VPCH thinks I won’t post my hospital chart…But here it is! LIES and all

PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged)PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 1 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 2 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 3 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 4 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 5PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 6 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 7 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 8 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 9 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 10 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 11 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 12 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 13 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 14 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 15PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 16 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 17 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 18 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 19 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 20 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 21 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 22 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 23 PW VPCH Record Excerpts (dragged) 24

 

You can draw you own conclusions from their words, but know that half of what they claimed was going on  was a LIE, or a misinterpretation at best…Remember, I was MUTE and they simply decided I refused to speak and were torturing me into speaking by keeping me in FIVE point restraints.

VERMONT PSYCHIATRIC CARE HOSPITAL: Today We Will Name Names of the LIARS…and tell all

First of all, I need to make clear that I name the guilty not the innocent here. But I mostly remember the guilty, I wonder why?

As the famed WWII poet Henry Read wrote in his poem, The Naming of Parts:

” Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.”

ANNETTE BRENNAN, RN, WHO LIED TO SAVE HER ASS AND HER JOB AFTER SHE TORTURED ME AT VPCH

Well, today we have the naming of the liars, and the guilty parties at VPCH, the Vermont State Hospital in Berlin, Vermont, those who either restrained me in 5-point restraints and kept me there for five hour because I could not speak, or colluded to lie about the incident  these last two years in order to cover it up and not take responsibility for what happened. And now they have decided to accuse of trying to STAB them…,which is so beyond the beyond that I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!!!

First I will name the Unit D doctor. JOHN MALLOY Jr MD who worked on Unit D at VPCH and who was singlehandedly responsible for a large sheet of paper placed at the front of my chart from the third day I was in the hospital  — that is from the the first day he met me, and after he had consulted with the Brattleboro Retreat’s  doctor — against my express wishes — by phone only but had not received any official records. This paper had in HUGE LETTERS  these words: HOW TO DEAL  WITH  BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER…now I do not and did not at any time have symptoms that would have made him think I had such a disorder, except that he had spoken with this monster psychiatrist, Marc McGee from the Brattleboro Retreat, who had diagnosed that secondary Axis II diagnosis within FIVE MINUTES of my — get this! —  being forcibly brought into the Adult Low Stimulation Unit by two sheriffs who had not bothered to get a wheelchair but took me by the armpits and dragged me, trussed up like Hannibal Lecter,  in leg irons and waist chain and handcuffs and full HOOD over my head and face, across a large parking lot  down  into the Retreat Basement and up to the second floor where they publicly hauled my helpless body down two long corridors to the ALSA unit before unshackling me…But did Marc McGee ask me why this angered me, I who had been completely compliant on the ride from Springfield and had been hooded the entire time to boot? NO he decided that I SHOULD NOT BE ANGRY so i must have Borderline Personality Disorder…Why? Because HE HATED ME, and his hatred of me meant that I  could be abused by him with impunity…

But the thing is, he lied to me, and told me he had not diagnosed this, and it was only later when I found out that he HAD done so right then and there, that I threatened to sue him and to tell the Retreat CEO what he was  in the habit of doing to patients he did not like, if he did not remove this designation from my official diagnosis. So he did, he did! When I left, it was not on my discharge summary!

But when Dr Malloy Jr spoke to Dr McGee, did Marc Mc Gee, who ran both Tyler 2 and Tyler 4 units at the Brattleboro Retreat  inform him that I was not diagnosed with BPD? No, not at all, he told him the exact opposite, that I had a “long history of BPD” which is utter BULLSHIT and he knows it,  Marc told John Malloy Jr  that to cover up his own incompetence and John Malloy without bothering to do his own intake and history that VPCH requires him to do, and any thinking on his part, just took that as gospel.

Anyhow, I believe  that nothing  of what later happened at VPCH would have occurred if the staff had not been primed to abuse me by this sheet of paper that  John Malloy Jr MD placed in my chart,  instructing them to dismiss me as manipulative and devious and to treat me as a hated patient who needed to be disciplined.

