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Revenge satisfaction: Watertown MA

No way do I believe in karma. Still, I enjoy fantasizing about some very mean guy upstairs who smites entire populations for being sinful. I was taught in Hebrew school that God did this occasionally. Did folks back in the ancient days have no other explanation for disastrous events such as earthquakes and hurricanes? It saddens me that so many people even today were so ignorant as to assume that Katrina was God’s revenge on whatever sin may have been happening in New Orleans. Every person does good things and bad things. I never thought of New Orleans as sinful, and I still don’t. In fantasy one can imagine anything but to spread this as truth doesn’t seem productive.

I’ve heard the conspiracy theories as well, that we have technology to produce storms of that magnitude. We’ve been dropping ice into clouds to help farmers for decades.  The suggestion that the storm was man-made, masterminded as experiment in obliterating huge segments of population, doesn’t seem all that unrealistic to me. I cannot comment either way, only to know that there are many possibilities. If this was indeed the case, then surely, those responsible made sure to keep the public almost entirely in the dark. At the same time, the government’s explanation for 9/11 sounds completely flimsy to me, the kind of thing that might happen only on Star Trek, the Outer Limits, or some other futuristic fantasy show.

I find it necessary to fantasize at times. It’s how I cope with all the horrible things that happened to me.  So I imagine there really is a God. I imagine that if it’s true that God is vengeful and angry, as the Torah says, then allow me to borrow this concept for a while. I hate to admit, but I enjoy fantasizing that this angry god is having a blast pummeling Watertown, Massachusetts with snow.

Watertown is full of bigotry and hatred. The town seems two-faced to me, trying desperately to maintain its reputation as multicultural and benevolent. I never found that to be truly the case. The overall underlying attitude is hatred for immigrants and poor people.  The older immigrant population as well as folks who are poor or handicapped or labeled with a mental illness are being pushed out or live marginalized lives. At the same time, a young, high-salaried population is moving into Watertown, as it continues to increase in wealth. The general tone is that this change, or, rather, purification, is the new face of Nazism in the US.

Dear God, I know it is only in my wild imagination that You really do this kind of thing. I enjoy my vengeful fantasies. I believe in freedom of thought.  The thought that this snowstorm is God’s Revenge for the sake of not only me, but many victims, is pleasurable to me, I will keep on enjoying it, even though I don’t truly believe it.

When I was a kid, I fantasized that very bad things might happen to kids who teased me. In fact, some did end up in rather unfortunate situations. I wasn’t responsible for these things that occurred. I wished many times that the kids would be told to stop doing what they were doing. Adults turned a blind eye. What else was a kid to do but dream up silly, harmless fantasies?

Parallel to this, I know I am a good person who didn’t do anything wrong but ended up the victim of horrendous hateful acts. I could do nothing to stop it. No family member nor attorney nor government, or anyone who had the power to stop it, did a darned thing to intervene. I begged for someone, anyone with the power to stop the hatred please do so, but I failed to get the message across.  I am not the only one who fell victim to this. Can you blame me for enjoying every single report of yet more snow?

Just thinking it does no harm, although some believe that the mind has power beyond what is immediately apparent. I wish I could help others just by imagining very good things happening to them. I’m not a fairy godmother nor do I have a magic wand. I’d love to take away pain and anguish and make people’s lives better by spreading around fairy dust or saying some magic chant. I don’t have that kind of power.

Many wish for it, though. How many times do we hear, “I wish I could bring your loved ones back to life,” or, “I wish I could take away your pain,” or, “I wish I could wave a magic wand and your cancer would be gone.”

“Lose 20 pounds this week!” So many people would love to wake up with thinner bodies that they fall for expensive fad cures.

I also hear, “Isn’t there a pill for this that will make it go away?” We are easily fooled into buying into fake fairy godmothers, are we not? We will buy into instant cures even if these are lies.

It’s all fantasy. Let’s not market that which is a lie. Instead, enjoy freedom of thought. You may wish all you want for instant changes, but be aware that these are only dreams, and shouldn’t be turned into money-making ploys.

And the snow goes on and on. Allow me to say, “Nyah nyah” just this once.


What is insane? ATTN: Montgomery C Brower, Forensic Psychiatry, McLean Hospital

Regular readers of my blog know that I am all in favor of transparency. So in the name of transparency I shall state that I was once a patient of the above Dr. Brower. He was a young resident at McLean Hospital. I was not yet 40 years old. My father was still alive. I met Dr. Brower, a rather young, energetic Dr. Brower, while I was inpatient on one of the “units.” I’m trying to recall the name of the “unit.” I believe these were shuffled around quite a bit as the hospital downsized over the years. They seemed to have sold some of their buildings, making some into condos. I laugh now. They once had apple orchards, pear trees, even woodsy areas. All that got sold off. So if you read my book you might not make much sense out of the “forbidden path” bit. Truthfully, there once were a bunch of “forbidden paths” on the McLean grounds, and I’m sure there were plenty of patients and former patients and probably disgruntled staff who hung themselves from the trees or otherwise died in the woods there. Didn’t Anne Sexton mention these woods too? As did Sylvia Plath. I suppose I shouldn’t. I’m not dead, either way. I doubt their literary mention of the woods is what did them in.

Okay, this was called NB. North Belknap. Yeah, there was also a South Belknap. Of course, if there’s going to be a North, they might as well build a South. There are North and South America. However, North America has forgotten that South America exists. Hola! (Oops, they didn’t quite hear me. Shall I call out a little louder?)

Yes, and there were two North Belkaps, 1 and 2. These were NB1 and NB2. There was a 3, but this was a floor of offices. I hear they made that floor into a Clozaril clinic for a while. Most hospitals shuffle around all the time. Why is that? Can’t they make up their minds? Why are hospitals always under construction? They can’t sit still. They are always on hills. Elevated moods. They must have ADHD, high anxiety, and by all means, delusions of grandeur. Shoot ‘em up with some Ritalin. They’ve got a brain disease. It’s permanent and they clearly lack insight into their condition.

So there I was, a lowly patient on NB1 I believe. I met Dr. Brower for the first time. He wasn’t my doctor at first but he was the Unit doctor. You guys know what I mean. The one on the Unit that is your doctor while you are inpatient. I didn’t like him. I started to like him after a while, though. I guess he grew on me. But at first, I found him super annoying.

Now you guys gotta realize, when you deal with a shrink, you don’t just deal with that one shrink. There’s a hierarchy. There’s the shrink, his boss, his boss’s boss, the insurance company, the hospital they are working for, the administration, and on and on. Of course, your family, too. Never mind YOU. Do you think you actually have a say in what happens? And of course, your prior shrinks and whatever bullshit they may have put into your records that you cannot control.

