I wasn’t the only one who got screwed….

Here’s a terrific link:


This is a Massachusetts story. So you thought MGH was an honest institution, interested in helping patients first and foremost?  If you are a doctor, know that you won’t work there as a doctor very long. You won’t help patients. You’ll be kissing the institution’s butt. Patients suffer, taxpayers pay. You earn a salary, the corporation gets rich.


Here’s proof that we whistleblowers can get our day in court!

Aubrey Ellen Shomo, Colorado:


Which states have cheapest rental in USA?

Here’s a color-coded chart with some up-to-date, rough statistics on the housing market:


I don’t see actual numbers, in other words, actual rents in dollars. The chart is nice to look at, though.

Beware of statistics, since they don’t tell us everything, and can easily be twisted around. Statistics do not make a story. Storytellers make story. We all enjoy listening.

Pictures, as I have been promising for a while….

Here is Puzzle waiting in the doorway, yesterday.



I took that photo before I gave her a bath and clipping. I gave her a blow-dry as well. I don’t even give myself such a luxury. She enjoyed the electric clippers. This is technology at its best. I have never used electric clippers before and had to guess how to do it. I did fine. From what I recall, certain shrinks in my past had never dealt with a “client” with ED before. These shrinks lied to me and to my parents and made claim that they were “experienced” shrinks. Sadly, they were doing guesswork, faking their way through their jobs, as I did through mine today.  I didn’t do a bad job. There are risks, though. I could have cut Puzzle’s skin, or cut my own hair instead of hers, or cut a hole in my shirt.  Shrinks could do small damages or deeper ones, too. At least I am upfront and honest that I am not a real groomer, I am just Puzzle’s mama, and I sat her with her in my lap lovingly trimming her hair this morning.


This is a laundry photograph. I try to keep many of these. Most families here do not have washers and dryers, though some are starting to purchase these machines. We don’t have coin-op laundromats here, though there are laundry services that will do your laundry for you, and even deliver your clean laundry to your door. I suppose such services might save a busy person some time. I found after a while that I liked doing clothes by hand.


Here, on top of the one table I own, a plastic picnic-type with detachable legs, are some towels that are all dry, folded, and stacked, and a few clean and dry washcloths. On top of the towels are my clean and dry t-shirts. I folded and rolled these so they would appear freshly pressed. They are now all bagged and tucked under my bed now until I need them. To top the photo is the Uruguayan flag. I purchased mine from a street vendor a few months ago. I don’t happen to recall the occasion.



More laundry drying on the side of the house. Here is the last straggler of a shirt at the end of the day. Also, you can see my cloth coffee filters drying out. I am hanging out a sock that I used to boil an egg. Did I tell you about that egg-boiling method I invented?  I don’t recall having done so. I need to make a note to add that post. Later. You can also see my trike, parked out here in front of the paparilla. I have it covered in case of rain. They say thunderstorms today. Maybe.

Here’s Puzzle going to sleep in here hideout under the bed:



Here’s a photo we took while out one day, not far from here:


Please read Jeanene Harlick’s blog, A Disordered World

This is an important work written by a journalist with whom I see eye to eye regarding these ED treatment facilities. They do not cure anything. This is a major growing for-profit industry. Who is harmed?


In memory of those who were harmed….You folks know who I am talking about…I don’t need to name names.

Many of us were harmed, were we not? Of those of us still living, how many of us came away with hurt pride? How many were shamed? How many of us were treated with utter disrespect?  How many were harmed physically? How many still suffer trauma from forced care, such as bathroom monitoring, forced feeding, tubing, belittling, limiting fluids, being grilled regarding bathroom habits, having one’s feces examined and commented on, repeated unnecessary urine testing, monitored phone calls, staring, glaring, threats using “security,” isolation, forced “bedrest,” restraints, forced feeding leading to cardiac damage or refeeding syndrome, forced drugging, misdiagnosis, disdain toward certain cultures or religions not formerly practiced at the facility, ignoring physical complaints or obvious medical risks, ignoring allergies, inappropriate touching, shoving, handling of body orifices, inappropriate sexual conduct, verbal sexual assault, and rape. And of course, weight bias. We all hate skinny people. And we hate fatties too. Hate ’em all. Here’s the cure.  And here’s the bill for it.

Here’s the link to Jeanene’s articles. Much is research into how these facilities are making larger and larger profits, and how the laws are different in each state. It’s so complex that patients are easily fooled.