That said, Today we have the naming of names, largely because I just heard from the Vermont  Nursing Board that they will not take any measures against the nurse who instigated the Nov 18, 2015 incident of torture.  And why? Because the nurse ANNETTE BRENNAN RN,  who grabbed me, and had me restrained out of vengeance  and kept me in restraints for 5 hours because  “she is not to be released until she speaks aloud” (which never happened)  was ANNETTE BRENNAN, and she and JENNIFER MANUKHANI  RN both know that what they told the  nursing board was nothing but a  LIE,  yet because the nursing board did not know this , and colluded with them, they got away with inventing after the fact something that is not in any part of any chart or debriefing or investigation by the Department of Adult Protective Services, when they investigated the same incident last year, no, nothing was mentioned but suddenly SUDDENLY both nurses manage to remember that I “tried to stab Annette Brennan”?!! Oh, what a load of absolute crap, and if the investigators were anything but idiots who wanted sinecures and not to have to bother to work, they would have done an investigation rather than sitting on their asses. They would have read through  the incident in the chart enough to see this. I mean, NOWHERE NOWHERE is this rather critical “event” of my supposedly trying to stab a nurse with a pen ever mentioned (because it never happened)  but suddenly it looms as THE ONLY AND PRIME reason why ANNETTE BRENNAN RN that fucking cunt was justified in restraining AND molesting me? Using Dr Joseph LASEK to write the order…

I would have said it took some  nerve of those two LYING nurses to collude to make this up out of whole cloth, but they must have known the investigators would not even bother to look to see whether the chart says  a word to corroborate this, no of course not. The whole thing was RIGGED to make me look like a assaultive FIEND from the first, when all I ever did was slam doors, NOTHING else, and ANNETTE BRENNAN RN had a hissy fit about it and GRABBED ME because she lost her temper, and Jennifer Mansukhani RN even at the time said, to HER, “WE DON’T GO HANDS ON HERE AT VPCH”, but she had and they did and they TORTURED ME for 5 hours that I cannot forget and will NEVER FORGIVE…

But they got away with LIEs, so I will name names.  Annette Brennan, RN and Jennifer Mansukhani, RN TORTURED me  and ANNETTE MOLESTED  me a helpless patient in 5-point restraints  on Unit D at the  Vermont Psychiatric Care Hospital on November 18, 2015 with collusion by Drs Joseph Lasek and JOHN MALLOY Jr..

Tomorrow I will post the entire event as I wrote  it to the Board, which refused to permit me to testify or to interview me. I wrote it in utter and complete honesty…But they never wanted honesty, they only want to LIE and DECEIVE AND FUCK ME OVER….but REVENGE IS MINE saith the lord as they will learn, and you had better know it!

I also plan to post the pages of my chart and the APS report…I don’t care anymore about MY privacy. FUCK those liars!

 

 

What Really Happened On W-1 in New Britain Hospital’s Psychiatric Unit in 2014…

I remember names…some of them. For instance, the short, chubby, blond nurse, who was worried about her weight and who was so instrumental in torturing me? Her name was Debra. And the head nurse who seemed so oblivious to the fact that her policies were indeed torture, even though she admitted that she expected the guards to inflict pain on patients when “escorting” them to seclusion in order to “subdue them faster” as she put it to me, openly. Her name was Barbara, and even though I was horrified by things she told me, I believe that she was innocently deluded and believed in her job, did not mean to be mean, not the way Debra seemed to, and honestly wanted the best for her patients. But let me start at some beginning which is to say, anywhere at all, and give you an idea of what I am talking about.

How very similiar Michael and Charlie look…and and no wonder, since they share the same sadism genes!

I have written in multiple places and on many occasions about what happened to me at New Britain Hospital (aka  Hospital of Central Connecticut on Grand Street in New Britain) and I do not want to go into the whole thing here. All you need to do is search on the subject of Michael E Balkunas at this blog and you will get most of the gory details. That said, much that happened has never been told not even here. For instance, that Debra was the nurse who in a sadistic impulse and in an apparent fit of frustration, decided to have the security guards strip me naked when she was secluding me for some unknown (and always unnecessary) reason yet again…as they did nearly daily at W-1 in New Britain Hospital in May 2014….that  it was Debra who was directly responsible for this I have never stated. But I remember her name clearly, and her face….And the fact that after she did this the second or third time she went on leave for several days, and when she came back told me she had almost quit her job.

I was momentarily cheered because I thought perhaps she had had some serious regrets about what she’d done to me. I asked her, Was it because of me? I thought she would tell me yes. She looked at me, and nodded, then said, “Because you are such a challenging patient.”  Huh? I looked at her, and saw no remorse, no regrets only residual anger and scorn…and a certain unrepentant rancor that I had “made her do what she did.” Clearly she felt that I was to blame for her behavior, that I was to blame in general and that it was all justified.