It was then 1996. Records were mostly still on paper. I’d say electronic records were coming into the fore and were about to take over, but not yet. It was quite common for the next decade to enter a hospital and find out that you’ve been billed under the incorrect social security number.

Know what happens when you leave the country? You look at your Medicaid card and burst into laughter, because suddenly, it’s meaningless. It feels like a terrific Fuck You. Or it did for me. I still have mine but I have no clue what to do with it.

So there was a rather youthful Dr. Brower. I had no clue what to think. Know what NB was like back then? It smelled like an old library. Like books. We did have books there, in fact. This was back in the day when books were allowed. It wasn’t all gross there the way it is now. Or shall I say in 2011 I was there and it was downright disgusting. Dirt all over the floor…never mind the bathrooms. I cleaned them myself, so I would know.

Joe told me, later on, that Dr. B looked “preppie.” Joe was right. He did. Kinda. I always felt somewhat embarrassed talking to Dr. B because he spoke too loudly. So I’d be talking to him and the whole world would hear his half of the conversation. I would wonder: Does he think I am deaf? Why does he speak with such a loud voice? One day, I heard him speak to an elderly lady and as far as I could tell, she was hard of hearing, so I figured that speaking loudly might be perhaps appropriate, but to speak to everyone with an elevated voice like that, wasn’t that assuming some sort of air of importance? I never quite figured that one out. Finally, I was so annoyed and so embarrassed that I got up the courage to speak up.

This was after I had long left NB and was seeing him outpatient. I’d been seeing him for a long while and we’d developed a rapport. I told him flat out to kindly lower his voice. I told him that his voice was so loud that it carried through the walls into the other doctor offices, and thus violated my confidentiality. During this same appointment I had to remind him a number of times. I felt silly. Was I his mother?

So back to 1996. I admit they were sick of me. I’m sure of it. I was a frequent flyer by then. Who knows? I wish my PCP had had more of a say in the goings-on. She was the one who was concerned that my weight was dropping, but no one else gave a shit. Then, she ended up moving her practice and I never saw her again. She also was well aware that the Risperdal was causing me to miss periods because it raises Prolactin. No one else gave a shit about that, either.

Then, I had shitloads of shock treatments. One after the other. Dr. Brower was not in favor of the shock at all. Actually, it was my idea originally because I’d had it the previous year, 1995. However, Dr. Michael Henry, new on the staff at the time, was the shock-happy one who decided I “needed” lots and lots of shock. I believe Dr. Henry recently left McLean, but I’m not certain about this. I am rather certain that he was still working there in 2012. I recall specifically what he looked like. I am certain that anyone who gets “ECT” won’t forget him. You can’t.

Dr. Henry has dark, dark eyebrows. You don’t forget those eyebrows. I think those eyebrows are the last thing you see before you go under. They have an anesthesiologist tell you, “Pick a nice dream!” and then, rather quickly, you are out. When you wake up, you might find out they’ve taken your clothes off. They might tell you that they had to do that because you wet them. Yep, shock does that. When you wake up, you might find yourself puking up nothing, too. From the anesthesia. Or you might not wake up at all. They don’t tell anyone about those folks, the ones that die. How do they get the bodies out of there? (Oh, Julie, stop talking like that, it’s triggering people….) No, really, do they wheel them through the tunnels? Maybe they serve them up for dinner. They might save money that way. We all knew the food was gross.

So, seeing as my posts get posted up on Twitter, and I’ve addressed this to the attention of Dr. Brower, I assume this lovely little post will eventually make its way to him. See, McLean knew they’d done wrong by me. They knew they’d screwed me bad. They knew they’d given me way too many shock “treatments.” So what the heck were they gonna do?

You screw up a perfectly normal, okay lady. She was fine before, now she’s fucked. She’s a basket case. What do you tell her doting parents? How do you explain this to her boyfriend? What about her former therapist, who might inquire at some point? Here you had an intelligent 39-year-old woman who had a job and had been considering college, and you gave her so many shock treatments that now, she can’t think straight.

Her parents suspect. Her boyfriend suspects. One of her old friends has made a call to the hospital demanding an answer. What if there’s a lawsuit? What then? What if her father actually doesn’t die from cancer and decides to sue? What about the brothers, they might actually wake up and care about her even though right now they apparently don’t? After all, they might get some real money out of this….

The doctors had to think quickly. This woman’s insurance was running out. That was it. State hospital. But she needed a new diagnosis. Quick. They needed an explanation. She complained of feeling “confusion.” Of course she did, it was from the shock, but McLean was NOT going to to the ethical thing and apologize.

Imaginary scenario:

Dr. B: Miss Greene (he always called me that), I want to tell you that it’s entirely our fault. We gave you too many shock treatments and that’s the explanation for the intermittent mental confusion that you experience. Honestly, we don’t even know if you will ever get your mind back. We’re quite embarrassed about what happened.

But no, that’s not what he said. Of course not. Patients never get an apology. Nor are they ever given an honest answer.

He told me I was “dissociating.” Yep, dissociating. I look back and laugh. No way did that one fit, but they tried real hard to give me a new phony diagnosis to fit their gross malpractice.

Another thing he tried was to get obsessed about my periods. So many male doctors get obsessed like that. Dr. Brower was no exception. He wanted to chart them. I felt like rolling my eyes at him.

I feel so sorry for my parents. I remember when my mom said, “It was the shock that ruined her, wasn’t it?” She really did word it that way. Seriously. Yeah, maybe it was tactless. But I value my mom’s honesty and the fact that she dared to come out with it when those doctors were so dishonest and cagey. For all their bogus terminology, I really wonder how they manage to stay in practice.

I’ve looked Dr. Brower up. He’s testified in court in some famous cases. One was a school stabbing. He stated that a kid was “not insane” when he stabbed a student.

I ask you right now, Dr. Brower: What is insane? He stated that the student wasn’t delusional. Okay, so delusional is insane. But is delusional the only excusable insane there is in a court of law?

How about this insane? What if I go out for coffee at my usual place. I turn away from my coffee momentarily to speak to a passerby. While this is happening, someone drops a drug into my coffee. I don’t know much about drugs really. Let’s say it doesn’t affect the taste of the coffee and it dissolves right away. So I finish my coffee and a bit later, have no clue what’s going on, get into my car, and deliberately run someone over. Am I insane? I’m not delusional. But that’s insane, isn’t it?

