Typical Sunday shopping trip

Today, I am happy because although I dreaded Sunday shopping, I made out well and didn’t spend a fortune! I found a new lampara (lamp), just the kind I wanted for about five or six dollars. I have another just like it, and I find it’s far more practical than the ones para mesa or para escritorio (for table, or for writing desk). My reasoning is that a table lamp could fall off the table, and a desk lamp likewise go crashing to the floor. I have another favorite, this one is a USB one that has yet to break down on me. We all know the flashlight dilemma here. As soon as you bring it home, you find out: It doesn’t work, or it works once or twice and then, quits. How many of my dead flashlights have made it to the flashlight graveyard? Hint: don’t even bother trying to fix them. Toss ’em. Save the batteries if they still work. Another hint: watch those bargain batteries. They might have died years ago.

A couple of days ago, I found a lovely second-hand shop on a side street near where I like to pick up food for Puzzle. I was thrilled that she was selling a wonderful-looking, sturdy and simple escritorio. The price was much, much lower than I’ve ever seen one in a regular immeubles shop. Made of wood, strong and sturdy, no wobbling nor flimsiness about it. I thought good and hard about it, but then realized even though delivery was free, I won’t be able to move that piece very easily. I can lift and carry all my furniture and belongings, and this would be one I can’t lift myself. Imagine getting it into a car or truck.

Today while I was shopping, I finally found a folding aluminum table. I discovered the proper pronunciation of aluminio. I’ve been goofing that one a while. As it turned out, they had plenty of these, but I couldn’t reach up high enough to grab one for myself.

I asked the sales people to help. In the process, I goofed up baja and alta. I must have looked silly, pointing up and saying baja. But I told the salesguy that I had been confused. I am so tired of using this round table as a desk since “it falls off the edge and goes crashing” is the name of the game with this mesa. I think it’s a better eating table, and not so great for writing. In a bit, I’m going to do a switcheroo and move this round one into my other room, and the square one will be my new desk. It didn’t cost much, even less than the second-hand wood one.

I spied a set of shelving for baño. But why use it in there? I can’t, really, if I do, only very tiny people like me and Puzzle will be able to get into that room. Even when I do, I’ll likely knock the shelves over anyway. So the shelves are in fact for elsewhere. Maybe my cocino.  I have a mountable corner shelf I have yet to put up in the baño. I will get to it luego. 

Today’s goodie for Puzzle is corazon. Heart meat, that is beef heart. Here, the cut is different from what you get in USA. Our cuts of heart meat are more suitable for dogs since there’s a good bit of fat left on there. I’d say beef heart you buy in USA with the fat trimmed off is too lean for most dogs. For very cheap, I get to bribe Puzzle and make her go nuts. Beef here is the best in the world. Doesn’t everyone know that? The other day, I treated her to tripe, but to tell you the truth, I think tripe smells disgusting. That means Puzzle loves it even more!

I took a taxi home. I’d say it was raining…sort of. Enough to motivate me to give the local taxi company my business. I got to practice my español, too. I learned a few new words. The right word for “short distance” isn’t chica distancia, but corta distancia. Corto/a means “cut” as in pantalones cortos, which are shorts. Only are shorts singular?  Maybe it’s corto.  I cannot recall. If you goof your español, you might say something terribly funny, or worse, embarrassing.

Last week, I was getting rather fed up with my dying Pebble watch so when I spied a cheap reloj in a teensy papelaria, I bought it. I think it was only a few dollars. And I’d say worth about that much, too. However, it keeps great time and tells me the date. Here here, Dr. Shrink, I can tell answer what month and day it is, stay out of my life! For the price I paid, the watchband broke after a few days. Today, I made a new one out of a piece of elastic. I need to install the velcro and then, I’ll be done with the final version of homemade watchband.

A few more things will come in handy: another cell phone SIM chip, and something better than what I have for a bedside table, since the stool I’m using is the “it falls off and goes crashing in the night” version. Never mind the piled-up boxes I’m using as a table, that’s not going to do much longer. I’d like to quit procrastinating and construct the room divider I’m planning, too. I have the pieces, I just gotta put them all together.

I was so happy that I didn’t spend a fortune today. Last week I went overboard for sure. I dislike “stuff.” Except the simple things that make me happy. I need to get rid of some of my “stuff” too, just to lighten the load some.