Hospital Seclusion Room

But to get back to what happened. After she had me stripped naked by four male guards, after I loudly and vociferously protested being left alone in that freezing seclusion cell for I never knew how long, I began mildly hitting my head on the wall in protest. They threatened to four-point me and then they came barreling back in and threw me onto a restraint bed. The thing is, I knew, completely naked, I could not take the cold in that seclusion cell. But if they restrained me they would HAVE to cover me with something, and at the very least I would not freeze to death in that  frigid cell for an indefinite number of hours…But when they came for me, they grabbed me and angrily threw me onto a gurney, even though I put up no resistance,  spread-eagled my legs, deliberately exposing my private parts, and shackled them to the corners of the gurney with my arms pinioned above my head until I shrieked in pain even as  they laughed. Then they held me down,  gratuitously I might add, since I was already restrained, compressing my neck and chest, in order to give me the usual three-injection cocktail of punishment drugs — Haldol, Ativan and Benadryl — forcibly slammed into my buttocks. All of this done to me while I was  naked  and immobilized in four point restraints. Then fearing that they would leave me alone there, freezing cold, I screamed  for them to cover me. With a look of disgust, someone threw a draw sheet over me, but no more.

The charge nurse came in for my “face to face” interview to see that all was “proper”  and she visibly and audibly shivered, but refused me a warm blanket, or any at all, due to “safety concerns.” Then she left with the rest of them and  turned off the intercom, so “we won’t have to listen to her scream.” They closed the door behind them, leaving me all alone behind a metal cell door that did not even have an observation window in it.

I screamed from the base of my lungs as deeply and as loudly as I could for as long as I could last. No one took mercy on me or brought me water or a blanket or spoke to me the entire time. Only when, exhausted, I finally lapsed  did they relent and ask, from outside the door,  “can we turn the intercom back on? She is quiet now…” And apparently got assent for that… Because eventually I heard someone flip a switch but nothing more.

After I was  released, the next day, I told the unit director, Dr Michael E Balkunas what they had done to me, and he must have recognized the egregious nature of it because his response is telling. Instead of dismissing it as not so terrible, he said: “They would NEVER do such a thing as that in my hospital. You are a liar!” So he saw how awful it had been, what they had done to me, he just refused to acknowledge it had happened, and that he did not in fact  what his staff  were  up to. But I was never in fact the liar he believed me to be. His stock answer to everything he did not want to see or believe was  routinely that I was lying, but this was not true, and he was so sickeningly dismissive of the truth that I did not wait to listen to  more this time. I was so wiped off the map by his response that I got up and walked out of the interview room  and did not bother with him from then on…I KNEW I  was never a liar, and that in actuality it was the STAFF who lied all the time, but telling Balkunas that would have done no good. He wanted to believe what he wanted to believe and nothing i said got through to him from day one…So I thought, so why bother ?  WHY BOTHER. Balkunas wanted to murder  my body and my spirit, and I could not let him succeed. He could imprison my body in his hospital, but i was damned if i would let him get my spirit. FUCK HIM!

But Dr Balkunas, Michael, you did not in point of fact know what went on at W-1 ever, nor at the ER, when you were there. Abuse was rampant because you encouraged it to be…and you never cared much what they did to achieve “order” so long as it was “quiet” when you were around. So you gave tacit assent to the tortures that they inflicted, and you likewise tacitly approved the very behaviors that you told me  would “never happen on your watch”…Yeah? Well, I feel certain that if they behaved as they did towards me, they had done it before me, and did so to others after I left as well…and they continue to inflict these things on patients to this day.

I will leave it there. Your unit staff and you too, Balkie, are Out of control, and deserve, as my Obama post notes, to be CLOSED down for good.

The other day I made this little polymer clay figure to illustrate what Debra did to me.

Pam in Restraints in New Britain Hospital In May 2014

It blew me away and I could not sleep all night the night I made her….Until Wendy and I decided to heal her, and perhaps heal me,  from the experience, First, talking to the figure in the little bed calmly and with compassion,  we covered her with a thick cotton blanket. That brought me some relief as I no longer felt chilled.  Then we took off the restraints, which despite being made of polymer clay actually slipped right off, and we brought her arms down to her sides so she could sleep in comfort. By the time we were through I felt immensely better.

