You can talk all you want about drug harm, but that’s the easy part…..

As far as I am concerned, it’s too easy to blame the pills. I’m sick of hearing it. I’m sick if hearing shifted blame on chemicals alone. I am not trying to dismiss drug  harm, but we cannot ignore the harm caused when we incarcerate people who haven’t even committed crimes! Locking people up for “future dangerousness” and then, calling it “care” is not only a human rights abuse, it’s outright FRAUD.

So we stop the drugs. Get rid of them.  Then what? Keep on locking people up and calling them diseases? The harms will only continue. I doubt much will even change.

What needs to change is far greater than a handful of poison pills.


Now and then I consider stopping blogging due to ever-lowering readership. People do not like text-only blogs. They like cutesie “memes.” They like “pics.” I rarely post such stuff unless I have a decent photo of Puzzle to share. They like uplifting posts even if they are full of lies about how great life is. Or even boring stuff about television, celebrities, or the latest expensive fad product on the market. I do not blog about these things, so people I suppose that is why folks don’t bother anymore.

I have lost many friends, especially over the hospital abuse. They refuse to believe it really happened. They continue to default to the hospital’s side when clearly, the hospital was in the wrong. I’ve tried sending informational links about diabetes inspidus and how it’s dangerous to deprive a person with DI of water, how you can really kill that person, but they refuse to admit how serious it all was. Frankly, they are either naive to defend the hospital, or too stubborn to admit they were just plain wrong and totally cruel to accuse me of “water addiction.” They continue to claim I’m psychotic and that the whole thing never happened.

I believe this is because some people find saying “I’m sorry” incredibly difficult. It’s a lot easier to just say nothing and continue the false belief that the one you harmed (or those accusing you, which might be the same) is “crazy” instead. This staunch refusal to admit fault, this outright denial, which is painful, I must say, is a psychosis in itself. I believe murderers go through it, too. “I didn’t do it.” But they did.

I truly believe that when my minister sent the police to my home on the completely unfounded accusation that I was planning to murder him and possibly murder his family also, was a psychosis on his part. There was no evidence, no actual material evidence that I was planning anything of the sort. I had not threatened, nor did I have any weapons nor plans. In the past I had noticed his overly exaggerated fears of me. I wondered why he was so fearful.

Phobias are a psychosis. Say you are afraid of spiders. This is an unrealistic fear because it isn’t a fear based on a bad experience with a spider. Did a spider hit you or threaten you? Did a spider, or several, come to your home and beat you up? Did several spiders tie you to a bed, yell at you, inect you with Haldol, and leave you there to die? If so, you’d have darned good reason to fear spiders. If you’ve never even been bitten by one nor had a bad experience with spiders, then your fear is unfounded, but I’m not saying the fear isn’t real. it’s a metaphorical fear. You’re afraid of the idea of spiders. That’s what makes it a phobia, and also, a psychosis, in my opinion, but that’s just a word.

My minister, Mark, had an unfounded fear of me. He was afraid of me but I had never threatened him nor hurt him. He showed fear in his eyes upon seeing me and showed fear when I approached him. I was baffled by this but didn’t know what to do. One time (I can probably find this in my blog, as I recorded it) I showed up in his office with a handbag, a red bag with a letter I’d received in the mail inside the bag. i told him I had something to show him that I had inside the bag.

Wow, was he scared. I could see this. He wanted me to show him but not while we were alone in the room. I asked myself why and then, I realized he was phobic of me, in a psychotic sort of way. He actually believed I had a gun or knife in my red bag! No, I had a letter I had received that I wanted him to see. A piece of paper with words on it. I’m a writer, not a violent person, I wanted to say, but I withheld that thought.

This man was far “crazier” than I was to think that I had any violent intent. However, he had clout in the community and I was a known diagnosee. He had the power to send the cops and too accuse me of “planning murder” on january 10, 2014. I had no such intention at all. He was wrong. His actions, and the actions of the two church members who  went along with this stupid more to terrorize me, were following his orders which were based in unfounded psychotic fear of me.

Why me? Well, I have my ideas. Mark had his neuroses about weight, as do many people. Many people fixate on anorexics and place blame on us simply because we’re skinny. They finger-point out of jealousy. They know we struggle so they blame us for their own weight struggles. I truly believe Mark’s weight struggle went very deep. I suspect deeper than he wanted to admit. Had we had a different relationship instead of his fearing me and always taking the better-than-thou upper hand, maybe I could have helped him. Instead, he loathed me even worse, talking down about me behind my back, and never truly took me seriously nor believed me. He fixated on me because he needed to hate someone. Then, when things didn’t go quite right, he tried to have me put away on January 10th 2014 by sending the cops. What was that supposed to do? Get me incarcerated one more time? It didn’t work!

