Twice. You can’t fully trust these folks. You still can’t, even in the Real World. Plus I suspect they appreciate it, from anyone, because they are trying to do their job. For godsakes a real emergency might call in at some point!

So, Poor Me, ten years ago…. What is it? An ulcer? Oh dear. I am sooo nauseous. Because I rely on the doctor, I am in a panic and cannot think for myself. Because I rely on the doctor for answers, I can’t EVER decide for myself nor take action nor solve my own dilemmas nor empower myself. Because I rely so heavily on the doctor, I feel weak and I let her run my life. Because I rely on the doctor, I don’t know who I am anymore. I have become a slave to her, my name isn’t my name, it is Patient.

What really happened this morning? You’re probably wondering….

It is 2017. I felt nauseous momentarily. I wondered what I should do. I thought quickly. Do I eat something? Or lie down? I grabbed some coconut flour, added some water, and very very slowly spooned that into my  mouth. In a few seconds I was fine. I was no longer nauseous. Then I took a shower and went on with my day. I would have forgotten all about it except I decided to write this to illustrate the absurdity I used to live with.

YOU CAN get away from medical slavery. It takes a huge shift. It takes far more than getting off drugs. It takes undoing the brainwashing that they have put into you. That takes a lot of effort but it’s indeed possible and if you can muster up that shift YOU ARE FREE. Such freedom from medical slavery means you get better from all sorts of ailments. Including morning sickness by the way. As it turns out, I’m not pregnant after all. Gee. Well heck I’m 59.

Good morning and have a great day.