Neither of us could even imagine treating another human being as Balkunas had had me treated on numerous occasions by routine.

 

Julie Mad Blogger Interview Recorded at Link Here…

//percolate.blogtalkradio.com/offsiteplayer?hostId=790983&episodeId=10265659“>http:////percolate.blogtalkradio.com/offsiteplayer?hostId=790983&episodeId=10265659

Listen to Live Interview With Pamela Spiro Wagner on Wednesday Sept 13, 2017

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/juliemadblogger/2017/09/13/an-evening-with-pamela-spiro-wagner

6:30pm this coming Wednesday evening Sept 13, 2017.

Please join us to listen and participate!

TAKING THE MASK OFF INTERVIEWS PAMELA SPIRO WAGNER

Taking the Mask Off Podcast Ep 004: Unmasking Schizophrenia with Pamela Spiro Wagner

Please listen to this. You will find Cortland Pfeffers intro fascinating, and of course pamela as usual has much to say!

Here is a little new art to entice, just a small drawing i did while at fhe hostel in Boston during the Hearing Voices Congress. I hope to post that power point soon.

Drawing of eyes with tears, exercise

 

 

Hostel visitors in Boston (3″ by 5″)

Two New Jewelry Pieces

Yes, i will sell or make you jewelry. Please contact me with queries.  I do sterling, wired with beads, and netting, but i tend not to do plain beads on beading wire as many others do that so you can find it elsewhere.

Sterling silver cuff for Lorie (copied from design seen elsewhere)
Simple sterling ring with lapis eye in bezel

Black Madonna – Donated to Bulkeley High in Hartford Connecticut, but HATED by them, apparently…

BLACK MADONNA, In Her Hands. Donated, 2014, to Bulkeley High School in Hartford, Connecticut (but never a word of thanks or even acknowledgment)

 

Although I added a coat of protective varnish to this at the last minute, I don’t think this  ruined it or justified Bulkeley high school in Hartford, Connecticut  hating the piece so much that they would have refused to acknowledge receiving it…But indeed,  that school, located on Wethersfield Avenue in Hartford, CT took this beautiful piece, but decided I did not deserve either a word of thanks or even notification of  receipt that the piece arrived.

I cannot tell you how much this hurt me, but what do they care? I imagine the probably hated it, but why take it if they were only going to store it in the basement? I would’ve gladly kept it and NOT given it to those ungrateful wretches…I LOVE the piece and even with the shiny varnish I loved her…And I hate to think that the so and so’s at Bulkley high school just threw her in a hole so no one would ever see this lovely Black Madonna, and they never even told me they did not want her!

How dare they? I mean, if someone offers you, an organization, a piece of art and You do NOT want it, please do not take it, for it is an insult beyond insults not to display it. Furthermore, to not even thank the artist who likely spent many hours  on the piece, is really an abhorrent act. But what do you expect from administrators of a high school? Apparently no more than boorishness just like this…

Screw them…But it makes me want not to donate art anywhere ever again if their response is typical.

Varnished version, in a bad photo…but you can see she is much more realistic, even though the photo is bad…(taken by a teacher at the school while the piece was in transit, or in storage)

 

I Miss Obama, that Gentleman, and his wonderful First Lady, Michelle

My portrait of Barack Obama, OBAMA BRIGHT,  which i gave to the White House a few years back…but alas never heard back about except a form card…

“Obama Bright” a portrait of Barack Obama in acrylics and graphite with Swarovski crystals….

 

 

OBAMA***Fini

Poem for my Twin Sister, Carolyn Spiro Silvestri

This poem is in my new book, LEARNING TO SEE IN THREE DIMENSIONS. Alas this final version did not get there as i had misplaced it and did not find it till after the publication date!

Ten Minutes

(pour ma jumelle)

Sometimes when you’ve spent hours rushing somewhere

and just as many hours rushing back

you ought to make yourself stop ten minutes from home

ten minutes short of where you think

you can put your feet up

finally, and get out at the road’s edge

and ask yourself where you are

going and where have you been and why

are you hurrying just to get it over with, or is there no point

to this day but in the ending of it?

Ten minutes, this pause

wrenched out of the rush by the roadside

getting the kinks out, lets you hear the sudden quiet

of your own thoughts

as the out-of-doors pours in and gives you pause.