On the bus

I took the COPSA bus to a nearby town to run an errand yesterday. Now, I know the fare, so I don’t have to ask, though I do anyway each time, just to be sure. I can say “26” in Spanish, and I sure couldn’t do that a year ago.

I guess folks don’t realize it, when I first came here, I was so exhausted from ongoing insomnia, I couldn’t do a darned thing. And yet, I had to. I had to learn a new country, learn a new town, learn a new language, meet new people, figure out how to survive, learn the climate, learn the pitfalls, figure out the currency, figure out how to get your phone and Internet to work, figure out a place to live, and make future plans all at once. In fact, when you are so exhausted from day to day, you can barely get anything done at all. How would I survive? Some do, some don’t.

When I first arrived, I didn’t know what to expect. I wondered if the insomnia would instantly cure itself. I hoped it would. I was delighted when my eating disorder gradually improved. I found the whole “mental illness” shebang was nonsense. I suspected I never had a “mood disorder,” and I sure was right about that. I’m fine now, without those shrinks. No, I don’t  have racing thoughts nor “mania.” I don’t pace anymore now that I am off the drugs. I had pimples and the shakes the entire time I was on Lithium and now, I don’t.

The only time I get depressed is, well, never. If someone’s an asshole to me, I decide that the person’s acting like an asshole and leave it at that. People get that way sometimes. It’s almost always someone back in the States. I tell myself the person’s just doing their job. So I will do mine. Smile and thank them for “doing their job.” That is, I acknowledge it has occurred and that’s all.  Although I don’t intend to praise their asshole behavior, or say it was right or okay.

I realize that NOISE POLLUTION was a much bigger problem for me than I had previously realized. My need for quiet surroundings is greater than I thought. The migraines stopped when I moved to this quiet new place. Isn’t that odd? But how can it be only coincidence? I know that noise and trauma are related. I know also from reading about what is known as “shell shock” from war, a soldier might react to sounds, such as loud popping sounds.

Someday, maybe there will be a museum erected, like a Holocaust Museum, only this one will be to memorialize the MILLIONS (60 million, estimated) now killed by the P$ychiatric Genocide. So this would be a museum where people could go and learn so history would not repeat itself. Visitors could go from exhibit to exhibit, seeing the various tortures that were done to the “patients,” and reading the stories. People could go through documents in the multitude of files kept at the library, accounts by prisoners and survivors, as well as their families and those concerned with preserving these documents. Artwork and photos would keep all these memories timeless.

Maybe, in the annuls of this museum it might be noted that those of us who have survived and lived on now react somewhat to certain sounds.  It may not be the sound of a blown tire, but a siren sound, or a wheeled suitcase, which sounds like a rolling ambulance stretcher. The sound of voices on USA police radios, such as “Ten four, chief. Over and out.” You won’t hear that here.

I react to most types of music. Anything too loud I just can’t stand. I can’t stand TV or radio. I want to run away from these things. I was in Parque del Plata maybe two weeks ago and I saw some teenagers playing instruments outdoors. These were brass instruments, so it resembled a USA outdoor concert. This wasn’t 18 de Julio, it was before that, so I don’t know what the occasion was.

I ran away so fast, I couldn’t tolerate that sound! Run! Run! I had to get away. I was uncomfortable with it. I found it nasty. Just like sirens scare me, only sirens scare me in memory me even more, so much so that I cannot allow my fear to be apparent to anyone. It’s all momentary. I relax, and remind myself I have nothing to fear now. No one can threaten me anymore. No one is going to arbitrarily haul me away to yet one more mental facility. That will never happen again.

I stood at the bus stop alone. Our bus stops tend to be open structures with overhangs that somewhat protect people if it is raining. Most of the paradas de omnibus have small benches where people can sit and wait if they wish, or children can sit. They do not all have trash barrels, and I don’t usually see ashtrays there, either.  You can tell a bus stop because there are signs that say “Parada” and a picture of a bus. Before I knew this, I wondered what those white things were. I have photographed many (I’ll try to find a few later). Many have wonderful graffiti on them, and I hear these are periodically re-painted.

I waited at a bus stop on the IB headed west yesterday. A man came holding an acoustic guitar. I told myself, “I’m sure glad it’s not electric.” I smiled at him. He seemed friendly, saying some things in Spanish to me. I got my bus money ready. 26 pesos.

Then, a memory.