How about this insane? I am given a drug by my doctor. Let’s say it’s to treat a rash. Oh, a steroid let’s say. I tell my doctor, “This drug is making me feel terrible. I feel like I am gonna murder someone.” But my doctor says, “Don’t worry, just finish the bottle. What you feel is only a feeling. Accept it.” So I get in my car and deliberately run someone over. Is that insane? I’m not delusional. I willingly took the drug. I obeyed my god-doctor. I was competent. I was treating my rash. So was I insane?

How about this insane? You heard about Rehteah Parsons? Yep, the kid who was bullied. She was badly bullied, driven to suicide. We know about just how bad that bullying was. This has gone to court and it’s been in the media and in petitions. Do you know how many kids that happens to that we DON’T hear about?

Think about how they treated her. You drive someone crazy like that. You torture someone to the point of suicide. Is that insane?

Looking back on my own years in the MH system, looking back on ANYONE’s years and years and years locked up, tied up, forced to take drugs, forced to appointment after appointment, told how incapable we are, how stupid we are, how limited we are, how we are doomed for life, lied to, treated with deception, not told of consequences of this bogus treatment we are given, not told of what was REALLY done to us over the years and years, no explanation given for the deaths of our friends, and the ruined lives of our comrades, the families we’ve lost or never had or never had the chance to bear…..Is this not torture? Is this not bullying? Can you not blame us for one minute for feeling a little bit pissed off?

No, it’s all medicalized, pathologized, compartmentalized into insurance numbers so you can safely bill us and call us by yet one more diagnosis.

Good grief. If I could paid for every diagnosis I have ever had, I’d make damn fortune. If I could earn a dollar for every pill they coerced me into taking, I’d have enough money so I wouldn’t have to worry about the next meal for quite a while. Puzzle and I could eat like gourmets. I wonder how much money I could make if I got paid for all the minutes I spent waiting in shrink waiting rooms. I should be compensated for my time! They didn’t call me Frequent Flyer for nothing. You accumulate brownie points, right?

I think I need honesty points. Honesty points for every single freaking time I didn’t lie to a shrink. Every single time I walked into a shrink’s office and said in earnest, “Can you help me? I’m having a problem with _____.” and actually thought the jerk was going to help instead of out for himself. Out to puff himself up. Cuz Dr. Brower, I saw your photo. You sure looked nice in that shoot. You sure they didn’t touch up that photo a bit? Sure they do. It’s the age of Photoshop, ain’t it? I know how to use it, too.

No, I doubt Dr. Michael Henry did up his eyebrows. They were real, all right. He didn’t grow them that way to deliberately spook someone before they went under. It’s just that I have a good memory. I doubt you shrinks are too pleased that I remember this crap, either. I hear you don’t care for whistleblowers too much.

Either way, I remember you well. I liked you a lot. It’s just that I want you to think good and hard on what I asked. What the hell is “insane”? After all, folks like you have a lot of clout in the courts. That’s all I ask, Dr. B.

Julie Greene, your former patient, 1996-1998

List of the year in numbers, Q & A 2014, and why I left the USA

Here’s my list, folks:

In 2014, I….

How many friends did you lose in 2014?

Let’s see. It’s hard to count them all. Some deliberately slipped away, hoping I wouldn’t notice. I do know of one person who due to tech glitch thought I didn’t want to be her friend anymore. Luckily, that got cleared up and I explained no way was that deliberate on my part.
I’ve counted four friends lost. And no, five. Okay, thought of one other. Oh no, two more. Eight? Probably far more than that.

How many jobs did you apply for but get turned down in 2014?

I applied for one job but got turned down due to not having a good internet connection. Fair enough. I have a very good internet connection now, but they never contacted me. I didn’t apply for very many jobs, knowing I am unemployable due to having no work history. I need to lie next time. Sadly, that’s the only way to get by.

How many housing situations did you get turned down from in 2014?

Oh my god so many. I tried my darndest. I applied to a lot of places. I remember the letters pouring in. “We aren’t putting any more people on our waiting list.” Or turned away at the door from low income housing cuz my income was TOO low. I finally got an application in to a place in Boston. Inner city. I was told the wait was two to three years when I applied, but a year later when I called to see where I was on the list, they said seven years.

Then there was the gal in Kansas City who seemed so nice and told me I could come live with her, stay a week, then by then I’d have found a place. This whole thing was so sinister and I never should have trusted her. I was starting to look into how I’d get Puzzle and me to Kansas City. Then she said she was going to be near my home in Massachusetts soon, so she’d bring me back. This was a complete stranger, someone in the Movement.

But…Just cuz they are in the movement doesn’t mean they are well-intentioned. What happened was that she did a nasty Facebook trick to get me to open up about the extent of my eating disorder. She introduced me to a pal of hers who had had an ED. We messaged privately, but this was still a three-way conversation. I didn’t even know what would happen. I opened up to the gal who had ED, grateful for some opportunity to communicate because I had so little. Then, the Kansas City gal said she was going to read this messaging to learn about ED.

I never heard from her again. She dropped contact immediately. No ride to Kansas City. Not one word, completely dropped contact.  Okay, discrimination, right? I’ll never know cuz I never heard from her again. I didn’t want to speak to her after that and I felt that what she’d done was awfully cruel. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I felt ashamed.

I tried at random calling housing places all over the country. None were within my price range. I ended up telling them I’d contact them when I was getting ready to move. I was too embarrassed to say I had so little money. I remember pleading on Facebook for ideas, where to go, where on earth could I turn? That was so humiliating.

Must have been a few months ago I saw friends on Facebook offering housing to their friends. I didn’t get any offers like that. I felt so rejected. People knew I was in dire straits. I knew most couldn’t take a person in, even for a very short time. But I had like 300 friends. I felt like Oliver Twist. No place to go. It felt horrible. Wow, I was really cornered until I came here.

How many groups or clubs kicked you out in 2014?

Oh, church. They made it look like they weren’t kicking me out, but they were. They’ll deny, but that’s what happened. Why? Because after I was abused in a hospital they decided that taking legal action against the hospital was some sort of crime.

I tried to join a few groups. I was told I wasn’t wanted. For a group for people with eating problems, anorexics weren’t allowed. What did they have, weigh-ins for membership?

I tried to get speaking engagements but was turned down. I remember two occasions. I was getting sick of being told “No.”

How many times were you bullied in 2014?

Oh my goodness, that must be over 50. At least. No, over 100.

How many times were you rudely insulted in 2014? This doesn’t include perceived insults, but outright put-downs.