What have you been doing all day

racing, rushing, wasting your time all day

for what, to get what over with?

Better to have rested more along the way,

to have seen, to have been, to have watched, listened

to have paid attention

than to have beeped and swerved so much

sped and sweated in bottlenecks

and cursed the traffic for what could neither be avoided

nor its fault, being its nature.

Where had you been all day

in your hurrying to get home, but on your way

along the only way there was: yours.

Oh, but you should have known better–

how all homes are but temporary shelters:

a roadside shack or leafy park bench,

a ramshackle timber lean-to —

each a place to rest as good as any mansion

ten minutes away. Ten mere minutes from home

the roadside beckoned with saffron mustard sprigs,

brave bouncing bet. But you had no time

to pay attention, so nearly home to rest and relax.

Oh, but you should have known better—

The day scattered like dry leaves

and ended without you.

Now you pay with the rest of your life.

.

 

 

Nail Polish Faces on Eye Glasses Cases – Wow!

Original art by pamela spiro wagner
Male face with horn rimmed glasses painted entirely with nail polish on eye glasses case by pamwagg
Male nail polish face on eye glasses case, with sterling silver eye glasses embedded in the nail polish by pamwagg
Back of the Frida Kahlo eye glasses case below, a detail from the original self portrait with thorn necklace
Frida kahlos eyes on this eye glasses case painted with nail polish
Frida Kahlo Eyeglasses painted entirely with nail polish by pamwagg

The Obituary of an Extraordinary Woman, My Mother…plus

IMG_0029SPIRO, Marian Wagner, 89, of Madison, CT and Amherst, MA died on June 18, 2017 at the Hospice of the Fisher Home after a lengthy illness. Marian was born in Fall River, MA on February 16, 1928 to Oliver and Carolyn Wagner. She was raised in Fall River during the Depression and graduated from BMC Durfee High School. She then earned a two-year degree from Vermont Junior College that enabled her to work as a lab technician. It was at a lab at Harvard Medical School that she met her husband Howard Spiro. They were married in 1951, made a home in New Haven, CT and quickly had four children: Pammy, Lynnie, Martha, and Philip. In the meantime, she returned to school, received her undergraduate degree and in 1970 began a twenty-year career as a renowned teacher of science and math at The Foote School in New Haven. She introduced computers to her students long before they ended up in their back pockets and once built a solar-heated oven to bake the Thanksgiving turkey. She helped to revive the school newspaper, which was later renamed the “SPI” in her honor. Her dogs were frequent guests in her classroom, and when she wasn’t helping to train her friends’ dogs or hosting canine pool parties in her backyard, Marian was taking her own retrievers to local hospitals or mental health facilities to hang out with patients. Throughout her life, she was known for expert woodworking skills, her intuitive ability at navigating a sailboat, her competitiveness on the tennis court or in a game of bridge or scrabble, her love of golden retrievers, her lasting friendships, and her deep devotion to her family. She never let the social conventions of her day block her dreams: she embarked on a lifetime avocation of woodworking despite being told it was not for girls, she became a teacher of science before most scientists would accept women as their peers, and she even made the phone call to Howard for a date that led to their eventual marriage. She will be sorely missed by her four children: Pamela Spiro Wagner, Carolyn Spiro Silvestri, Philip Spiro and Martha Spiro; her six grandchildren: Allison Spiro-Winn, Jeremy Spiro-Winn, Hannah Spiro, Claire Spiro, Oliver Spiro and Adriane Spiro; and her many friends and students. She follows the passing of her parents Oliver and Carolyn, her husband Howard of 61 years, her sister Barbara, and her brother Oliver. A memorial service will be scheduled at a later time. In lieu of flowers donations may be made to the Marian W. Spiro Fund for Science Enrichment at The Foote School in New Haven, CT or the Hospice of the Fisher Home in Amherst, MA.

______________________

The obituary above was written by my wonderful “cousin in law,” Jere Nash, who is Holly Wagner’s husband, my uncle’s daughter (who was my mother’s late brother, Oliver who died many years ago of malignant melanoma).

