Monday morning on the can

I got up.  Thoughts, questions started running through my mind.  I have already e-mailed my minister and asked to speak to him.  I know he has this important event to attend today and the chances of his being in his office today at the church are next to nil.  But I will phone the church later and see.

My DMH person is coming at 9.  If she shows, that is, and doesn’t call me saying she’s sick.  There’s kind of a 50/50 chance of that happening, cuz like I said, the DMH folks ain’t the most reliable around, even though I’ve got the best one of the bunch supposedly.  What the heck am I going to say to her?

I can be all pissy and mad, tell her how much life sucks, and get all complainicky.  I can bitch and moan, and actually, that would be quite boring to her I think, or to anyone.  I don’t want to be repetitive and drive her crazy, do I?  I’d drive myself crazy talking in circles like that.  I’ve done it in the past and I don’t want to do it again.

Of course life sucks.  She doesn’t need me telling her that.  No one needs my little reminders right now.

So what do I say?  I’ve eliminated the bitchy and moany persona.  I’m not going to sit here and cry the whole time she’s here.  It truly does not feel all that good to “let it all out” to her or to anyone, ever.  Cuz I’m never really open about stuff.  It’s not like there’s any human on the planet that knows half the crap that goes on in my life.  Not you guys, not anyone.  What the world sees is a sliver of the pie.

So another possibility, one I’m not going to do: Fake her out.  Tell her everything’s fine, tell her a bunch of lies, and send her along her way.   Although, about an hour ago, while sitting on the can, I did toy with the possibility that maybe this would be a decent idea.

Why?  She doesn’t have the power to “section,” but you don’t tell someone, anyone, that you plan to kill yourself real soon and expect not to get coerced into some kind of “more supervised form of care.”  Now, you guys know that kind of situation would royally suck for me, and I’ve gone over this in my mind, of course, that it’s something I desperately need to avoid.  That type of situation, namely, getting policed, is only going to make me worse.  A lot worse.

Which brings me to a royal Catch-22.  Or so I was thinking as I sat on the can a bit ago.

I sat and let out some piss and shit.

And then it suddenly dawned on me that maybe I am suffering from depression.  Not to add another dx to the mix, but just sayin’, that might be why I want to kill myself.  Maybe it’s not “logic” after all.

Maybe there are a lot of people out there who think it’s “logical” to kill themselves, but they are really suffering from depression.  Is this some weird form of depression that I haven’t known about all this time?

You know, for I guess not quite a year now, I thought killing myself was the “logical” choice.  I have believed this 100%.  I thought my situation was such that suicide was the best answer.  Was this thought process some weird manifestation of illness, of twisted thinking?

Back in the 1980’s and early 1990’s I knew of one or two cases like this.  And guess who it was that tried to argue with them.  Well, you can’t talk someone out of it who thinks it “makes sense” to off themselves.  Cuz they ain’t budging.  Or so it was in these cases.  I never found out the outcome.  I don’t know how or if they ever got better.

From what I know of depression, it’s one of those bargain illnesses like the flu.  First of all, there are plenty of therapists that treat it.  I mean, doesn’t every therapist treat depression?  No therapist treats eating disorders, they won’t touch eating disorders.  Insurance covers it.  There are pills and pills for depression.  There is vocabulary for it.  There are a zillion support groups you can get into for depression, and treatment for it does not cost an arm and a leg (unlike eating disorders treatment).  You don’t need a zillion specialists, there aren’t wicked bad medical consequences, and you don’t get called a  “skinny bitch” for it either.  You are even less likely to drop dead of depression than you are of anorexia nervosa.  It’s treatable and people get better and people understand it and forgive you.  Sort of.

Yeah, sort of.  I think I feel blessed.  It’s like getting the flu.  Remember my bargain illness, how great the flu was for me, even though I was flat out feeling like crap, how I thought it was terrific compared to anorexia?  Some ailment that’s understood.

Not only that, but with the flu, I had to ride it out.  A few days of crap and it was gone.  Depression, you don’t ride it out…It lasts a long time but it’s supposedly treatable.  I can do something about this.