On another note, when I was a kid, our family dog named Joffa got into the garbage regularly. Raiding it was one of her favorite and most yummy ways to drive our mom nuts. But Mom devised not only a dog-proof garbage pail, but a Joffa-proof one. This was a wood contraption Mom built herself that hung under a cabinet. The contraption swung open and inside was the pail. Covered. That plus the swinging door was latched. You bet Joffa deserved no less that a first-class preventative measure.

I invented a Puzzle-proof pail myself. I admit it isn’t as elaborate as our mom’s invention But it works just fine. Remember that during the second leg of our journey here, from Miami to Montevideo, Puzzle flew cargo? Well, I was either going to use that doggie crate as a doghouse or storage place. So inside are a few things I don’t use often, plus a small garbage pail. With doggie door closed, Puzzle can’t raid the garbage anymore. She’s much more of a wimp than Joffa was, so I don’t even need to latch the door.

Funny, Puzzle never raided garbage before. I guess garbage here is much more yummy than the crap we threw out in the States.

Today, or, rather, earlier and also last night, I considered leaving Uruguay and finding another location. But…naw, I am not going to do that. I love it here too much. I’ll just live with the noise for now. Better days are on their way. As are a few pairs of earplugs I mail-ordered.  Meanwhile, I’ll have tons of fun playing casa with you all.

¡Ciao!

 

Excerpt from my writings

INTRODUCTION

I spent over three decades believing I had a mental illness. I dutifully showed up at countless appointments and attended numerous programs. I took any pill that was prescribed to me without missing a dose. I didn’t question the expertise of my doctors. Why should I question a doctor? They had letters after their names, and framed degrees decorating their walls. They claimed they knew all about what ailed me, citing their expertise and education.

I knew that doctors were human and that mistakes were possible. I often observed inconsistencies and contradictions among those who worked in the field of mental health. When it crossed my mind that maybe the doctors were wrong, I pushed these thoughts away as if they were mosquitoes. Within a few months of my induction into the System, defending that System became habit, though all the logic I had learned during my childhood and schooling told me something was amiss.

You don’t have to be around the wards, programs, and residences very long to see injustices. If you are a patient or work in the System, most likely, you saw these right away. You observed the powerlessness and voicelessness of patients. You were most likely told, as I was, that what I observed was “treatment.” You began to believe that some people are “sick” and need these “treatments.” Maybe you thought more people should have more access to these procedures, or considered yourself lucky to have received them.

This was how we patients coped with this world we found ourselves in, that was inherently unbalanced and grossly inhumane. To rationalize what we observed on a daily basis was the only way we could survive. Those who did not rationalize nor buy into “diagnosis” escaped the System as soon as they could. We patients who were left behind, still stuck in our mini-world of therapy, believed that the escapees were denying themselves what was necessary for wellness.

We saw ourselves as “well” according to how obediently we adhered to our prescribed protocol. It wasn’t truly wellness; rather, it was wellness according to skewed standards, revisions of normalcy that were tailored for us, and sometimes, by us. We believed that all the interventions such as pills, ER trips and incarcerations in hospitals were a necessary part of our lives. We desperately clung to the idea that marginalization was okay, that this was our place.

Many of us began to insist that others believe in our complete inability to change, claiming that this was the nature of the beast. Again, this sort of statement is usually illogical. Most of us had long-term bad habits that we couldn’t change simply due to the expectations of those who validated our diagnoses. These included not only the mental health personnel but our families, friends, and communities. Yet to remain in our position necessitated that the diagnoses be validated, and even updated or upgraded. Without even realizing it, we reverted to old habits to ensure the security of our marginalized status. Our own validation of diagnosis and inability to change ensured stability. This was my observation over several decades.

Yes, it’s a trap, and for me, the toughest thing was to pry myself out of that trap. Breaking off the chains wasn’t easy nor painless. Not only did I have to shake off society’s incorrect assumptions about me, but I had to change my own self-perception. There are many ways to do this, but for me, the most effective was through writing the truth, and through thorough examination of how I ended up with all those diagnoses in the first place. This meant delving deeply into my past. Thankfully, I had had extensive training in creative writing and memoir. I had earned my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in 2009. After that, I vowed to write about everything I had not written about before. I wrote about the stories behind the stories, the flip sides no one wanted to believe. I threw off the idea of the “recovery story” and focused on the uncomfortable elements of that story, previously left out because these puzzle pieces didn’t fit.