I’ve spoken with two state legislators about what happened, and also with a couple of lawyers. That little incident is a big part of what led me to leave Watertown for good. I couldn’t stay any longer knowing I was hated and feared so much.

My exfriends, likewise. They, too, developed a similar, exaggerated, psychotic fear of me. Lord knows why such a thing happens. “Lock your doors,” they were saying. Like I was going to come across state lines, thousands of miles away, and shoot them. I hope those of you who know me well are laughing your butts off right now at how unrealistic this is. I own no weapons, don’t know how to shoot one, don’t want one, and don’t have the capacity to travel at the speed of light to go on a shooting spree, nor want to. Yet I suppose their metaphorical fears became quite bothersome to them.

Maybe those paranoid enough needed a nice rest somewhere in the nuthouses they deemed only worthy of those they hate, or hated in the past. Those they considered “sick.” Those they saw as needing “treatment” and those they objectified and harmed in some way. Those they blamed. Those they pointed the finger at. The paranoiacs made their beds to lie in. The accusations were false all along.  They can all go have a nice rest now.


The most offensive question you can possibly ask a writer

If you have not been in touch for a while, please do not ask the following question:

Are you still writing?

That, to me, is an offensive question. If you had stayed in touch, if you had stuck around like a decent friend would have done, you would not need to be asking that question. It is so offensive that I hope you burn in fucking hell.

And are you still writing? If you are going to offend me, then can I offend you? I will ask you this at your upcoming reading.  Oh sure, you may be standing there with piles of your published book and all the glitter and glitz, and all the speaking engagements lined up, and all the book sales, and I will come up to you, little ole me dressed in my meager outfit, standing in line to get a signed copy while all the others are just dying to get your author’s signature. Oh, me too me too. Do you remember me from college? Congratulations. Then I will ask that one question:

Are you still writing?

Okay, anyone out there who has been asking me such an offensive question, do you get the point, assholes? Do you realize how much it hurts every time you ask me? Yes I am writing, I probably write more than you do, and sell far less, only you are too busy being famous to have noticed.

In my news inbox today…Prospective juror gets jeered at because she has not kept up with the news about the New England Patriots.

This is New England-related news. I cannot believe that the murderer, a former New England Patriots player, and anyone in the courtroom, would laugh at a woman simply because she had not kept up with the local news about a former New England Patriots player. Big Fucking Deal. First of all, maybe she’s a chemist and cares more about chemistry than she cares about what celebrities are up to. Maybe she is a whiz kid, busy in her lab discovering formulas that you and I can barely conceive of. Maybe she is an attorney working on a case in New Hampshire, working passionately on a civil rights case, a case of employee discrimination where five employees were wrongfully fired because of racial bias. She is busy researching for the upcoming hearing where she must present the case, and she does not have the time nor the inclination to follow the New England Patriots.

How dare they laugh at her! So what! I personally do not own a TV and I don’t think that the fact that she has not kept up with every single detail of the boring, mundane news is a reason to laugh at her.

I don’t know who the heck the vice president is, and I don’t think that’s a mental disorder! The fact that I do not own a TV, nor watch TV simply means I am too smart to need one babbling away in the background of my daily life. Please do not interfere! Genius at work!

On the other hand, maybe the lady simply wanted to get out of jury duty. That was one helluva way to do it, though.


We are all hypocrites, in fact, the aim is not to stop hypocrisy, but admit we do it, and to do it with good humor and understanding

All humans are hypocrites. Hypocrisy is built in to human nature. Children aren’t hypocrites, but this pattern shows itself as we begin to become adults. This is not something to avoid as if it’s a cold you do not want to catch, or a bee to avoid because a sting will hurt. If you start to notice it in yourself, it’s a good thing. You are growing up, and that’s inevitable, painful, wonderful, and sad.

We become hypocrites because we are social beings. We wear necessary masks. These are needed just to get by. Some call the mask the persona. What mask do you wear?

In the nuthouse, the persona question was answered for us. You are bipolar. You are depressed. You are chronically suicidal. So we never had to ask what persona we were this time as it was handed to us. Our role. That costume.

Did you go to work today? What were you there? How many times did you say Please and Thanks today? These are masks we wear, personas, total fakes. How are faking today? Did you get paid your weekly paycheck for faking good?

We need to admit this, at least. We all lie so well. We are great actors on this wonderful stage. Who am I this time and what costume shall I wear?

Next time we throw a costume party, please invite me and Puzzle!

good night!