Having been 55 years old for a few days now

Yesterday while I was running I was thinking that inner strength and belief in yourself can get you far in this world.  If you think you don’t need other people’s support and love and kindness and advice to get by, you are going to be waiting for a while.  People are unreliable.  People don’t stick around.  Believe in yourself instead.

Waiting for other humans is like texting someone, and then sitting around waiting for a response that never comes.  Just don’t bother.  Think of the minutes of your time that you are wasting, staring at the phone that never vibrates.  Weren’t you doing that same damn thing with a landline decades ago?  You felt like strangling the person, or yourself, with the cord.  Shut down your cell phone, and get on with your life.   People are not worth it and this person obviously isn’t bothering with you anyway.

Do you seek the approval of others before doing everything you do?  Like do you go to your therapist and ask for advice and approval of each and every decision?  It’s your life, not his or hers, and you have control.  You’re a grown-up now.  Part of being a grown-up is making decisions on your own without these other grown-ups.  Oh, these people eat it up that they get to control your life.  Shock the pants off of them and do something on your own for a change.  Get a dog.  Get married.  Or cancel the next appointment.  You can do it.

Yes, you can make decisions about when and what to eat.  Yes, you can make decisions about your body.  Yes, you can cook for yourself.  Yes, you can choose to exercise and move your body in all kinds of ways, and that means more than just stretching or looking out the window or sitting in group and raising your legs or “coping skills.”  Your body has a future beyond just “gentle yoga” for the rest of your life.  Yes, you can run, and if some idiot therapist tells you not to, tell them you are taking care of your body and maybe you need a new therapist.

So, thinking all these things, I upped my speed on the treadmill some.  I was nearing what would be my third lap at Victory Field.  Only I was  grateful that I was not out in the cold and my fingers weren’t so cold that they were snapping off.  I thought: Gee, I could roast a finger or toe for dinner and satisfy those fuckers that I’d eaten protein.

I’m turning 55, and I thought of all the people in the world that did not help me get to this place.  I thought of all the people that did not believe in me.  I thought of the ex-friends that badmouthed me.   I thought of all the mental health professionals that did not believe in me and did not help me and tried, again and again, to have me put away.  When I left the hospital that last time, they shook their heads and said, “She’ll never make it.”  Those fuckers.

I thought of the various people who had called the police on me over the past year or two.  I think the police found it rather annoying to say the least, and didn’t particularly want to deal with these hysterical-sounding do-gooders calling from out of town.  They did not believe these callers.  When the police arrived, they had smirks on their faces.  Just doing their duty.  Oh, the looks I get.

I thought of the time I was looking for a therapist, how many calls I had to make.  Literally hundreds.  I received hundreds of “No” calls back.  I went on wild goose chases, too, going to therapists and then having them tell me they could not or would not help me.  I went to one therapist who did not even have qualifications to be a therapist, no degree in anything relevant, and did had not training in proper confidentiality or professional ethics.  No business card, either, hmm. ( Gee, I’m just as qualified, I have a master’s degree in something, why don’t I set up a therapy business, too, and start charging?)  Wow, now I have a therapist, finally.  Not sure it’s doing me any good, but I have one.  She’s okay.  I show up.  Nothing’s happening in therapy but I am not going to stop, because at least she isn’t abusive.  I’m just bored of it.


The eating disordered part of me would love it if I could find a place where I could be anorexic, get skinny, wither away and die.  You know something?  Life is deceptive.   There is no such place, much as we anorexics would love to make such a paradise for ourselves, and try darned hard to do so.  It is the Anorexic Hell Hospice, and it takes on various forms.  For many, this Anorexic Hell Hospice is our own homes, or the homes of our families of origin.  So for a lot of people with anorexia, the answer is to get away from this family of origin and break free, not only physically, but in the spiritual sense as well.  Many are locked into the control of the family for life, and I’m not saying this is what caused the ED, but I’m saying if you’re trapped, you’re trapped.  Get out.

The  hospital is a huge trap.  Get out.  Hospitals are for sick people and hospitals perpetuate illness.  They are run by insurance, money, and red tape and are poorly managed.

But don’t go to a hospice, either.  Think about it.  Do you want to live or die?

Is “home” a place to live or die?

