Archive for October, 2012


Something happened a few days ago in my building.  I ranted on Twitter about it, but the occurrence is definitely worthy of a post.

Before I begin, I strongly suggest you read something I wrote back in 1997.  In fact, I will go almost as far as to demand  you to read it.  Trust me.  It will only add even more credence to this issue.

There are a lot of crazy screamers and fighters on my floor, but I never knew that to be the case when I first moved in.  Things were very quiet.  As time moved on, I met some of these people, and wow.  I won’t even bother to get into all of it.  Well, mental illness (that of course I can accept–until someone lies or switches their stories) a lot of drugs, and even legal charges.  I’ve actually heard homicidal death threats from these people.

And then a few days ago, R.  The above folks should all have the cops after them.  Not R.

When I first met R. he was so shy, quiet, awkward.  He could barely speak to me in full sentences.  But Wonder Cane started our bond.  He asked what it was for and I told him it was for my epilepsy.  Then I launched into my gentle, but honest talk about my other diagnoses.  This is my type of busting the stigma, and has always had overwhelming results.  People just pour out things–some things that they have never, ever told a soul!

R. told me he was Bipolar too.  So we had a very tiny talk about that but he opened up.  That was the most important thing.

He’s definitely Bipolar I! WHOO! He went off his meds and holy guacamole! Yelling, screaming, he burned a cross on his door and left a candle burning in our hallway.  That was before.  This time?

Lately, the screaming by the other folks is still continuing.  When I heard more screaming, I thought it was the same people.  Shit #1.  If I knew it was R., maybe I could have gotten to him to help (reason following with Shit #2.)

I was trying to sleep through all the noise everyone tends to make and then I heard the same repeated scream.  Over and over.  And it wasn’t (or didn’t sound) like the other folks.  Then I heard more of what “someone” was screaming from the top of their lungs.  R.!!!

I opened my door in my jammies to see a huge policeman and heard even louder, louder, louder screams.  R.!!! I started walking toward his unit.  One woman at the end of the hall screamed, “Don’t go in there!!!” I told her I knew him and it was okay.  Convincing “Big Egocentric Police-Superman” was a helluva lot harder.  And futile.  Shit #2.

I couldn’t see what was going on inside but I knew they were holding him down.  What I didn’t know was, did he need to be held down? That type of behaviour, restraining someone who is mentally ill and in crisis only exacerbates the entire situation.  Not to mention the harm it does to that person.

Of course I wasn’t allowed entrance, no matter how much I tried to explain how I could possibly help.  I’m sure it was for “my protection” but if they were already pinning him to the floor? Gee, why would I need to be protected.

I didn’t know if I could do it for sure, but I felt I could gently, yet with a suitable degree of vocal tone, get him to recognize me.  I could keep repeating his name, my name, do you recognize me etc.

After that, if such was established, I might have had a chance to calm him down somewhat, and speak in a certain sort of “logic” based upon all of his delusional thoughts that he was screaming about (it was obvious to me he had gone off his meds again.)  Perhaps I could have reassured him that everything in his mind was fine or whatever…who knows what I would have said.

However, the connection was the utmost thing.  I would have even asked him if he wanted me to go to hospital with him if he was scared–because that is what we needed to do–go to hospital.  Hell, I could have made his head go “DING!” if he knew it was me and I said, “R., You’ve gone off your meds again.  We need to take care of this even though I know it hurts so much.  But I’ll come with you if you want.”

But no.

And after all of this, albeit Police Officers needing to “protect” people, they still have no goddamn clue how to deal with people who are mentally ill in crisis.  The paramedics are the best.  Even if there were paramedics on the scene who wouldn’t let me in, they at least would have listened to me.  I could have told them important information like his meds, his history…  The police didn’t even let me get a few words out!

If someone who is mentally ill and in crisis, it really can help to see someone that they know.  Someone they know that cares about them.  I’m not saying always, but in a lot of cases it is true.

I’ll talk to R. when he gets home.  I’ll be blunt, honest but with LOTS of care and love.

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Giving Thanks


It’s Thanksgiving over here.  I didn’t even know! It was only until random people started wishing me a “Happy Thanksgiving.” They asked what I was doing and if I was having “Dinner” anywhere.

Huh? I finally clued in.

And no.  I’m not having “Dinner” anywhere or doing anything.

But I will say thank you to everyone out there who reads this blog, takes the time to comment or drop by in any way.  Even if you don’t make yourself “visible” at all, I thank you too.  That doesn’t make you any less important.