It’s now 2015. I remember 13 Noviembre, 2013. I believe this was the date. In fact, I just checked my calendar, and in fact, it was. This was the date I wasted time rushing to Harvard Square to get to a kidney appointment at Harvard  Vanguard. These appointments had to be scheduled months in advance. The facility and its personnel got my insurance money. What did I get? A blood test. That and told I was a waste of human life, that I was using up their resources, that I was a hopeless waste, that there were no answers, no cures, that their purpose was to watch me die and nothing else.

I got lost on the way back to the subway station because I tried the shortcut route through Cambridge. I finally made it to Harvard Square and underground. I sat in the subway and waited for the next train. I hugged Puzzle and cried.

What a fucking bitch that nurse was!

And I thought also, “Why was I abused in the hospital? Why? Why does no one believe me?” All I could do was cry. I didn’t care if anyone saw, but lucky me, my glasses hide my tears.

Nearby, a musician held a guitar. It was the electric type, but he wasn’t playing loudly. He introduced himself, and told me he’d play a song, just for me. We talked about music some.

What a world, when for free, you get a gift from a street musician, and you show up for an appointment that you pay for, where a nurse insults and degrades you.

So that was the memory. I tried not to think about it. It’s 2015, after all. I’m not in Cambridge anymore. The COPSA bus was coming. I had to speak good Spanish and tell the bus driver where I was headed clearly so he would understand.

It’s a beautiful day here below the equator.

I was on less than a minute when the man began to play and sing.

I couldn’t help it. I began to cry. I didn’t want anyone to see, but really, who cares? I’m not known as mental patient, so it doesn’t matter anymore. Libertad. Freedom. Amazing.

For the first time in a long while, the sound of music didn’t annoy me. In fact, I found it beautiful.

Everything about freedom amazes me. I went to another town and came home and didn’t tell myself, “I have to ask my doctor first.” Or, “Uh oh, I have to ask my therapist’s permission to burn the calories.” Or, “What about  my moods?” Or, “My mental state, oh dear!” Freedom is a wonderful thing. I chose it. I felt like running up to the musician and giving him a hug, but had I done so, I would have missed my stop.

Watertown Massachusetts statistically a “great place to live,” but numbers deceive. Many there are miserable, desperate, lonely, and neglected

Here’s the article I saw:


I hope this link works.

I don’t think statistics alone tell us much unless we hear individual stories of people who live in Watertown. Are they saying it’s all that great? I can tell you right now what I saw. I saw sad kids who didn’t want to go to school. I saw parents literally dragging their kids and yelling at them, yanking them all the way down the street, while the sniffly kids cried all the way, carrying so many books they nearly toppled over from the weight of them. I saw lonely schoolkids day after day who didn’t have a friend in the world, kicking the dirt up in front of them. I wanted to reach out to those kids so much and only give them a hug but I knew kids would back off from an old lady like me. I often saw lonely and scared kids crying in the street.

Where the hell is God in a place like Watertown?  A place overrun with churches? How many were there in those four square miles? Twenty?

I am telling you these churches all had locked doors. They were scared of the dangerous lonely ones. Of people like me, I suppose.

I never heard that one word, “No,” so many damn times.

“You don’t qualify.”

No one was interested. There were too damn many poor people. Everyone locked in their cubicles. Diversity, but only if they liked you. A cop on every corner meant safety. The rich felt safe, the poor shuddered in fear.  We were locked in protected, isolated social services, identified by food stamps and welfare cards. It’s getting worse, folks. Next, arm bands, if nothing else works or Watertown can’t otherwise get the filth out of town.

Overpopulation, noise pollution, neglect, too many social services, no feeling of community, overrun by the medical regime. The number one concern of Watertown needs to be lowering the population growth and strengthening community. Strengthen family and community, and stop substituting “programs” and “social services” for what really matters: Love and caring. If you don’t want your kids, then don’t have kids. If someone is lonely, then for godsakes give that person a hug and spend time with the person. That would mean more than dropping a packaged lunch at their doorstep, or plopping them in front of a TV or xbox and calling it “love.”

I remember the days when I went through my entire lengthy “phone and address” book and started crossing off names. Ever do that? Of course you have. The ones who are dead. The ones who won’t speak to you anymore. The ones who moved. The defunct addresses. What happens when there’s no one left in town, no friends left? That’s what happened to me.

I’m not shy at all. Yes, I reached out, I’m plenty friendly and have a decent sense of humor. This happened due to bigotry and that alone. And because there was nothing left that anyone could take from me anymore.