If you’re like me, you haven’t answered that question, and you’ve been straddling between life and death for years, playing the game.  Just quit the game and live.  It ain’t worth playing.  You know why?  You don’t even get to choose the moment of death.  No one does.  You get gypped out of that.  It gets chosen for you, at random, and that I know of, most folks die alone in some dark, dark place.

Finders Keepers Losers Weepers

They say that the change of season is the time to say goodbye to the old, and perhaps also time to bring in the new.  People talk about renewal and growth and change.

We are nearing the solstice and it’s a time to think about darkness and light and the sun.

It occurs to me that right now I am sitting here at my desk and besides my lone desk lamp, the light coming from the computer monitor, and a small amount of daylight coming in through a nearly closed shade, there is no light in here.  Sure, there are other lights I could turn on, and I could raise all my shades, but I choose not to.

No, I honestly feel that the “negative energy” (as someone recently put it) that I currently experience has absolutely nothing to do with “absence of light,” “seasonal affective disorder,” “holiday blues,” or anything like that.  Cold, ice, and snow pose practical difficulties for me and discomfort but do not cause “depression,” if you want to call it that.

It’s my circumstances that make me this way.  It’s the way people treat me.  It’s the general attitude and the disrespect I get from society in general.  It’s tough to live with from day to day, so I’ve become bitter.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…..Mental illness is three-fold:

1) The way we are inside
2) The way society treats us
3) The result of “treatment”

…not necessarily equally proportioned, and not proportioned the same for everyone.  Some never seek treatment or are never able to afford treatment, so #3 may not apply.  A few people luck out, generally those with money, and receive decent, appropriate, respectful treatment, and these lucky people improve.  Most, however contract secondary illnesses or symptoms or side effects as a result of routine treatment or inappropriate treatment or downright bad treatment.

I believe that I became the bitter, angry bitch that I am that no one can stand to be around because of #2 and #3.  People are not born bitter and angry and I was not this way as a child, certainly.

I wasn’t even this way a few years ago.  I was searching around for a thumb drive to transfer my Nano book onto, as I don’t want to keep it on the thumb drive it’s on now.  I located one I haven’t used for years.  I plugged it into my computer and was surprised to find some old videos made in 2007.  I viewed one of them.  This was made before I relapsed with my anorexia.  I was immersed in graduate school and Puzzle was about a year old.

My first reaction?  No, I did not say, “Oh my god, I’m so fat!”…well, I did say that, but my very first reaction before the “f” word was to note how slowed down I seemed on so much medication.   Sure enough, I took out a huge box and showed the audience all my bottles of pills, stating that I took meds four times a day.   I showed the audience a pile of papers and stated that this was the work I was doing for graduate school.

I had only been watching the flick for a few seconds when the “fat” adjectives started running through my head.  I promised myself I would never look like that again.  I asked myself, “How could I stand to look like that when now, x pounds lighter, I still feel like I need to lose weight, and am still starving myself?”

Seeing Puzzle pop onscreen at the end of the video made it worth its weight in gold, as they say.  She was such a little fuzzy floppy little creature at a year old.

Recently, as I was finishing up Nano, I found another video of myself, made a few weeks after the summer solstice of this year.  Readers, you may or may not remember this, but back then, I was suffering from severe binge eating.  In the video, dated in July, I am in a state of despair over my weight and the fact that I felt that the binge eating would never end.  I was heavier than I am now.  I had sought treatment and was unable to find appropriate treatment anywhere.  It wasn’t affordable or it was inaccessible to me.

I watched the video a few nights ago.  It made me so, so sad.  I cringed seeing my face because (sorry, only being honest here) my cheeks seemed “fat” to me and the expression on my face was one of pure misery.  And again, just being honest, I had no desire to go on living.  And no, no one knew the depth of this and no one ever found out even after I was “sectioned.”  I was “sectioned” for petty reasons and I never admitted my suicidality to anyone.  Not that I’m going to talk about it all that much here.  Again, this was a number of months ago.

I like that I have old videos.  I like that today, I gave away a dress to charity.  It is one of the dressed I hid in last spring.  I hid my body because I was ashamed of weight gain.  So in that sense, I was throwing out clothes that symbolized a miserable time.  Some people, when they lose weight, toss out their “fat clothes” but this dress was more like “hiding clothes.”