PAs Playhouse wouldn’t exist if all of you didn’t.

Thank you all.


Oh, my! I’ve got quite a mess on my flippers right now.  First, there was the migraine on Tuesday, October 02, 2012.  That caused wee PA to cancel her therapy appointment.  Then, during her sleep on Thursday, October 04, 2012, she had a tonic-clonic seizure.  I am fairly sure we have now entered the next Typical Absence Status Epilepticus phase.  Not to mention, I feel with rather a big bang.

Right now, she is sitting at her table in the kitchen, staring at a heap of rubble she needs, and wants to do.  At least I managed to get her out of bed, where she was hiding, and actually into the kitchen.  One thing she wants to do is get to the comments on her blog.  She thinks they are excellent!

I am making more tea, but we have another problem.  It is a very serious problem.  Wee PA has only a few Gravol pills left!

We are only just starting tea.  She tried to sleep as late as possible, so we are really, and very slowly, starting our day now.

Sometimes she will improve as time moves on throughout the day.  We might be able to see if there is some Gravol at the corner store.

I just looked over to where she is.  Sorry everyone but I have to go now! Wee PA is just staring at her computer and stimming like crazy by rocking back and forth very fast.  Obviously, she is getting overloaded physically, psychologically and emotionally.  I may give her a Valium if she cannot stop or things get worse.


None of you know Melissa.  You don’t know Jason either.  Or Amelia.

Jason was from my coma.  He visually appeared and we did “talk.”  Symbolically for him, a feeling of my own voice in my head for me.  He was about 8-years-old.  I’ve suffered retrograde and anterograde amnesia surrounding the whole event, but when I came out of my coma, apparently he was all I’d talk about for hours or even days!

Well, “Melissa” did appear vocally (in my head) when I was taking the evil Depakene to initially attempt treating the Typical Absence Status Epilepticus.  She was a child then, but is now 19.

Amelia is 6-years-old and showed up a little while ago when I was emailing someone about a seizure I just had.  Amelia called them (as I was just writing) what I had called them as a child when I had them at her age.

Then, I began to write like her in the email.  My handwriting changed to that of a child’s as well when I was writing all of this in my notes.

Then, Melissa showed up.  Again.  Dangerous.  Ominous.  Predatory.  Violent.  I knew it was her.  Before, when she spoke in my head, she was a brutal, extremely angry child, and beyond condescending.  She also held great disdain for me!

After Amelia was set aside, it was time for a “confrontation” with Melissa’s presence all over me.  I felt like I was physically doing battle.  My entire body was aching, and in so much pain.  Then it stopped.

More to the story, but Melissa said I would finish grieving: 19.  I don’t think days! 19 months?

Now, like Jason, it is basically a form of telepathic and intuitive form of communication.  There are no “voices” I can hear in my head from them, per se.  Sort of.  It’s complicated.

I have tried and tried to get Jason back so many times and it hurts so much.  Nothing.  I have questioned if he was my lost twin I “met” while in my coma.

Melissa and Amelia? Unpredictable.  Well, Amelia is only six! Not to mention Melissa is her protector.  Interestingly enough, after all the fighting, Melissa is my “protector” too.  I asked about the age change and she replied that she had to figure out if I was a strong enough and suitable host.

Perhaps that’s why Melissa doesn’t show up too much.  She’s protecting me.  She did say one time when I was fuelled with questions, that it was “enough.”  It was too much (for me) right now.  Then she was gone.

Due to factors of my mother’s miscarriage, I’m wondering if I may in fact be a multiple Womb Twin Survivor! Ugh.

I keep questioning myself, thinking I’m totally insane, and asking Melissa to prove she and Amelia actually exist! Melissa says it doesn’t work that way.  It’s not like they’re evil demons that will turn me into Linda Blair or start throwing things across the room.

Regardless.  19.  19.  19.

VERY IMPORTANT: If anyone who is remotely under the DID umbrella of diagnoses and/or has PTSD (as well) I’d really like to hear from you.  I haven’t picked up any Womb Twin Survivors (yet?)

Wait.  Oh, boy.

I was thinking all along while writing this, Melissa wanted me to do it.  I went to the bathroom, pondering the idea, and BANG! Melissa said she’s my protector, so who is this that almost hit me like a brick? And then told me, “You’ll never get what you want, you know.”

Bully.

I told him since I was in the bathroom, why don’t we (old school) “take it outside.”  I went for a cigarette.  Of course, more questions.  Me back to going out of my mind, thinking I’m just putting my own words into some delusion in my head.