I no longer support other bloggers who do not appreciate nor acknowledge my support

I can no longer support other bloggers nor fellow writers and artists who don’t even thank me for my support. I cannot be a “groupie” any longer and I do not enjoy it. I might follow someone if I enjoy their posts but I won’t “share” them unless I have a particular comment, that is, agree or disagree or elaborate on what they have said. And nothing else, really. If my “congratulations” is brushed aside and not even appreciated, if my “this post is great” isn’t even acknowledged (or worse, my comment is held in moderation and then, discarded) then I seriously question why I am making an effort. I do not want to make too much of an effort in proportion to the lack of appreciation of said effort.

By all means, giving and expecting nothing in return is a good thing! Of course! However, there are plenty of UNDERAPPRECIATED blogs and bloggers out there. YOU need to find these blogs, too. Why follow those who have plenty of followers already and do not even give one FUCK if you follow them or unfollow them? To these popular bloggers who have not yet even answered your emails, (maybe they care so little that they send a bounceback….) THEY DO NOT GIVE A SHIT. So why make an effort any longer? Why care? Why try and try and try to be loved when they aren’t going to love you? They got hundreds caring about them. (Look what happens as soon as they post a YouTube.) Go find someone that only has a few followers and see what happens when you tell them, “Hey, I liked this.” Not only will you be very much appreciated, but you might make a new friend as soon as you do so.

Ahem…I guess that pretty much sums it up. Underappreciated. Only I am not supposed to be the one using that word to describe myself. Not me, and not now. Someone is supposed to use that word at my eulogy, should there ever be one. Only I do not want that to happen. Because truthfully, I don’t want it to get that far. I don’t want to be FINALLY appreciated after it’s fucking too late. And I have been saying this for years now, wishing I didn’t even have to say it.

I wish I didn’t see the obvious, that if I were dead someone might suddenly say, “Oh, we should have noticed….” Which gets me into a writer’s conundrum. Do I die to get the word out, or do I stay alive and fucking unnoticed, screaming to be heard. “Hey, please hear me out!” It’s sad, and staring me in the face that death is going to get me the biggest audience I’ve ever had. I’ve known this for a year or two, known that I could die and then, have all the Freedom of Speech I wanted! “Oh, she was right all along!” which the fuckers won’t say to my face while I am alive. But I did not go that route. Somehow I believed, probably incorrectly, that I could have both, life and that loving audience that believed my story and actually upheld it as truth (the way 99% of people’s stories tend to be upheld as truthful).

But there is no career, no one out there. I am talking to an empty cyberspace.

It’s a lie that that’s what death is like, that you speak only inside a cold coffin where no one hears. That couldn’t possibly be true. You live on. Obviously the music of Bach and Beethoven lives on. In fact, when I got to music school I was told that the ONLY music that mattered was the music of dead white guys. I was told that their music mattered and mine did not. Get lost, kid.

I’ve been busy getting lost all my life. I’ll keep getting lost and I’ve gotten good at making myself scarce, just to keep the joke going. I hope the Dead White Guys enjoy my sense of humor someday, if it works like that.  How is it even possible that the ultimate disappearance ends up illuminating one’s words, strengthening the pen, putting the sale of one’s art on autopilot? I won’t have to sell anymore. And that, to me, will be a huge relief.

Lahey clinic corruption

Here is the article, which I am not sure all of you can view:

This is from the Boston Globe, which limits reader access to articles. If you want to read more, try reading from a different device or try from public library (if you have one locally) or a college or school library, or your workplace when your boss isn’t looking. I would not pay the Globe a cent.

My mom went to Lahey and actually trusted them. Sorta. I heard Lahey was either expanding or being bought out. As per usual. As you can see, many of these hospital corporations are corrupt as can be. This is the NORM, not some exception, the TIP OF THE ICEBERG called corporate corruption that is rife in these medical institutions.

What the article does not tell you is who is harmed by this corruption. It did tell you who got the big house. But who is harmed? Patients. Patients, their families, and taxpayers who pay huge sums of money


But you really shouldn’t. Let’s face it, most taxpayers have no clue how this Medicare money is being wasted, using the elderly, poor, and disadvantaged as disposable pawns.

The Secret they never tell you in MFA Creative Writing School

They tell creative writers that there are two parts of writing: The writing part, and the publishing part. Creative writing schools mostly focus on the writing part. Business schools might teach a “How to run a publishing business” class or some such thing. Or teach people how to make good money as publishers. The skill called “proofreading” isn’t a creative writing skill and is usually taught in undergrad or taught as a journalism class. This is not a creative skill, but pretty much busywork, but it pays good money if you have a good eye for detail and don’t mind doing busywork. (You also need good eyesight to do it, such as being easily able to spot a double period or easily able to see the difference between a comma and a period, or see an accented i instead of a dotted i, which frankly, isn’t very easy for me these days.)