And bring in the new….On my way home from the clothes charity drop box, I found a necktie on the ground.  It is still wet, and I am hanging it to dry.  I see no stains on it.  Finders keepers losers weepers.

I am a loser and a weeper but I have found a treasure today.  And it fits, too.  Joy to the world.

My National Novel Writing Month accomplishment…another year….

I seem to have done it again.  I reached, and passed, 50,000 words today.  I was in the middle of a scene.  I noted that I had reached 50,009, then kept going.

So this makes me an official winner.

The book will be done…shortly, or whenever.  A draft of the book, that is.  Quite haphazard, but a draft.

I really don’t give a shit.  Not anymore.  Not about much of anything.

Yeah, it’s oh so great being positive and happy but I’m just not into it right now.  Survival…whatever that entails.  And survival means something quite different to me than it does to most folks.

It means being able to lie successfully.

It means having my excuses work.

It means getting away with being a no-show without too many people getting alarmed.

It means having the ability to shrug stuff off.

It means sometimes not being noticed.

It means slinking around.

I’m getting to be a great slink.  Oh, the games.  Just cats and mice.  When do I get caught?

When will it come knocking? Is it like a shadow?  Does it hurt?  Is it loud?  Shall I leave out bait?

Which did you do first?

If you live in the US….

Okay, admit it….

Which did you do first?

You get up.  It’s morning.  The questions go through your head.  There are certain questions that need answering this morning.  Burning questions, so to speak.  You can get these questions answered easily enough.   But, um, first things first.  Which one came first for YOU this morning?

Did you rush to the TV to find out who won the election?  Was that the first question you needed to get answered?  Well, you got your answer.

Did you go pee, take off all your PJ’s, take your scale out if its hiding place, step on it (ever so quietly, so no one can hear you doing this) and then get a reading, and then do this a few times, just to make sure the scale isn’t fucked up?  Or if you’ve got a screwy scale, say, take the average of the three readings?  (Okay, let’s nit-pick a few tenths of a pound, like it really, really matters.)   Well, you got your answer.

Which question, which burning question did you answer first?  Did you rush to the TV first, or the scale?

Did you even remember, upon waking, that there had been an election yesterday?  Or are you like me, and kinda forgot?

Cuz damn, it took me one helluva lotta effort to get over across the street to vote yesterday.  It isn’t like I didn’t care about the election and politics and all, cuz I do, but there’s one heck of a lot more weighing on my mind right now, you could say.

If you’ve been reading my blog a while you already know I don’t have a TV.   So that kinda leaves me with the scale option, now doesn’t  it?  I could do it with a real flourish.  I could blame my weight on the election.  Or use the election as an excuse not to eat.   Well, it was Election Day, only comes once every four years, so it doesn’t count, right?  I was too busy voting to eat.  I burned off the calories in the voting booth.  Dumped the food into the ballot machine.   It got shredded along with the political junk mail.  Down the hatch.  And then, recycled, of course.  Yeah, I live the green life, alright.  Just veggies for me.  No dressing please.

For once, I’m glad to be obsessed by something other than the election, glad to have something else on my mind.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about survival and what it is.

Survival means being treated with respect and dignity.  It means that a whole lot more than it means life vs. death.  It means feeling respect for myself and liking myself more than it means life vs. death.  I’m 54 and I guess that says a lot in itself.

So I tell lies if I have to.  Sometimes, the lies come out of me like butter slipping off a knife.  To survive.  I don’t feel bad about it.  It’s automatic now.  Learned response.

You get taught this when you are little and you don’t forget easily.


I am a writer, at least I can do that

You know something?  While I’m locked up, at this moment, my book is going to print.  Maybe the very first copy will be at my doorstep in the mail when I get out of the ED hospital.  Wow, that would be a welcome home gift like I’ve never had before.  It ranks right up there with Puzzle’s little doggie-kisses.

Both are confirmations that really, I’m an okay person.

A lot of people work really hard trying to tell me I’m not okay.  I’m mentally incompetent, right?  Delusional, right?  Can’t be trusted for an instant cuz of course, in their eyes, I’m dangerous.