I’d say several hundred times, back in the USA, and continuing online even though I took off.

Out of nearly 365 days, how many of those days did you shed tears?

Until after I moved here, I cried every day.

In 2014, how many times did you attempt suicide?

Not once.

In 2014, how many times did you have a passing thought about killing yourself?

A few times, usually after someone insulted me, but this was only a passing thought. I never seriously considered it. I knew  back in Boston the medical people were denying me care and this neglect was causing my slow death. I’m so happy I got away.

Compared to last year, how depressed were you?

Far less. I was very sad after I was abused in 2013, but that has improved now that I have gotten away from shrinkage. Leaving that therapy mentality really helps!

Did you try to kill yourself in 2013?

No. I suffered from anorexia nervosa. I never made an attempt on my life in 2013. I’ve been treated so badly in my life, that you’d think I’d have killed myself  by now, but no, I haven’t.  In summer 2013 I got so starved that my kidneys were failing I wasn’t capable of getting myself to eat anymore. I begged for help to get out of the cycle and was flat out denied. Actually, this is documented. Anorexia isn’t the same as actively killing yourself. Many with anorexia do commit suicide, most likely because of bad treatment or neglect.

My kidneys began to fail, as I figure, July 1, 2013. That’s when the whole world started feeling like I was on a ship on a rocky ocean. It never stopped nor gave me a break. July 10 I saw my own psychiatrist, Dr. Kimberly Pearson, and terminated with her because she had threatened me and yelled at me in her office more than once. I told her I’d arranged follow-up care at Harvard Vanguard. I sweet-talked my way through the appointment, but inside, I was seething. I hated that woman who cared about her money far more than she cared about us patients.

July 18, 2013, I saw Linda Simon at Harvard Vanguard. I was desperate for help. She obviously had never treated anyone with severe anorexia before and had no clue of the seriousness of my situation. She took a phone call during our session. No, this wasn’t an emergency or family member in some crisis. This was a casual call. She stayed on the phone, chatting away while I sat there. I told myself this lady wasn’t for me. She asked where I’d last been hospitalized and I told her Walden, July 2012. She had never heard of Walden. Wow, then I really knew. Surely, if she knew what she was doing and had experience with eating disorders, she would have heard of Walden. Right in front of me, she opened their website and took a peek, then demanded I sign a paper allowing her to get my records from Walden. I told her, “Why don’t you believe me, instead of believing other practitioners?” But no, Linda was so demanding, threatening me in her office. I told her the doctor and staff at Walden never listened to me that July, never even cared. So why should this Linda rely on unreliable records? Afterward, I phoned Harvard Vanguard to retract my paperwork, refusing to allow records-sharing. She phoned me up and threatened me, raising her voice.

I phoned my primary care physician at Harvard Vanguard. I told her what had happened. She said no way should I see Linda Simon again. She arranged for me to see this other guy, a psychologist, Dr. Bauman. My appointment was the 23rd of July.

Dr. Bauman immediately told me he didn’t treat eating disorders and knew nothing about anorexia. I was glad he told me the truth. But I begged him for help anyway. He refused. He referred me to a lady in Harvard Vanguard’s Cambridge office.

Puzzle had a vet appointment. I was so scared because I could barely stand up. I knew it was getting harder and harder to make sense when I spoke, due to starvation. I asked if there was anyone at church who could go with me. Nope. Everyone was “too busy” or “on vacation.” Oh, they probably were. Isn’t church a place where you find community? Nope. Not for skinny me. They were all off enjoying their wonderful vacations, and I was starving to death all alone.

I called the Harvard Vanguard office and made an appointment with Fatima Munion. The appointment was August 6. Wow, what a joke. We spent the whole session, paid for by insurance, on demographics. She said she felt sorry for me. My next appointment was not for another month, in fact, it was in late September. She said, “Talk to your social worker.” I left, terribly discouraged. I remember I fell when I was trying to get off the bus. I was that weak. Then I realized I didn’t have a social worker. I had a CBFS lady but she was unreliable (they all are), was in love with her cell phone, and knew nothing of ED. I felt unloved and lost.

I had been trying to hook up at the Women’s Center, and met someone there via e-mail.  It took like six e-mails before she even told me her first name. It was like pulling teeth, she was so cagey. I never managed to schedule a meeting with her and apparently the Center wouldn’t give out phone numbers. I felt like giving up.  I told myself no one gave a shit. I truly believe I was right, very few did.

I tried a few times to reach out on Facebook. I remember I wrote private messages to a few people and got NO RESPONSE! What the fuck are friends for? I was too starved to feel pissed off.

What happened to me wasn’t a suicide attempt. Far from it. I was dying, and begging for help. I never got it. That was very sad, but I’m sure glad I am alive.

I had a few friends who stuck around. One wonderful woman who called me every day when I was in the hospital. Another who visited me, but the following year, 2014, he dumped me over a stupid argument. I have another one who called me occasionally while I was inpatient, but for whatever reason, every time I talk to her now, I feel like she doesn’t even believe that I was abused. I think she assumes “perceived abuse.” It wasn’t perceived, it really happened, but you can’t force people to believe you. I think she assumes I have some disorder that causes me to “feel persecuted.”

Could thousands of people, rapidly growing in numbers in the antipsychiatry movement “perceive” similar abuse? We are gaining in solidarity, numbers, and strength. I know I am not alone.

So my answer is no, I never attempted suicide in 2013. Sadly, everything that happened at Mount Auburn was based on lies, not based on the picture I honestly presented to them.

After the abuse, I felt I had no reason to live. I knew the hospitalization could have gone otherwise, but didn’t. I wasn’t treated with respect. Had I been respected there and treated like I was a human being, things would have been far different for me when I left the hospital. Had my community welcomed me back and given me leads for finding legal help, my life would have been different, too.

I cried every day. I felt that Mount Auburn had ruined me. I had no in-person companionship except Puzzle. I cried and cried, asking God, or anyone, Why did they abuse me? I wasn’t suicidal, but many in my situation would have killed themselves had they been abused like that. I knew if I killed myself, the shrinks would have absolved themselves of all responsibility, convincing the authorities that the abuse was imagined. They would claim my refusing “treatment” was why I killed myself. I sure didn’t want to die misinterpreted. I hung on, hoping that things would get better.

I had to hang on a long time. Finding Mad in America was key, actually, going to the Justina Pelletier protests and meeting others.