There’s one thing they don’t even bother to tell writing students. There’s a third part of writing! Yep, a third part they leave out of the writing classes. Selling. After you write, after you publish, you gotta sell. Selling sucks bad. The success, or failure of your writing doesn’t depend jack shit on the quality at all, but how well you sell it.  You can go through writing school, get to be a decent writer, have loads of talent, but if you can’t sell, or you hate to sell, or you particularly suck at it, you’re out of luck.

I know an awful lot of extremely talented writers who weren’t told this bit and ended up with books and books and books in their basements collecting dust because they were not informed about the sales part. I don’t want to be a salesperson, nor have the money to hire one, so I am starting to resent that I wasn’t told this in the first place.

Not that I didn’t try

There is no career out there, no great wonderful job waiting for me, no great reward, no great person saying, “Hey, all those years were worth it,” no person saying, “We appreciate you so here’s your applause.” It isn’t happening now, so it sure ain’t happening anytime in the future. I need to quit fooling myself. Now.

Why? Not because I don’t work my fucking butt off, because I do. Because I work damn hard every single day, for nothing, and apparently, very few out there even know I do this anymore.

If you bake a cake, the best cake in the world, but no one comes, and no one is there to share it with, then I got news for you. You do not have a bakery. You may have a cake. But you do not have a bakery. You have a failed bakery, because even though you worked very hard, your buddies let you down. They didn’t appreciate your hard work. Or perhaps what you have is a bakery that still has not been appreciated. But that cake is going to go stale fast. So you’d better get hopping.

That’s what I got. I worked my butt off. For what? Where the hell are my buddies now? This ain’t no bakery without buddies. It’s just cake. Dead cake. In fact, it died a while back and no one even noticed. Because you didn’t care.

I’m so tired of failed projects that I work my butt off for an no one even gives a shit. I’m so tired of wishing and hoping but not getting anything off the ground due to lack of support. Go to hell, assholes. Go to fucking hell.

Ratio of decent psychotherapists and decent psychiatrists out there…

Can we take a vote on this one? How many uneducated fuckers STILL think psychotherapists are about 50/50, and STILL think all psychiatrists are assholes? If you believe that, you are so, so naive.

First of all, psychology and psychiatry are now arm in arm. They claim to be different, but no, they’re not. This is only because psychologists want to divorce themselves from psychiatry out of embarrassment but STILL want to keep their fucking money and more importantly, their POWER. This is seriously concerning, don’t you think? Please do not remind me of the impoverished psychology interns out there, pretty please??? Ah, those lone exceptions I’ve now…ahem…insulted…..

I’d say finding a decent therapist is a crapshoot. I’ve talked to a few, recently, not clinically, but about the topic of human rights. I can tell you that they are, first of all, not too bright. I can tell you that overall the patients they treat are smarter and have far more insight. Yet the treator population still acts like haughty know-it-alls and still acts like patients are inferior. Please never see a therapist like this. I don’t think they’re at all competent if they act that way behind the scenes.

Oh, they’ll act all nice when you first meet them, and that makes them ten times more dangerous. Watch out for the nice ones because they sting a hundred times worse in the end. I think this is because their niceness makes you actually believe in them. Like they’re fucking “exceptions.” Please do not. Don’t fall for it.

If, by chance, you do, you will hit hard. Worse, the nicer they are. The higher your hopes, the worse you will fall. The more they promise, the worse you will crash when you find out it is all complete bullshit.

So let’s look at that ratio. At least when you walk into a psychiatrist’s office, you pretty much know you’re dealing with an asshole right away. If by chance the psych isn’t one, you’ll know that, too. They tend to let you know in those brief ten minutes because they’re paid to act like asses anyway.

“Okay, so I see you’re bipolar mixed with delusional features…” You know he’s an asshole.

“Okay, so I see we need to hospitalize you since you wife says….” You know he’s an asshole.

“Who the hell put you on this cocktail?” I’d say give the dude a chance, since clearly he dares to question the last doc. A brave move. They rarely speak for themselves, more likely defer to the previous doc….forever.


You want my opinion? It’s a crapshoot, but I’d say your chances of finding a decent psychiatrist are about the same as finding a decent therapist. After all, we need psychiatrists to help people get off these drugs, so I think we need to keep them around. We need them, also, to help deflect the “broken brain” theory and send people to the right specialists, such as thyroid specialists or to herbalists or to sleep specialists or to nutritionists, instead of saying, “Your brain is broken.” We need psychiatrists a whole lot more than we need people going to therapy to fix their feelings, when it very well might be their food (or lack thereof) or something in the air they breathe or the water quality! Yes we do need psychiatrists, but not ones that do brain shit. We need ones that say, “Hey, get a water filter and that might help your kid study better,” or, “Maybe get rid of your TV and I’ll bet that will stop your headaches and lower your electric bill, too.”

That will be five cents, please.