No, no, not that kind of dangerous.  I can write.  You can do a lot with words that weapons can’t come close to doing.

One thing I haven’t lost, in terms of being treated as respectable, okay human being, is that people do acknowledge me as writer.

Yeah, the MFA after my name comes in handy here.  College education does give you sort of a legal status that no one can take away.

I love, love, love that I am college educated.  When I tell folks this, it gives me a certain creditability that I otherwise wouldn’t have.  To MFA or not to MFA?  If you can beg borrow or steal to get the money to pay for college, go MFA.

I guess if you are born, that’s a legal status too and they can’t take that away from you.  Even if you die, it’s not like you never lived.  You can be bat mitzvahed, and they can’t erase it.  You can graduate high school and have a very nice looking diploma and that’s a legal status to be proud of.  I can’t go back to the status of “never finished college” cuz now, I have.

Once you’re married, you can get unmarried in various ways, but it won’t erase that you were ever married.  I don’t know about the particulars of this, never having been married.

I suppose, though, if you have never married, you can’t get divorced.  One has to come first, then, of course, the other, if it ends up that way.

Once you are dead, there’s no going back.  Although there are some people who believe in reincarnation.  Some people who believe in reincarnation try to go back and “remember” past lives.  I wonder how that works.  I don’t happen to believe in it cuz it doesn’t seem logical to me, but on the other hand, I haven’t done much thinking about it.

One thing I wish was true, from the bottom or back or wherever of my mind, is that I could die and then sit back watch the world react.  Seriously.  I fantasize about this all the time.

I will never really know, I guess.  I’ve never heard anyone post on the Internet that they died and then had a good chuckle watching the world from afar.

I think about listening in to my funeral to what is officially said and what is said in soft hush-hush whispers.  Oh hell, I don’t even know if there will be a funeral. These things are costly, you know?

Will my very very busy brother with his hectic life, too busy to squeeze me in, ever, even show up for this funeral.  I suppose he’ll have to leave early, rushing off to someplace, some meeting or maybe a kid has cub scouts or something.  Well, I think the kids are beyond cub scout age but he’ll make it look like he’s a very respectable dad.

One thing I know I want known I guess is the truth.  That I had this eating disorder.  Cuz there might be a little coverup or something.  Like my brothers kinda forget as fast as possible that I have an eating disorder, and assume that after a few day of treatment, that I’ve “gotten over it.”  And maybe I’ve gone onto another imaginary mental disorder.

Of course, in their eyes, all this stuff over all these years about mental illness is bsomething I made up.  Wicked exaggerations and lies.  Probably an excuse not to work and make money and pay taxes like a normal law-abiding citizen.  An excuse to get out of life, right?  Of course I am a family leach, too.  No wonder they don’t want anything to do with me.

Hate to say this, nasty as it sounds, it’s all true.  Where is this loving family?  As a commenter pointed out, if you don’t have one in this world of ED treatment, you’re out of luck.

But like I said, I can write.  My pencil isn’t a blood relative, but I love it very much, you know?  I hold it firmly in my hand.  It is as warm as a gun.


I feel too sick to ride the Tube today

But, hey, I gotta get to where I’m going.  I feel like I’m going to puke, actually.  Since when have I ever puked, ever?  I drank a bottle of Ipecac once, back in the early days of my ED.  I was 23 had just moved in with my parents, which was one of the many utterly stupid things I’ve done in my life.

I locked myself in my room and waited.  And waited.  Like six hours of nausea and no puking.  Finally, something happened.  I must have lost about three or four ounces of saliva or water or stomach goo, no more.  The rest stuck around.  I didn’t “get rid of” any of the food I ate.

To my ex-T: Now, now, now do you believe me?  No, I am not capable of puking.  My body won’t do it.  It’s a fucking curse.

Yeah, I hear what you’re saying, “You are lucky you never started.”  Or, “Puking causes medical complications, so you’re better off.”

So my response?  Try holding this food crap inside your overstuffed belly for like 12 hours, or more.  You WILL feel like shit, guaranteed.  Just put yourself into my shoes, for once.  Then you’ll know what it feels like to wish you were dead.

You can only suffer so much and then…and then ending your life seems like the logical thing to do.  When no matter how you look at it, suicide makes sense, well, then, it’s probably a matter of time, I guess, before it happens.