I might have stayed in the Boston area if I’d even had a voice there. But I didn’t. I’d show up at places, try to contribute, and was told to shut up. I had no clue I was valued at all by anyone. I saw other survivors in the movement getting published, being invited to speaking engagements, and being honored. I wasn’t. I only got rejected over and over.  Where was love? I felt like Oliver Twist without a home. I needed to find my place. I knew the answer was not Mental Health Care. Nor was I being accepted in Boston among the activists there.  It was something else.


I had to create my own place in the world. You won’t find it in any “help” organization. You won’t find it in a hospital nor in therapy. You won’t find it in another person. You have to create it on your own. No one will build that place for you.

You must try hard. Find that place. God isn’t in a church. God isn’t in the sky.  God is in your soul. That’s the holiest place of all.  Some say God is everywhere but please don’t rely on some church cuz they mostly lie. If you have no answers to life’s problems, create your own answers. Then, you are blessed with inner knowledge that no one can take away.

Where are you now? How has life changed?

I guess for years I’ve wanted a coffee companion. I’m very happy now to have one. We meet every morning. Others stop by at our table to chat, in English and Spanish. I feel so blessed.

We have all kinds of ideas. I know a guy who cured his own cancer. I know many who speak out against what’s happening in the USA. Many who were booted out just like I was. You know when you HAVE to leave. And many won’t reveal what, exactly, drove them out of the USA. Often, it was bullying. People who are aware, who tell the truth, get bullied cuz no one wants to hear what they are saying. The general public  back in TV-land USA would rather be cozy with the feel-good brainwashing. Those of us here in exile refuse to believe it nor go along with it.

Some expats see the coming of mass extinction. Others see a total rebuilding of social structures. Many are writing books. Many enjoy self-sufficiency and farming the land. We are survivors, and each has a story to tell.

Many don’t attend the gatherings. I’d say those that show up represent a minority of those that have settled here. We are growing in numbers, folks that know what’s happening and are trying to change things on a global value.

I’d say I feel valued here. I’d say I have a place. People believe what I say and here, I am NEVER told “It didn’t happen.” Nothing like that. I’m never called crazy or paranoid. I don’t think it even crosses anyone’s mind here. Not even close.  In fact, I am seen as a person who is aware, that is, who has woken up to the reality of the way things are. People ask me for help or advice. This is thrilling to me. I am so happy to help out and contribute my knowledge, education, and experience.

I never thought, after the rejection in Boston, that the accusations and bullying would ever stop. But it does. Please, please please get away from oppression so you can live your life freely as an adult. Find your place. It’s well worth the wait.



Truth disclosed about persecution of a 56-year-old woman in Watertown, Massachusetts

My original plan was to print out this document and to leave it stashed in my freezer. I wrote it in May. That’s the freezer where I so carefully stored Puzzle’s meat that I cooked for her every day to make delicious homemade meals, at Woodland Towers.

We aren’t there. We haven’t been there for a long time. I had to abandon many belongings.  Eventually, they’ll figure out I’m gone.  Someone will go in there.  If I were to leave this note in the fridge it would be found much sooner.  Truth was, I was really medically sick when I departed, in a frightful state, and had no time to think to leave any sort of “note.”

Here it is, copied and pasted:


I was raped by my neighbor on March 25, 2008. Here’s what happened afterward…..