I’d call someone but it was so rare that anyone called back. Often, if I did get a return call, I’d get a recommendation for a “service” or “benefit” or “treatment,” instead of an invitation to coffee. I rarely spent time with anyone. Many were unwilling to spend time with me.  “Facebook only” was a joke. Most wouldn’t even do that.

God bless Watertown. I hope my story comes out someday, and I hope the town turns itself around. I hope someday they listen and start caring about each other. I hope no more people have to die of neglect and lack of love the way Rachel Ann Klein did. I hated seeing those lonely, neglected kids. I hated seeing lonely neglected seniors in my building at Woodland Towers and I hated that there was nothing I could do. I knew they’d been dumped there by their uncaring families. So many of us had been left there to die. Funny, we all knew it. Packed in like sardines.

Fuck you, Watertown. I was saying those exact words to myself as I was leaving. I thought I would die there. It was hell for me. I felt trapped. No way out. No way out of this hell. Those were the words I thought until I finally made it out.

I am lucky. I am only lucky. Ten days later, Rachel died.

How many more?

Again, a plea to end all labeling….Justice for Zachary Anderson, and further thoughts on labeling th

Here is yet another example of just how harmful labeling can be to a person:

I found a petition on change.org that apparently now has nearly 10,000 signatures. I had seen this one coming for a long time. I am so happy that finally someone has had the courage to speak out. God bless Zachary Anderson’s parents for sticking by him and realizing the truth. No, their son is not a “dangerous sex offender.” He is a young boy himself who was deceived. Even the young underage girl and her family all admit to the mistake that was made and they all wish it was over and done with. However, now, the courts insist on labeling Zachary “Sex offender” for the next 25 years.  I can’t seem to find the petition now, but it’s around.

(Much like a suicide attempt will blacklist you for about that long, too.)


Don’t label.

Why have a sex offender list in the first place?

Most rapes aren’t reported. Once reported, most rapes aren’t investigated.  They go ignored. If investigated, then what? Most don’t even end up in court. If they do, almost all accused are acquitted.

The entire idea of “sex offender” is so stupid when you consider that so many men out there rape and get away with it and are never caught. Why label a tiny minority, framing them, claiming these few are the dangerous ones, pigeonholing these ones, these horrible sinners as society’s filth? How much is based on race or economics? How many are wrongfully accused or even framed?


I wonder what slim percentage of marital rape ever escapes the secrecy of the bedroom doors, or is it forever locked inside? Do you hear wedding bells? There goes another serial rapist. The police won’t do anything, claiming it can’t be proven, or claiming “it isn’t rape.”  Many “mental health professionals” and clergy will tell a woman it’s “her duty” and remind her “you married him.” They call that “choice,” but it’s not.

Please end all harmful labeling. A label makes permanent that which would otherwise change. Zach had sex with an underage girl. This was in the past. The label makes it stay in the present,

Think about this for a sec. I am now 57 years old. I recently went to a USA “mental health” website where I could fill out “mental health history” forms. I noted the following: This practice wanted to know about my suicide attempt OVER THIRTY YEARS AGO, not only that, wanted to know if any family members had ever attempted suicide or had a history of it. What next? Yes, college students have been asked to leave college. I was asked to leave a job as well. I was denied treatment by countless professionals over past 30 years. If I ever revealed this bit of my history to anyone, the chances of that person ever becoming my friend significantly decreased. I was immediately profiled in all emergency rooms and by crisis personnel.

I started to lie about it. Usually, lying will work. Even an obvious scar can be lied about (motorcycle accident would work well) and for godsakes don’t act crazy when it matters. Don’t threaten either. If no one thinks of you as suicidal, when you say things like, “I feel like shit,”  you’ll be seen as just like any other momentarily hopeless person and you won’t get locked up. Of course not!  These things pass.

Labeling is for life. The label is not the person. Labeling is society’s attitude. So the label, “manic depressive” isn’t what the person is, but how society sees that person. If society sees “dangerous sex offender,” that’s their viewpoint and it has nothing to do with the person and who he is inside.  

People change and grow if we allow them to do so. Labeling stops all growth. It can cause harm to a person’s reputation and ability to get a job or job training. It can end or limit a person’s career. It can take away that person’s freedom. It can lead to unnecessary or harmful “treatment.” It can tear families and communities apart.

There are some labels you take on and accept and you must do so with grace and gratitude. But these are minimal. I guess that you are here at some point. You find yourself alive. Beyond that, much can, and will, change. I sure found that out.