Go ahead and call me a coward.   Not everyone goes back to college at age 40, sitting in classrooms with 18-year-olds, for five years, and then finishes with flying colors.  Not everyone survives the loss of a partner.  Not everyone dares to go off to the most awesome MFA Creative Writing program on the planet, work their butt off, and then finish, despite what the “experts” said…that I couldn’t do it…that I belonged in a mental institution. Oh yeah, they’re still saying it.

It isn’t everyone that hops onto a plane and crosses the ocean in hopes of changing the world. So I’m here now, and I’m getting onto the Tube very shortly.

Oh, yes I do know that there are people who love me and care about me.  God bless you, I know you’ll understand….And to those that are my ex-friends, I hope you end up miserable.  I hope your lives end up fucked up, cuz you sure fucked up my life.  You are freaking two-faced liars.  I’ve gone to websites that talk about how the people you leave behind…say their lives are not the same….Revenge?  Oh, definitely.

Anyway, so much for my brilliant future.

I’ll be back later.

Regarding Solitary Confinement – a clip from Democracy Now!

This link really needs no introduction, but I feel like giving one anyway.  I have a piece I wrote that I have not posted, about my correspondence with a prisoner, R, who was a “lifer.”  i believe I’ve spoken about R before.  He saved my life.  He “got it” when others didn’t.  Not only that, but when others would have nothing to do with me, R was right there by my side.

Maybe I should start corresponding with prisoners again.   It’s never too late to start.  Snail mail still exists, after all, and I have Forever stamps.


This morning I berated myself for breaking promises I make to myself.  I promised myself quite a while back, several times,in writing that I would commit suicide if I ever returned to binge eating.

I am still alive, and pissed that I never seem to commit myself to anything at all.  The number of unfinished projects lined up is staggering.  Just take one look at the mess in my apartment and you can see one huge example of postponement, lack of motivation, procrastination, and a reflection of the fact that my entire life is in ruins.

So this morning, I said to myself, “This is it.  I’m going to do it, or do something else drastic.”

For a few weeks I’ve been going to sites all the time trying to find the best way.  Obviously, the people who could write “suicide success stories” are now dead and cannot write these stories or post tips and tricks.  People post on Yahoo! Answers now and then questions about “how to,” and are inundated with reasons why they should not do it.  If you Google this question and click on the links, you will be redirected to suicide prevention sites.

And yet when you read about people like Virginia Woolf or David Foster Wallace, people seem to think it was okay that they committed suicide because they had suffered long enough.  I suppose it’s silly for me to put myself in the same category with such brilliant writers, but I think I’m suffering, too, and at the end of my rope.

For a couple of years, I’ve spent time and energy creating scenarios, bits of dialogue, stuff folks might say about me if I died.  Of course, people will make every effort in their power to put me out of their minds as quickly as possible.  Actually, this is happening right now, while I’m alive, isn’t it?  People purging their lives of “negative people,” myself among them.

It is becoming a bigger and bigger struggle to be polite, sweet, and kind in public.  The image of that quiet girl in Apartment __ is turning into a picture of a nasty, hostile crazy lady.  You could say that I’m rather shocked, because I am such a proponent of good manners, believing that this is the most important thing you can teach a child, for instance.

It’s very easy to teach a child to say “Please” and “Thank you.”  Saying these things at appropriate times will get you a long way in this world.  Plus it elevates self-esteem to be polite to others, and gives a feeling of self-worth and self-respect.  Helping a person in need instead of walking on by…this, too, is a good thing to do.   Picking up after yourself.  Being an accepting friend.  Sharing.  If I had a kid, I’d teach him or her these things, I think.  The basics.

And yet, I have thrown all my manners out the window, my standards of cleanliness, a lot of common sense stuff like sleeping…it’s all gone now.

I don’t think it matters whether I choose to be like this.  I’ve been driven to it.  The amount of effort I’m putting into fighting back is nil.

Well, no, I do go to acupuncture, I have shown up at church lately, I have occasionally put forth effort to find a therapist.  These things are supposed to mean something.

Joe always said I was resilient.  I truly appreciate this compliment now more than ever.  Wish he were alive so I could tell him that.