1. I tried to tell my therapist, Goldie Eder, what happened, but she ignored what I told her. She wasn’t a good therapist.
2. I tried to go to an ER (Mount Auburn) but was misdiagnosed with the “common cold” and sent home.
3. When I fired my therapist, and ended my treatment with her, my psychiatrist, Dr. Kimberly Pearson at Mass General literally yelled at me over the phone and told me I had bad judgment.
4. A local mental health crisis team heard my psychiatrist yelling through the phone and all the way across the room.
5. I found out about a local organization, called BARCC, that helps people who have been raped. I went to this organization.
6. I was advised to move away from my neighbor, who had raped me, especially since he was continuing to assault me.
7. I moved a few blocks away because the Housing Authority, by coincidence, was moving their tenants around anyway due to construction work being done on my building. The Housing Authority had no clue I’d been raped.
8. It turned out that this building I moved to is run down and barely livable. I have had to fight to get my basic needs met, such as access to hot water for a shower.
9. The neighbors were hostile to me for no reason ever since the day I moved in, so I never made friends there.
10. My physical health began to deteriorate. I lost weight and suffered from anorexia nervosa. Still, I managed to finish graduate school in July 2009.
11. About ten of my friends decided they didn’t want to be friends with someone who was a lot skinnier than they were (I think they found this intolerable), so they kicked me out of their group. Because of what they did, I felt disappointed in humanity. My attitude became pessimistic.
12. I had a decent therapist for a short while but she got laid off. The next one, Maria Mellano, turned out to be a controlling abuser who should by all means not be practicing psychotherapy.
13. In December 2010, I broke a tooth during a binge eating episode, and to treat my broken tooth, Maria Mellano sent me to a psychiatric ER at Mass General, and from there, I was sent to McLean Hospital for three weeks.
14. McLean told me my toothache was “all in my head.” They gave me new drugs. The worst of these was Trileptal. It took me months to figure out that this drug had caused me to have trouble with balance (from ataxia) and caused me to become so confused I could barely manage.
15. My two best friends decided not to be friends anymore. I didn’t think I’d ever get over the extreme loneliness I felt. To make things worse, many people then told me I had brought this upon myself.
16. My therapist continued to bully me. Bad therapy is far worse than no therapy at all.
17. By summer 2011, my weight dropped dangerously low. I was put into Mass General, suffering from dehydration and slow heartbeat.
18. The hospital abused me. There were multiple abuses. Mass General broke the law, and violated my basic privacy. They even refused to give me a drink of water. When they found out that I was blogging about their abuse, they lied to Dr. Pearson and told her there was a medical reason for the water restriction, however, this was untrue. I was a caged animal there.
19. My so-called friends said that I was “sick” to blame Mass General. They claimed that it wasn’t possible for a hospital to be wrong or to mistreat someone. However, I have since learned that I am not the only one who was abused in hospitals!
20. Both Mellano and Dr. Pearson denied that I had been abused. I would think that most mental health professionals would at least be supportive. I noticed my personality was changing as a result of the continuing, ongoing devaluation and subsequent lack of support.
21. I went to another hospital, Walden, to “recover” from my experience at Mass General. However, the doctor there said I needed to be incarcerated in the state hospital! Why? Because I refuse to shut up about what was done to me? I managed to get home again.
22. I joined a church, First Parish of Watertown, thinking I might find support there. I began to attend church every Sunday and get involved in events.
23. I tried to make friends at church but every friendship flopped. I had no clue why. It seemed that many church members wouldn’t even give me a chance, because it was known that I had a mental illness.
24. Maria Mellano threatened me every time I saw her and accused me of behaviors I did not do.
25. In February, I was locked up at Walden’s eating disorders unit, Alcott. It was then that I realized that “mental health care” was doing me no good. I made the decision to leave my therapist, Maria Mellano, and devoted my life from then on to helping other sufferers of eating disorders. I continued to see the psychiatrist, Dr. Pearson.
26. I lived in social isolation. No one called or visited and I rarely went out except to walk my dog, Puzzle. I was shocked when I realized that no one really cared about me. I never spent time with other people and was entirely alone. Why was this happening?
27. I made hundreds of calls trying to find “help.” I was turned down by therapists and treatment centers, every single one.
28. I was still suffering the consequences of having taken an antidepressant, Imipramine, and withdrawal of that drug.  Over the years I had been given so many drugs, multiple antipsychotic drugs I never needed and mood stabilizers as well. This irresponsible polypharmacy has left me with the inability to sleep.  I only had an eating disorder and no mental illness at all.
29. In 2012 I had a caring student acupuncturist. She and her supervisor encouraged me to go to police and report the rape, even though four years had passed.
29. However, because I couldn’t stop binge eating, and because I couldn’t get any help and very few people truly cared anymore, I made secret plans to kill myself.
30. I followed through with what I had promised my acupuncturist, and went to police to report the rape, even though I knew I was going to die anyway. It was rather strange talking to them, knowing that should this report go anywhere, I wouldn’t be alive to see the results. However, I felt that I was helping others, possibly preventing Cahill from assaulting further.
31. It was clear to me, though, by the response of Watertown Police that nothing would be done about my report even though I stated that Robert Cahill posed a threat to other tenants where he lived. The police stated that I had no physical proof that I had been raped. I realize now that the police only saw me as a crazy lady who was crying wolf. Not true. That man raped me and on other occasions, assaulted me. I felt as though I had no voice.
32. I was on my way to London. My CBFS state worker called me on my cell to inform me that as soon as I returned to this country, her boss would be coming with her at her next visit. I realized that the state workers wanted me hospitalized and silenced because I had complained about the poor quality of Edinburg CBFS services. I had threatened my worker’s boss, Phil Moncreiff, head of Team 2, that I would report his obvious negligence to the DMH. I knew he wanted to stop me.
33. On the day I was to kill myself in London via overdose, I filmed myself and showed the camera the pills I was going to take. I accidentally fell asleep. Then, it was too late to taking the pills. Bad timing caused me to change my plans and instead of dying, I went home on the plane, back to Boston. Upon arrival, I felt only glad to see my dog again.  I didn’t want to see humans.
34. Unfortunately, CBFS did send me to the hospital, however, they had been unaware of my suicide plan. I was hospitalized at Walden Behavioral Care’s Alcott unit for eating disorders. I was never really sure why they sent me to the hospital except perhaps to keep me quiet.
35. The care at Walden seemed pointless. They didn’t know anything about binge eating. They never listened even though I tried to tell them about my narrow miss with suicide.  They walked away from me each time I asked them to listen.
36. I was shocked that after I had struggled with an eating disorder, anorexia and binge eating, now for 32 years, and had never been able to get humane care for it. For decades I never found anyone with knowledge, and the only find out there specifically for eating disorders involved cruelty and force, not compassion. I asked to leave and told myself I would never go back.
37. After I got home I tried to tell Dr. Pearson about the poor quality of care at Walden, but she decided that my reports of uncaring staff were surely untrue. She said I must be delusional and paranoid. Of course, everything I said was correct, not paranoia at all. However, I was beginning to notice that Dr. Pearson accused me of paranoia every single time I complained of irresponsible, negligent, or abusive staff or therapists. She had given me antipsychotic medication, thinking this drug would erase my “paranoid thoughts” about abuse. However, the abuse really happened. Instead of being supportive and helpful, Dr. Pearson ignored abuse. Providers are supposed to report these things!
38. I went along with the drugging for a time, then stopped the Abilify. It was worsening the insomnia I already had due to my eating disorder. Abilify was not going to erase abuse!
39. The following March 2013, I went to a therapist named David Alpert. He told me I wasn’t paranoid. However, he tried to ask me out on a date on our third session, and also he acted in many other irresponsible ways, and lacked any knowledge about eating disorders, so I fired him.
40. Dr. Pearson yelled at me for firing David Alpert and she accused me of being delusional.  Again, Dr. Pearson shouldn’t have ignored my report of abuse.
41. I went on a rampage. I ate nothing around the time of the 2013 Marathon bombing. Then, I binged for four days straight. I gained 30 pounds in those four days. I feared that I was in medical danger. My doctors had been deceptive with me and not told me my kidneys were functioning under 40%. When I saw I had so much swelling in my body, I tried to ask for help and at least get my blood tested. Lindsay Brady at the Multi-Service Eating Disorders Association attempted to phone my primary care physician, Dr. Marian Klepser, as well as Dr. Pearson, on my behalf, trying to advocate for me. Lindsay said these two doctors were not returning her calls. I felt betrayed.
42. I was desperate to lose the weight I’d gained. I ate very little for the next few months. No one cared about me anymore. Some tried to tell me to go to therapy. That wasn’t caring. That was “doing their duty.” The church members rarely called me back when I called them. I wanted friendship, not therapy. Why did they not care?  Why were these people keeping themselves so distant?
43. I lost a lot of weight and finally dropped under 90. I kept losing. I reached close to 80 at the beginning of August.
44. August 12, 2013, I weighed 78 pounds and went into kidney failure. I was 55 years old. I was a full code in the Mount Auburn Hospital ER.
45. Everything after that went all wrong. Dr. Bibek Koirala contacted Dr. Pearson. I’m sure Dr. Pearson warned them I was a “liability case” because I had spoken out about abuse. Why did Dr. Pearson not even care about me as a human being after I had almost died?  I later learned that this was the only thing Dr. Pearson told them. She hadn’t told them any vital information about me that would have helped me medically, for instance, about the medications that I’d had bad reactions to in the past. I tried to tell the hospital staff myself but they cut me off and were rude to me.
46. Mount Auburn staff destroyed my spirit. The abuses are too numerous to list here. I have been listing these over and over in my blog for months. I cried and cried for months. I suffered post-traumatic stress.  There were so many lost friendships over this.
47. While I was incarcerated at Mount Auburn, someone, probably the police, conducted an illegal search of my apartment.
48. After I got home from Mount Auburn, I cried alone for a month, traumatized by their abuse. No one called me, and many told me how disgusted they were and called me “ungrateful.” My church turned against me because I put in a legal claim. I also reported Mass General from 2011. In November, the Disability Law Center finally got back to me.
49. I realized in September that the church minister, Mark Harris, never even liked me in the first place. He badmouthed many people right in his sermons, even though he edits these remarks out before the sermons go online. I gave up on church. I ended CBFS because they had acted irresponsibly and had not provided anything helpful.
50. Over the next few months, I noticed the medical care given by my current new providers was poor quality. I felt on an assembly line and vowed I’d get out of Harvard Vanguard. I tried to see other doctors, but each time, I was profiled because of past association with the mental health system. I realized I was going to have to move away from here and start my whole life over if I was going to survive at all.
51. I found new friends, others who had been abused either in hospitals or by mental health practitioners. I attend meetings and protests and I continue to write to try to help others.
52. I have been suffering a severe, long-standing “post-trauma” reaction to what happened to me at Mount Auburn. I appear fearful and angry, and I snap at people easily. I feel terrified of sirens, police uniforms, and the proximity of a hospital building. I live in constant fear of the police appearing at my door and taking me away against my will, to be locked up and abused again.
53. There is no excuse for abuse. When people justify what was done to me they invalidate me and insult me. I can no longer tolerate this dismissive attitude.
54. After Mark Harris wrote something in our January church newsletter that was discriminatory against folks with mental illness, I contacted the UUA office in Boston in a private e-mail that revealed many other things I’d seen and heard at church that I felt were discriminatory.
55. On January 10th, 2014, two church members came to my home with a member of the police force (Melissa) and they tried to accuse me of planning to kill Mark Harris. I told them I wasn’t planning this and that their accusations were completely unfounded, in fact, so ridiculous that I nearly laughed. I told them I felt discriminated against by their accusations, and that they would never do this to someone who didn’t have a known psychiatric diagnosis. They had barged through the front door and into the building without ringing my buzzer. The church members told me I could come back to church but I would be restricted, censored, and silenced. I told them that I should be respected as a writer with something to give society, instead of being always seen as “needy.”
56. What the church did to me by coming to my home and wrongly accusing me was a hate crime. Were they trying to get me locked up again just for speaking the truth? I wondered, alternately, if I had gotten Mark into trouble by writing to the UUA.  I had mentioned other church members in this private e-mail, others with mental illness diagnosis that I felt had been discriminated against, including Rachel Ann Klein.  The church people seemed desperate to shut me up.
57. I noticed that a number of times I saw church members on the street and in stores,but they deliberately avoided me. It felt like that was the last straw.  I made several arrangements to move away, and each time, my plans fell through.
58. I tried to at least leave this building and transfer down the street. My next-door neighbor played her TV too loudly, all day long, and I could not stand the constant noise. She was an elderly, hearing-impaired lady, and her son was a Watertown first responder, I happened to know.  It was sad that he was clearly neglecting her.  Even my request to transfer was denied, put off, excuses made.
59. I suppose the most devastating thing of all is that my two brothers, Phil and Ned, raised their families without their Auntie Julie. Phil lived only an hour away for decades, and I never saw him or his family. This broke my heart. These two brothers, whom I loved so much in our childhood, are now awaiting big money they are trying to get from our mom. They’ve put our mom into an institution.
60. I am 56 years old. I am short and thin, and I wear glasses, the same as when I was a kid. I have a lovely dog. I did nothing wrong. I was raped. I was abused in hospitals and by my therapist. I chose to speak out and to write in my blog about what happened. None of these things are crimes. And yet, my community has nearly destroyed me.
61. Since the summer, my kidney function has been around 30%. I believe much of the damage prior to the summer was from lithium, which I took for 16 years. I now suffer from anemia and constant fatigue. I wish I never turned to the mental health system for help with my eating disorder. It was a mistake, a wrong road taken. I feel like over three decades of my life were stolen from me. I started off as a talented student composer, and now, I feel like I’ve been swindled.
62. Cahill was honored. The police who ignored what I told them are hailed as community heroes of Watertown Strong. The doctors and therapists and other personnel who destroyed my life are continuing to live cushy lives. Why are perps glorified? Why are victims treated like unworthy criminals, denied basic needs, forced into the fringe of society?
63. It was always my intention to speak out to prevent others from having to endure the abuses I experienced, particularly what’s now known as psychiatric abuse. Instead, I ended up hated in my community.  I knew if I stuck around, I would not survive given the amount of prejudice I was dealing with. It looked like those accusing me had been working very hard to retaliate and ruin my life, except for Cahill, who died last year.
64. My plane left Logan Airport May 13, 2014. Rachel Ann Klein died May 23, 2014.  I have stated that Rachel died because people in the community did not love her enough. The people of the community turned their backs on a person like me who was suffering.
65. I won’t be back.  Puzzle and I did what we had to do to remain alive and together and free.