I love my new place, but it’s temporary, as is life itself….

I apologize for not having taken many photos since my arrival here. I feel awkward doing so. I recall when I was back in Boston, seeing the tourists wandering around so obnoxiously rude, poking around with their gadgetry and cameras all over the place. They’d be in these big groups and some Harvard kid, needing some summer cash, would be leading them around the city. I remember one summer, I overheard a tour guide telling a group of Japanese tourists about my college, Emerson College, “That’s a film school.” It’s not just a film school. But Harvard students wouldn’t know, nor would care, nor would the tourists, as I figure. They were too busy figuring their f-stops. I don’t like taking photos when people can see me doing so. I think it’s imposing. So that’s why I photograph Puzzle a lot, since I doubt she considers it offensive. She mostly eats and sleeps and runs around.

On one side, I have what appears to be an abuela who has a couple of granddaughters who visit after school before the parents come later to pick them up. The two girls are sweet and gadget-free. They play outdoors and in, no bells nor noisy whistles. No TV! No radio! They appear to play with dolls, toy animals, or transit type toys such as non-electric toy cars or trains. Or they enjoy digging holes. They say “Hola” to me. I say “Hola” back/

On the other side there appears to be a married couple who are out of the house just about the entire day. They are amazingly quiet. One night, they cooked a papparilla, and all I heard was the snapping of the fire and that type of noise, no shouting such as what I heard constantly back at my old place.

One major blessing is that I no longer hear that godawful faucet squeak. Oh my god, every time I heard that, it was like fingernails on a blackboard. (You young folk don’t know blackboards I guess.)

I met the man who lives next door before I met the woman.  He’s soft-spoken.  I repeat, soft-spoken. What a blessing after that shouter I had to deal with at the the last place!  I knew I was blessed then. Quiet neighbors! The woman, I assume his wife, is quiet as well. She introduced herself last night.

I hear so little noise here. No more banging. No more shouting. No more constant conversation. No more peering eyes. No more nosiness. No more tapping footsteps. No more fucking alarms going off constantly. No more drilling and hammering. Only occasional obnoxious distant radios. No fucking TV. And I get not only daylight, but sunshine and privacy. Two doors down, there seems to be a satellite dish, but they aren’t blasting the damn thing.

Here’s the bad news though, which is the reason I’m awfully glad I signed a one-year lease and not a two year lease. I noted a mark on the woman’s face. She told me it had to do with her pregnancy. Then, she said it wasn’t from a fall, that it was all good news and that she was happy about the future arrival.

I’m not. The impending screaming baby doesn’t sound terrific at all. I wonder how much of this quiet paradisio I have left. Six months? That would be awesome. Then, I can only hope he’s one of those rare quiet babies. Of course, I smiled and was ultra polite but as soon as I closed my door, I thought, “Oh no.”

Geez, I can’t predict the future. Last time, I thought living near a family would be awesome, but they ended up screaming all the time and dumping their stuff into my courtyard from above. This made my courtyard unusable, never mind more peering eyes and nosy questions. Then, with the arrival of “boyfriend,” well, that topped it off. I was telling my friend that I get the shudders whenever the bus goes through the center of Atlantida now. I want it to pass quickly. I can’t stand to look at the place. It seems trashy, noisy, and dirty. Not a place I ever want to return to. It’s sad, because many people who work in some of the shops there are so kind. But thinking of that noise makes me cringe. It really is ridiculously loud there in summer. Here, nice and quiet till baby comes. Oh well. I will find out if the couple plans to stay or go. If they stay, I’m leaving.

Our walk

Today, Puzzle and I explored the neighborhood. We traveled on foot around a large circular area.  I believe I have seen some of these streets before, however, now, while traveling on the opposite side of the road, I see the other point of view.  How refreshing it is to learn new ways!  The sun is amazing when it shines on a different side!

I have a cold, I think.  I don’t particularly mind.  It’s only  a nuisance,  not a real problem.  I enjoy dealing with nuisances.  By comparison with the recent ordeal I had to endure,  this cold is almost a joy.

I didn’t bring my camera on our journey.  That’s for another day.  There will be plenty of other days.

Tomorrow I will go for another long walk  with Puzzle.  I will bring my camera.  Taking pictures will be my goal tomorrow, secondary to the  many red tape things I have to do.  Puzzle’s job will be to be my friend. That’s a tall order for anyone I suppose. Nighty night!


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