Doctors have told me that my heart, as a set of muscles, is very, very strong, and that’s probably why I made it through the past year.  I’ve been brutal to all my organs, particularly my kidneys, but nothing seems to hurt in terms of my insides, no sharp pain, nothing’s ruptured or anything.  Just these freaking headaches.

I sleep at random.  When I wake up, I’ve got no clue whether it’s night or day, or what day it is, or whether what I dreamed was real.  It’s all just kind of a spacy nether-world.

I’ve tried to will my heart to stop.  It doesn’t work.  I wonder if I could use biofeedback techniques to accomplish this.

Last time I was lying on the acupuncture table, I felt like I was going to stop breathing entirely.  I felt like I was drifting off somewhere.  I “came to” with a start.  I inhaled.  I was back on the table again, right where I’d been lying.  I wonder what that was.  It happened twice during the last session.  I’ve fallen asleep on the table, of course, which is a common occurrence.  This was different.

I’d like to step out of my body, and leave it behind.  Just walk off, and say goodbye, or maybe not say anything.  I’m sure it would be a big relief, maybe not just for me, but for a lot of people that see me as a burden.  I guess, though, I wouldn’t be relieved, or shall I say, I wouldn’t be alive to feel it.

I suppose I’m going way out on a limb by writing this.

If you can identify with what I’m going through, I don’t have any particular advice.

“She was only 54.  Too young to die.”

“Where was her family?  Why didn’t they do something?  Didn’t they care?”

“Such talent gone to waste.”

Anyway, for whatever reason, the DMH suddenly discovered that yes, I’m on their rosters.  And no, they were clueless all along due to negligence on the part of my worker.  She stopped coming.  I hear bits and pieces of her being on “sick leave,” and yet the boss guy was surprised that she hadn’t seen me since December, the day she suddenly announced that she was going on a six-week vacation.  She made hints that international travel made her ill, and hinted that she’d be sick when she came back…like she was planning this.  She was due to return January 20 and show up here.  I cleaned the place, and waited.  No show.  Next week, no show.  Next week, I was in bed and miserable.  I blew her off, telling her I had a cold.  She didn’t ask how I was doing or anything, just hung up the phone in her customary manner, that is, click, her voice trailing off, without saying the word “goodbye.”  I don’t think she once ended a phone conversation with “goodbye.”  The line would just go dead.

So over the past week, I’ve met with the boss guy twice.  I was honest, and said that J never did her job, was always late, and often didn’t show at all.  At first, this was an inconvenience to me.  Now, I realize that her being irresponsible like that was a serious thing.

I have a new worker.  The boss guy said he wanted his best person working on my case now.  He said she was the best.  She came Monday, and to my dismay kept on saying that she was “interim,” maybe only for a few weeks.  I’m kinda shocked, because the boss guy sounded like he was going to do right by me and really put forth an effort on my behalf by assigning this specific person to me.  Not only that, but this person emphasized that she doesn’t really have room on her schedule for me.  We made another appointment, but not for another two weeks.  Geez.  I feel betrayed, to say the least.

So anyway, let it go on record that this is a case of gross negligence on the part of DMH.  The boss guy was apologetic about what had been going on with J, and said it shouldn’t have happened.  But now what?  Am I still invisible?

I used to think that if I died on a Friday night, and J called Saturday, the day she was supposed to show up, to let her know she was on her way, and it turned out I did not respond…I assumed she would get to the bottom of it, and my death would be discovered very quickly.  So they’d get the body out of here and get some assistance for Puzzle.  I was under this false impression that she actually gave a shit about her job.

How long would my body have been rotting here?

What do I do now?  After I’m dead, I can’t just call someone and say, “Hey, I’m dead, send the coroner.”

You bet I’ve thought of putting e-mails on a timer, or posting some sort of statement in my blog here, and setting that to post well after I’m dead and there’s nothing anyone can do.  I was thinking about that this morning while walking Puzzle.  Actually, I obsess about this suicide stuff nonstop.

There’s nothing anyone can do, either.  Just throw your arms into the air.  Say a prayer or something.  Or wash your hands clean of me and put me out of your mind, for your own sanity’s sake.