My motto: Never, ever shut up.
Julie Greene and Puzzle
My blog: Juliemadblogger on WordPress.
First Written early May, 2014.  Modified.
copies to be sent to the media.  Or that was my original intent.

Yay! My first You-tube in a while…

This is a You-Tube…discussing a dream I had.  Just uploaded.

Love, Julie

Bravo anchorwoman taking a stand against bullying e-mail sent to her…watch this brief clip…

I, too, have been bullied over my weight.  I have been bullied when it was higher than many thought it should be and also when it was lower than the societal norm.

Many assume you live a life of a princess when you are thin. Not true. You are scapegoated.  More on this later.

Link: An article in the New York Times about kids and cyberbullying

This is rather sad and it certainly isn’t my intention to get anyone into tears to start off the weekend.  I myself rather enjoy a good cry now and then, even over an article such as this.  I’m not one to get “triggered” easily.  I don’t even believe in “triggering.”  But you might.  I did get teary over this article, but certainly not “triggered.”  I’m not upset.  I feel empathy.  I’m certainly not depressed and I feel good today about my own life and my own situation, but I feel sorry for the family in Florida that the article talks about.  There’s a huge difference, then, between crying over an article because you feel sorry for the family you’ve never even met, and getting depressed over an article and then falling apart and committing suicide.  How often does the latter happen?  If it ever does, I’ll bet other factors were involved besides just the damn article, dummies.

Okay, thus said, here’s the link:

The link will open in a new browser window.  Take care and have a nice day.

