Elderly people are scared for a good reason

When I was approaching the age of 18, I was so excited.  Eighteen. Wow. That meant adulthood and further independence from Mom and Dad.  I had already moved out, but this meant real separation and it also meant registering to vote.  I registered as an official resident of Amherst, Massachusetts, and I used the University of Massachusetts college dormitory as my legal residence. You could do that back then.  That November, as a college sophomore, I cast my first vote as a legal, independent adult. I voted for Jimmy Carter.  I felt so much pride.

I believe the vice president was Walter Mondale, come to think of it. Funny how I remember this but I have no clue why I should.  Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer out of nowhere. Actually, if you live in New England, some town called Plains, Georgia is indeed nowhere. Why is it that I remember that? Probably cuz there was so much media hype over Jimmy Carter, and probably also cuz I cried over him and thought that this guy was gonna change everything.

So, kiddos, you are 18 now, are you gonna look back a few decades from now, writing in your blogs, saying to the world, “I voted for Obama and I thought Obama was gonna change the world.” Will you, too, have tears in your eyes, looking back, trying desperately hard to give some message to the world?

This is my message: Old people are scared.  I am 56 and I am not old, but I hear this now. I am scared, too, now. Scared of my own family and the older you get, you get scared of your own family, too.

We get forced back into childhood, back toward that 18-type cutoff mark, where you go backwards again and lose your rights.  You slip behind that line, and then, poof! You lose what you know to be all you believed in.

This is how it works.  Listen carefully, cuz this could be you.  I hear old people saying this loud and clear. You have heard it too, not too often if you don’t listen carefully, though:

“I am afraid I will fall.”

Have you ever heard an old person say that? That they are very, very afraid of falling? Do you know why elderly people are SCARED TO DEATH of falling?

No, it’s not a very strange, exaggerated fear of heights or ladders or stairs, nor does it have to do with agoraphobia or “nerves” or clumsiness or bad confidence or bad morals or a bad attitude or anxiety or needing pills.

This is why: These elderly people are scared of losing EVERYTHING. Their homes, their lives, their independence, possibly their pets as well. How?  One fall means an injury.  One fall means they cannot walk. Their relatives will seize this opportunity and make the move.

We know our families are waiting for this opportunity to nab us.  I know when I see an elderly person living in fear of their own family. These people are often on the defensive. Scared to death of their own families, who are now the enemy. Threatened by them.

What happens in the nursing homes? Lies. Half truths. They treat you like a child. They give you teddie bears.  They play Bingo. They talk baby talk to you.  Let’s all sing children’s songs now. Let’s do kindergarten and talk slowly and repeat everything.

 

 

“Insiders” like me and Katie Higgins who speak out are branded as “dangerous” and then targeted

Since they have no clear reason to lock me up and seem to be fishing for them, grasping at straws, seemingly trying EVERYTHING they can….

I can only conclude that my SQUEALING is getting them rather nervous.

Let’s face it, while sitting in Dr. P’s office last July, I’d hear her run through a multitude of diagnoses, one after the other, even in the same PARAGRAPH, hoping I’d grab at one and say, “Hey, I’ll buy into that one and take your treatment for it.”

I think she was dying for me to shut up. She would do anything.

No one likes an insider who has decided to squeal. Someone who speaks from LIVED EXPERIENCE about how bad those “hospitals” are, and how inhumane “treatment” really is.

These hospitals and shrinks seem so nice at first, but please, don’t let their lies fool you. Don’t go to a mental hospital because these places end up being living torture.

They talk about “Jobs not Jails.” What about all the incarcerated mental patients?  I should go to one of those Jobs not Jails meetings and point this out.

Then again, no one wants me squealing, do they?

Love, Julie and Puzzle

 

Loud noise of my neighbor’s TV is a living nightmare to me

This has got to stop.  I have told my manager I have been hearing her TV set from the time she turns it on every morning till she turns it off in the evening, day in, day out, since the day I moved in. That plus a bunch of other television sets in the hallway.

Yes, he believed me.  He knows how deaf she is, and how deaf the ladies are down this end of the hall.

He had no clue how I’ve been feeling about it all these years. Well, almost no clue.  I think he darned well suspected.  I think he’d been waiting, really, for me to say,

I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE.  PLEASE.

I think he was waiting for me to say the word, to make the move, and maybe he’d been only hoping I’d do something. I’m so glad I did so before he retired.

I know he was concerned. He’d look at me and he’d seem sad.  He noticed I didn’t seem well, or perhaps he knew I was deeply unhappy here but perhaps didn’t want to be too bold.

What an impasse! 

I couldn’t begin to tell you the times in my life it has paid to speak out.  If you don’t, you could be stuck in a Situation from Hell such as this nonstop TV noise crap I’m dealing with at this very moment for another bunch of years.

If you think something’s wrong, speak out!  If you think you are being mistreated, say something!  If you want change, do something!  Don’t expect it to happen without your own action. Because another person isn’t going to do it for you. That’s what it means to be an adult and take responsibility for yourself. Say what your demands are directly and do your best to go to the people who can do the action you require. Finding the right people takes a bit of experience but you learn after a while.  Ask someone who has been around and they will guide you. It’s a tough world, and most of us are born having to defend ourselves. When it’s only you out there left, you’ll be amazed at just how strong you really are.

I am waiting to hear…I should be able to leave here very soon!  Away from that darned LOUD TV SETS! and HOSTILE NEIGHBORS!

