Audio Post

Audio Post

Trying to break even

Uh oh.  Very little battery power left.

I don’t want to get worse as a result of this so-called treatment.  I’m going to focus on that.  I can’t let them make this illness even worse than it already is for me.  Cuz last time, they sure did just that.  And no, it wasn’t my lousy attitude that was the cause of this.  They played a part, a damn big part in it.
Bye, laptop.  See ya later, alligators.

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.

 

Life is all about making the best of a bad situation

…which I suppose is true.

Cuz look at it this way: I have always written a lot about shit.  A nicer way to put it might be, say, doo-doo or poops.  It’s part of life, folks.  It stinks and when your dog drops some on the ground, you are the one stuck picking it up in a little plastic bag and putting that little bag of shit (or big bag, if you have a big dog) into some nice place where the world can’t get a whiff of it.

Cuz no one likes ugly.  Hey, here are some nice ugly words…I’m going to say them because once I get into this unit, they will not allow you to say anything, anything ugly.  Every word you say is censored.

food – any kind – especially specific types. Sushi, kale, mung bean sprouts.  Oh, yes, we won’t be getting any of that where I’m going.  Can’t talk about it, either.

Laxatives…can’t talk about diarrhea, guess it stinks too much.

Can’t talk about cancer, it’s too ugly.

And oh, death.  We can’t talk about death.  You know something, girlies?  Death doesn’t even exist as far as they’re concerned.  Like hell we don’t know you can die from an eating disorder.

Then again, many of the patients are not aware of just how many people do die of eating disorders.  They don’t want us to talk about this.

Hey, do you remember Karen Carpenter?  Most patients, and in fact most of the staff there probably never heard her music, cuz they were born after she died.

Yeah, I’ve had this freaking eating disorder longer than most of those people have been on the planet.

We are not supposed to discuss binge eating, or throwing up your food.  I would very much like to know how to stop binge eating, but get this!  They don’t want this topic discussed.  It’s all about doing what you’re told and shutting up and shoving all their food into your mouth.

Weight…oh yes, this is the most important number to do with you.  You are a weight and height and nothing more in their eyes.  But we are never, ever allowed to mention any weight whatsoever.

Get this: Puzzle is 14-1/2 pounds and I am not allowed to say that.  I am not kidding you.

You can’t talk about…well, practically everything.  Only coping skills.  Like how to properly deep breathe.  I think I learned that quite some time ago and to tell you the truth, I don’t like sitting around deep breathing with a bunch of other people.

I learned a lot about breathing when I played the trumpet.

Sit up straight and proud.  Or stand in all your glory, trumpeter.

Keep your instrument polished and shiny.

The guys used to say, “mit kech” which I think meant to play “with balls.”

Feel your whole body fill with air.  Feel the air in your soul and play with all your might.

Don’t make mistakes.  Just don’t. Don’t crack notes.  Lies, inconsistency, and lack of confidence tend to be apparent to an audience.

Play assertively.  Be clear.  Be firm.  Stand your ground.

You are mighty indeed.

Back to the ED hospital

They changed their mind.  I guess someone gave a second opinion, upon looking at my lovely records.

So they gave me the option of going to the ED hospital.  As I have stated, this place is voluntary, so I have to agree to go there.  They can’t force me.

I agreed, cuz I’m scared of ending up in a worse place.  Yes, there are worse places.  I am going to ask for a transfer to the psych side, where they treated me a little more like an adult and with a little more respect.

Now, granted, their admissions people are either ill-informed or they flat out lie and will tell you that this can’t be done, that people don’t get transferred, but of course, such transfers happened all the time while I was there, not only that, but a transfer was offered to me and I declined.  Huge mistake.

I mean really, who the hell cares, I’m locked up, right?

Very shortly, I will lose Internet access and may be out of touch.  But I will be back, alligators.

Solutions

I’m kinda envious of people for whom therapy works.  People who show up at self-help groups and find them self-helpful.  People who go to hospitals and come out better afterward.  People who find that the system works for them.

I guess it’s tough, though, trying to talk to one of those people.  They often blame my non-recovery on me, saying, “It worked for me and if it’s not working for you, then you are not trying hard enough.”

I’ve kind of had enough of this line.

Have people said this to you?  That because you’re not better, you must be a rotten lousy person?

Good morning, world

Like I said, they kept me overnight here.  I doubt I’ll even talk to anyone until the world goes to work, like after 9am, then I’ll somehow get my fat ass out of here.

The doc last night said he would have admitted me overnight, but there were no beds.  What’s the point of having me overnight in a psych ward, anyway?  They don’t even have time for the admitting procedure.  What was he thinking?  I feel like a criminal spending a token night in jail. They did this as a show of power.

I think they really pressed the panic button. Scared of a casualty and legal procedures. This hospital has had its share of psych lawsuits.

God bless social media

The world is turning upside-down as we speak.  Tables are meant to be turned, after all, otherwise they might get bored.
It’s rather quiet here in this ER, actually.  I was sent here by my DMH case person to get medically checked out, that is, get my blood tested, get an EKG, and whatever else people get in ER’s to see that their bodies are at least going to survive another miserable day.  In case you don’t know, eating disorders do a number on a person’s body, and these things have to be looked into to make sure the person, namely me, doesn’t drop dead, right?

I am not dead yet and these words are proof of that.  (Actually, don’t believe anything you read on the Internet, okay?)

So they are keeping me here for, like, no reason, overnight.  It’s kinda ridiculous.  I mean, if I was here overnight having a bone set or getting chemo or getting, you know, something like treatment, that might make sense, but no, I am just being held here against my will, a show of power I guess.  They said they’d let me go in the morning.  I mean, this delay makes one helluva lotta sense, right?

I worry about my Puzzle.  She’s probably really wondering where Mama is.  Someone is coming to rescue you, little one.  You look so cute in your haircut.  You charm the world.

Oh, glory halelluia from Ann

Here I am at a local ER cuz my case manager and her boss coerced me into going here.  She drove me here herself and it would have gotten super nasty had I refused all this.  Not that I’m expecting help here, no way, but the DMH people said that if I’m going to drop dead, we might as well find out right now instead of waiting an entire week when I have my appointment that they made me make with a doctor.  I guess the Charlie horses are reason to be concerned, that plus all the other stuff I deal with day in, day out.  I am in a wicked blabbermouth mood right now, which is not to my advantage cuz chances are, I’m going to blurt out something that gets me into some big time trouble.

So I’m waiting.  A lady called out to me, saying, “Ann!  Come here!” and of course that’s not my name, so I just sat here and ignored me.  Then she assumed I am deaf, and started making all sorts of wild gestures at me.  “Ann!  Ann!”  I didn’t see anyone else around but figured maybe she was on the other side of that desk over there.  So I am this deaf person now, with the nurse starting to walk over to me, “Ann!  Ann!”

Finally, I looked right at this lady and said, “My name isn’t Ann.”  Not that I was going to say what my name really is or anything.  I mean, if she wanted me she would figure things out soon enough.  After I told her I wasn’t Ann, she asked me if I’d had my vitals taken, and I said yes, I had, and then she walked away.
My stomach is killing me all of a sudden.  Dunno what this stomach pain is,   really.  If that doesn’t get me, lord knows what will.