Advantage to the DSM-5’s inclusion of Binge Eating Disorder as an actual diagnosis

Okay, having just read an excellent dispute of this….Well put….

Of course, there are subsets and different mindsets of binge eaters.  I have no clue what it’s like to have been overweight since early on, and be fighting a lifelong weight issue and of course, perhaps the worst of it, the bullying and horrible weight bias from I mean like day one that goes along with being the least bit chubby or accused of having even one part of you that’s even imagined as chubby.

This is another world and it’s a world I’ve stepped into very briefly in my adult life.  Let’s say I tested the waters, then quickly yanked my big toe out as if the pool was filled with sharks.  I was fucking terrified.

Oh yeah, I do remember struggling with my weight, begging my doctor to take me off the darned pill that had gotten me to that point.  In other words, this is a trait that never really happened to me except by artificially-induced means, I’m talking true extremes.  Like you had to force me into that mold.

Okay, so if a person is of that mold, then, is it a different disorder than if they are my type that is the restrictive type, that started their disorder because of a diet?

See, so many people I know of with ED started with a diet, maybe schemed to get skinny, then developed further bad habits such as binge eating cuz their bodies were so starved.  Then, say, they panicked, saying, WTF? what’s this? and purged out of terror for what they had done.  Then maybe they looked up “laxatives” online and said, “hmm, maybe this will work,” and decided to go that route. Or whatever.  By then, the whole thing is incredibly unstoppable.

Okay, what of this diet…why go on a diet to begin with?  Low self esteem?  I mean, most of us weren’t even fat to begin with, right?  Most of gained “the freshman 10” maybe, or something very, very negligible and were still within range and could very well have exercised it off during summer break instead of going on that 300 calories a day crash diet we went on.

Agreeably, this is not the same as the pattern of the person who has been overweight since childhood.  I am wondering to what extent the dining commons, the Freshman Ten, or any of this…none of this means the same to the entering freshman who comes in say, already clinically obese and most likely the instant target of bullying.  Or maybe not.  You hear about the stereotypes.  The “fat kid” who is the “life of the party.”  Or, the “fat kid” who is, conversely, the “depressed loner.”  Either may be a secret binge eater.  Or maybe the kid never does have what we now will know, officially, as this painful disorder, Binge Eating Disorder, but the kid overeats at many, many meals, enough to sustain a larger body than he or she should have.

And folks, are we ever, ever going to find out?  For freaking years and years and years?  Sure, the presentation is that this is the fat kid.  Sure, the other young college folk assume maybe the kid “likes” to eat.  They dismiss this.  No one wants to talk about it and it ends up an uncomfortable subject.  Like, forever.  This is a painful path to walk on.   Even doctors don’t tread this ground.

Well, folks, they should.  And now, they will.  Binge eating is real and it’s serious.  Just as serious for someone overweight as it is for me who has anorexia with binge eating and does not and is unable to throw up, or someone with anorexia who does throw up, which is the one written up somewhere, the “binge-purge” type.  Do we have to talk about these stereotypes even?

Binge eating is serious for anyone who does binge eating and should be treated seriously, as seriously as is the behavior.

Binge eating itself causes massive damage in our society and of course to each and every individual sufferer. 

And yes, you can indeed die directly from the act of binge eating alone.

Never mind the suicides, car accidents, financial ruin, wrecked marriages, night after night of lost sleep, shattered sex lives, multitude of health concerns, legal issues, and troubled children.

Yep.  I’d say BED is right up there with severe alcoholism.

I’ll throw homelessness in there, too.

And yes, you CAN smell it on a person.  Not all the time, but some of the time.  Try a whiff of donuts or chocolate or the smell of dangerously high blood sugar on a person’s breath.  Or the scary drop in blood sugar some folks experience afterward.

I’m going to put out a poll and I hope it posts related to binge eating.  I believe these polls are anonymous.  Or I hope so.  I myself that I know of will be unable to track folks who answer.  (Don’t panic yet…no obligation to answer but it will help change the world…well, maybe.  I hope in my own little delusion of grandeur over here that everything I do makes its footprint on the world.  Well, everything we do, sorry, does a carbon footprint thing, they say, right?)

If you don’t want to answer the poll, and I’ll bet most of you won’t, or if you have never or generally don’t engage in binge eating, then just think about the questions and what your answers are or what someone else’s answers might be.  And think about tomorrow.  Goodnight.

Okay, see ya later, done with polls…I hope, again, I did this right.  Best of luck answering them.

If I don’t say anything, no one will ever know…bullying….Goddard peeps, listen up

This occurred in January 2005.  I would call it a case of what they now call weight bias, or that’s one term for it.  I hope I can write this down real fast and then go to sleep for a while. It is daytime and I plan to sleep all day.

My name is Julie Greene.

It happened at all places, the Winter 2005 Goddard College residency, Plainfield, VT campus.  It is now 2013 and I’ll bet I’ve talked about this before but I want to make this loud and clear because I may not have another chance.  I was, in fact, going to contact the college to let them know that it happened, but now, it all seems rather pointless.

See, I was rather overweight then.  I had been taking the medication Seroquel, and had just gained 50 pounds in six months from the medication.  I am not overweight now and for most of my life I have been skinny.

So I showed up at the 2005 residency at five foot one and 297 pounds.  Yep.  I looked and felt rather yucky.  Especially considering that no, I am not “big boned” or “naturally curvy” or any of that bullshit.

So Goddard peeps, listen up.  Cuz if you don’t, no one will.  There were two residencies going on at the time.  Not just the writing one.  There was the Health Arts and Sciences one.  So when we had meals, we sat with the HAS students, too.

Those HAS students would go on and on about nutrition.  And I swear they did not know a thing about nutrition as far as I could tell.  Just total baloney.  What, folks, were their qualifications?

Every time I sat down to eat, they would come sit with me and yap about how fat I was and criticize what I was eating.  “You shouldn’t eat that, Julie, no wonder you are a fat pig.”  And so on.

I wanted to eat alone, or with one of the writing students.  But these HAS students kept on bombarding me no matter how hard I tried.  They would not leave me alone.  “You are fat because….”

I swore I would never go back to Goddard ever again.  I took time off.  I didn’t know what to do.

And in fact, I did indeed transfer to the Port Townsend campus.  I was much happier there.  I told no one of the bullying incidents.  But now, you know.  Just thought I’d say it, and lay it out on the table, just for the record, cuz I may not get another chance.

Today, I suffer from anorexia nervosa and binge eating disorder.  I see no way out.

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