 

Julie and Puzzle.

My latest You-Tube

There’s no excuse for psychiatric abuse!

This one’s a wicked pissed off one I did this morning!

 

A Meeting On The Bus

A meeting on the bus

One night last March 2013, I left a therapist’s office filled with despair. It was another therapy experience that I would have to end. This one, another abuser. Why was I the one that always ended up with these losers? How many was it now that I would fire. I picked up Puzzle into my arms, cuddling her tightly while I boarded the bus. I faked yet another smile at the bus driver while I tapped my Charlie Card.

“Oh, a Pit Bull, eh?”said the bus driver cheerily.

“Sure,” I nodded, as I plodded on making sure to step all the way toward the back of the bus.

Soon, a couple of young gals boarded. I wasn’t sure if they had just come from work or if perhaps they were college students. I eyed these two carefully. They were “on” something. Drunk perhaps. One decidedly more than the other. Not quite drunk. I wasn’t sure.

“What’s his name?” One had dark hair, the other, blonde. The dark-haired girl seemed more outgoing, and more drunk.

“Puzzle,” I said. “A she. You can pet her. If you don’t mind kisses. Vanilla mint toothpaste is the best.”

“Really? I can?”

“Sure. You two headed to Watertown?”

I learned their names. The dark-haired one’s name was Maddie, the lighter-haired one’s name was one of those names a hippie couple gives their kid, Sunshine or something like that, I can’t recall now. Maddie told me she was moving in with her friend in my town. Trying to make it in life, and that she’d been bumbling around for a while. I sure knew the bumbling around bit, but I didn’t quite want to say that out loud. I had a few years on these kids.

Nor did I want to say what kind of situation I’d just walked out of. But I’ll explain it now.

Earlier, much earlier that afternoon (March 2013) I’d walked into a therapist’s office in Arlington, MA and told this therapist I was going to kill myself.

He said, “Oh really, Honey? That’s interesting. Why don’t you jump off a bridge? I know some good bridges.” He then suggested some. He continued to call me “Honey” as he always did. Then, he told me he was canceling our next therapy session for the following Saturday and suggested that we go on a weekend-long date instead.

I thought to myself wow, this guy sure is a real therapist. Hmm…I’m supposed to take this guy seriously? Was his license even real?

He then took out a bag of junk food and started eating it in front of me.

I thought, “Gee, that stuff would be really bad for Puzzle. It would make her sick. That’s how he spends the money I give him?” It was a gigantic bag of junk food. Expensive cookies from Whole Foods that only rich people can afford.

Then this therapist started listing off Jewish doctors that had molested boy patients. Just naming these Jewish doctors that had committed heinous crimes. Why was he saying this and what on earth was the point of this? Then, this therapist, named David Alpert, began to say what his weight was when he was a child. Again, what was the point, and was this “therapy”? I realized that this man knew absolutely nothing about eating disorders. In fact, he was completely delusional that he could “save” me at all.

At the end of this session, I decided to be polite. I thanked him, walked out, and decided to wait a few days and then cancel our next session and be done with him forever. Later, I could report him to authorities, or just let it go.

But I was in tears. What the heck was I supposed to do? My psychiatrist was going to lecture me now. She wouldn’t believe me that yet another therapist was abusive. She never believed me. And yet, here was this fucking quack.

I began to cry.

And here was Maddie petting Puzzle. I couldn’t cry now. I was holding back tears because I had to. I had to be real for Maddie. I decided that for whatever reason, I had to be there for her right then. Here was a young person and she very well could be me. It could be the mini-me, right there on the bus, petting Puzzle in another life, being given another chance.

Maddie was reaching out for whatever reason and she told me she very much wanted to be friends.

“Me?” I said. “Why me? I’m an old lady.” I told myself I would die anyway and be forgotten and I no longer mattered to anyone.

Maddie said she she was Jewish and I said I was, too. We traded our last names and their origins, and laughed. Somehow, there are roots, there are families back there, there is a home, there is warmth, there is someone and culture and meaning to hold onto.

The three of us walked partway back together toward my part of Watertown. I was embarrassed to say that I live in subsidized housing. I didn’t want them to know I have an eating disorder. Maybe they seemed too young for me to feel okay about their knowing these little things. Of maybe I’m too old. Maybe it was too late for me.

It’s a year later.

When I got home that night, I realized that it’s people like Maddie and her friend that restore your faith in humanity, not people in offices. These two gals had saved my life that night. I never did kill myself, although people like that therapist sure make me feel like shit. I was determined to report that him. I fired him two days later and felt good about doing so. I kept on thinking about those gals. But I didn’t see them.

Then, my life changed. Things happened in a whirlwind. I tried very hard to get help for my eating disorder, but failed. Then, over the summer, I almost died of starvation.

One day, it was after the summer. I saw something incredible that brought tears to my eyes.

Maddie had reappeared. She posted on Facebook. She wasn’t living in Watertown anymore, but across the continent. She’d been to rehab. She was SOBER 90 days.

Today, Maddie is free and sober and happy. She shares every day that she is sober and doesn’t do drugs anymore. I am so happy for her and every time that she says she is free of heroin I cry and I am happy.

I cry because I want her life, too. I want to be mini-Maddie, I want that young life, that chance again, to have another chance. To be on the bus, to ask be with someone, to ask, please, can I help you, can I save your life, please, you don’t have to die today….

Love, Julie and Puzzle.