Herein in this book are those pieces. I pinpoint the hasty decisions I made myself and that others made for me that changed my life. I examined the dynamics of each of these moments. What had caused these things to happen? What was behind it all? Who was benefiting, and why?

Awareness of corporate greed wasn’t enough to explain what had occurred. I was there when these things happened and I saw and heard the wool pulled over my own eyes many times, and over the eyes of my unsuspecting parents. How had these haughty experts convinced me and my family that I was so ill, when by all means, they were all completely missing the boat? Why did I allow myself to be taken out of society altogether, and given a new, substandard (dumbed down, if you will) set of expectations?

This book examines these moments, the interactions in the halls and rooms and offices where these decisions were made. While many expected I would forget these pivotal moments, it so happened that I didn’t. I write in hopes that others can relate, and that what I am saying is helpful in some way.

Julie Greene

Sunday morning…..

Last Sunday, I knew it was the day I do my podcast, but I couldn’t because my neighbor was blasting her TV. I waited, and the TV never stopped all day. This is now a constant battle. Blocking out other people’s noise. Knowing I shouldn’t have to live my life constantly fleeing from noise pollution. I don’t know what to do right now. I know if I tell my neighbor to please turn it down, that’ll work for 15 minutes and it’ll be back up again. I keep asking myself if I move again, will I be faced with the same situation? Do I need to move to another country where they value quiet? Or find a place here that’s in the country away from neighbors? Is this the consequence of having no money? Or did I just end up in a slum because I was in such a hurry when I moved?

Looking back, I know I was deceived by a friend, and the consequence of that was that I had only a week or two to scramble and find a place. I was so angry and hurt that I took my blog offline for a week or two at that time, never mind not wanting to be “found” online by any future landlord. I guess I was also disappointed in humanity in general. I was lucky I didn’t end up homeless trying to find a new place.  There’s nothing I can do about any of what happened. I only know not to be trusting, since humans aren’t trustworthy, on a whole.

How many times have I been offered housing, only for the person to change their mind? How many times have I been told, “I have a place,” only to find that the place either doesn’t exist or is uninhabitable or not as cheap as I had been told? There were always strings attached, added expenses or something I hadn’t counted on.

It must have been February or March of 2014 that this occurred. I was so desperate to leave Watertown and posted on Facebook that I was looking for housing far away, hoping to start life over again. Sure enough, someone realized just how vital  it was for me to get away and offered her place to me for a week. She lived in a city in USA in the Midwest.

So I thought this was terrific. To have me there a week wasn’t going to put her out that much. She had a room, apparently, and while I was there I’d search for housing.

But the woman tricked me. Let’s call her C.  I was so ashamed and actually, floored by what C did that I didn’t want to tell anyone. She introduced me to a friend of hers on Facebook. She said, “Julie, meet S, she has ED too and you might enjoy talking.” So S and I were messaging on Facebook for a while about our experiences. Little did I know, C was still in the conversation.

S and I kept talking. S told me she got a lot of benefit from those DoTerra essential oils. Then, I realized S was trying to sell me something. I realized, rather quickly, that DoTerra is a pyramid scheme, much like Tupperware or Amway, these DoTerra products are overpriced snake oil and S was trying to rope me into it. I politely said “I’ll check out that website, thanks,” but was left wondering about the entire conversation.

Next thing you knew, C said, “This was a three-way conversation. I want to learn about ED so I’ll read the entire dialogue between you and S.”

I didn’t say a word. I guess C decided she wanted nothing to do with me after that, and i never heard from her again. She reneged the entire housing offer. Based on  her own bigotry, I guess. C was just another person claiming to be in the Movement but somehow thought ED was some kind of leprosy. Just another person who thinks that ED is a moral issue. Like much of Watertown did, in the end.

I was devastated after that. I didn’t know what to do, nor whether to tell anyone. I tried to put it out of my head. I asked myself if anyone loved me at all, if anyone valued me, if anyone cared if I lived or died.