He said, “You couldn’t put any more words into my mouth, because I have more than enough for you.”  And why the bullying? He said he’d do it just because it’s fun.

Melissa? Did you make me write this somehow?  “No,” she sighed.  “Bruce” did.

POSTSCRIPT:  I can see all of the aforementioned very clearly in my mind.  I can describe exactly what they look like.  Bruce? Not quite yet? He’s around my age though.  I know that.  Dressed like a “tough guy.”  Dark hair.  Hefty build but not overweight.

Further, I have never had any delusions or hallucinations before in my life.


Welcome to The Land of the Lost.  Goddamn, motherfuck, shit smeared all over my face, rusty nails up my ass, maggot cock suckers, Mazel Tov Cocktail arsonists, all of this and more in my head!!!

And so.

“You’ve gone through “this” before (or something similar to it?) You’ll survive.  You did then!”

“When one door (or window?) closes, another one always opens!”

If I write anymore of that Pollyanna bullshit people say when you grieve, I’ll puke.  Everywhere.

I’ve been on both sides of the fence, and even straddled it, as far as break ups go.  I’ve usually been the “dumpee.”  However, I’ve also been the “dumper.”  Christ, speaking of puking up there, when I had to dump someone for the first time, I actually did puke–every morning for almost a week before I delivered the fatal blow.

Being the “dumpee” is pretty ugly.  Much worse, I’d say.  One reason being, my ex-friend P. pointed out, is that the “dumper” had whatever degree of time to mull things over, then…BOOM! It gets dropped on the “dumpee’s” head when they have no clue.

Even much more worse, is when the “dumper” hasn’t revealed a damn thing, pretended all is well, and the “dumpee” keeps swallowing buckets of bull-wanked spooge.  Oh, lemme tell ya, that bull spooge tastes so goooooood!

Straddling the fence is a bit weird.  You end up at some sort of impasse.  However, there are always “reasons” that cause relationships to end.  Who’s tipping the balance of the scale? I can only think of two cases and it’s been me.  I’ve been the one that’s felt “the reason.”  I was extraordinarily lucky with those two cases, though.  I managed to remain friends with both of the women.

Now? I’m sorry.  All the Pollyanna bastards and bitches can go straight to Hades.  I’m in a different world.  Wait a sec’…did someone say Hades?

I’ve been turning my computer on/off/on/off etc. for…? I’m just lying in bed (lest somehow hauling myself out for med. appts.)  And if you see me on Twitter, how much of an online mask am I wearing? Maybe I don’t even know! Highly possible!

I’m just sayin’.

A lot of my relationships haven’t lasted very long.  Yet, they did exist.  This one by comparison? It’s like I’ve known them my entire life! Even worse, we had so much in common, it was like we shared one life (on so many levels.)

Uh…Womb Twin Survivor stuff? I can’t decide if I feel like I’ve lost half of myself or not.  Which totally fits for a Womb Twin Survivor! It could also fit simply because of the relationship on its own.

Of course we were different as well.  We had a lot of really great times too.  None of that should ever be forgotten.

But it can’t all be forgotten! Everything, just everything!!! Including the fact that I blew it all apart.  Over and over and over again.  Everyone and everything has their and its limits?

I don’t want to bring the Womb Twin Survivor aspects into it too much, but I fear there is a lot of it involved.  A LOT.  To state such things would turn this post into Satan’s Scripture (did someone say something about Satan’s Play Toy?) But I can’t exactly “apologize” for it.  It’s hardwired.  Nonetheless, it doesn’t make me feel any better about it all.

Maybe someday this person will return after some time.  I’m not bowing down to Satan on all fours praying.  But as always; bridges never burned, doors always open for anyone to come back into my life if they’ve left.

We were always so stubborn to stay together.  Maybe that stubborn streak will show up again in staying apart–again.  No expectations, but nothing would surprise me after all that we have been through.  Including A LOT of surprises!

Back to living in the present? I’ll do my best to “do stuff” when I can manage to crawl out from under my duvet.  When maybe able to do even basic tasks.  Not to mention, stop crying at seemingly nothing worthy of tears on television.  To me, that must be grief, all of my diagnoses making my head explode, or both.

It’s hard to do anything when you don’t care.  Except you do care.  So, so, so very much.

Satan’s a real prick.  Thanks, buddy.  Maybe this relationship was a match made in heaven HELL. *PA sits on Satan’s knee as Satan strokes her hair*