All that follows is my interpretation of things, as all observation is of course but in my case you have to understand that I speak largely as an outsider, not knowing very much since I was not “in” the family for so many years…

Although I lost many years with my mother as an adult, due to my father’s “exxing” me out of the family in anger and a profound lack of understanding of “mental illness” and what was going on for me at the time, I still remember her in my childhood, how when there were still trolleys in New Haven Connecticut (oh, how young I must have been then!) she would either bravely or completely nonchalantly wear jeans  to go shopping downtown at Malleys or whatever the stores were there at the time. For anyone else this would have been extremely difficult, disregarding all the social mores of the 50s dictating that women had to wear skirts and heels and make-up to go out presentably in public. I do not know how my mom felt about it, only that she did it and did not seem to care what others thought. She cared only that she was more comfortable in pants, and low- heeled  “girl scout” shoes, the same kind I wear to this day, and she saw no sense in getting all dressed up just to bring 2 very young children out to go on a stressful shopping expedition.  As for that, my mother to my knowledge never wore more make-up in her life than a dash of lipstick, though I do remember her applying that with care every morning and blotting her red lips on a fold of toilet paper, thinking both how beautiful she looked (though she never  in her life agreed with me or anyone else on this, even though when she was younger  — when we lived in England — my friends thought she looked like a “movie star”) and how I never wanted to have to put “that stuff” on my own lips.

Unlike her children, who suffered from oily skin and troublesome largely untreated acne as adolescents, my mother’s bane of existence was her dry skin  and its tendency to wrinkle  so her one vanity, if you could call it that, was moisturizers and trying to deal with skin that aged earlier than she might have wished. She was also a outdoors lover, a sailor and a tennis player in the days well before the publicized benefits of sun screen, which may or may not have played a role in this (I am not completely convinced of the safety of sunscreens with their nano chemicals nonetheless)…Whatever is the case, it seemed true that her skin did show the effects of being out in the weather early on, but this to me only gave her face character and the true beauty of an older woman…though I know that as I was growing up it may have caused her more regret than I knew.

We are all of us subject to society’s images and social pressures, and my mother was not immune to these, no matter how iconoclastic and “her own person” she may have been in so many ways. For example, as a result of having been a self-described  “chunky athletic tomboy with a tiny petite older sister” — and feeling rejected for this all her life,  she fought a poor self-image, body hatred, and deep conflict on that account, such that I have always felt that in some sense while she loved food and eating, she also never took a single bite that she did not simultaneously regret and chide herself for. This was painfully obvious to us children, I think, at least it was to me, and it continued throughout her life. Even after nearly forty years of not seeing her, I would go out to lunch with her when she was in her 80s, and hear her criticize herself  about what she was eating. How I wished she could simply enjoy food for once, without the concomitant agonies of needing to punish herself for it.

Maybe she got some peace at some point, perhaps dementia granted it to her, but at what a terrible price.

I think that for my mother, one of the sad consequences of being married to a man like my father was that she never felt that he took her intellect or her creativity seriously or even  consequentially. True, he got her to go back to college and finish a four-year degree, and take up teaching, but he never truly treated her with the same esteem he granted an equal, and we all felt it and knew it, and what is more, she did too. No doubt this was largely behind all her words of abuse and rage in later years when she could scarcely speak to him civilly even when  he had himself ceased to be abusive.  It was hard to listen to her snark and scorn him, when he was trying his best…But by then it was much to late to undo the damage his lack of care and cold abusiveness had wrought for so many years beforehand. It seemed to me that she just could not forgive him, especially not for “changing” on her so unaccountably in his latter decades…

 

This is the rather in-expert poem I wrote for my mother’s birthday in 2007 about all that she gave us growing up…

 

YOUR OWN OCCASIONAL POEM 2/16/07

 

You push the wood under the saw,

the sawdust scent is sharp and familiar.

First time in months, you’re in the woodshop;

at the end of the day, you’re sorry to stop.

 

 

It’s mid-February, the pale wintry light

has long ago left. You look up. It’s night

and you haven’t appeased yet your hands’ appetite,

their urge to create. I know as I write

 

 

that hunger of hands to handle and make,

your children all feel it, the pleasure, the ache.

You taught us love, gave us skills that you knew

copper enameling, pen and ink, too,

 

 

the weaving of baskets and papier maché

antiquing desks and working with clay,

sand casting, knitting (you couldn’t crochet).

 

 

You fired up a hunger that’s better than food

a hunger that drives us, the right attitude

to make things of beauty, for need and for use.

With paper pulp, wood, fabric, clay, we produce

 

 

unique objets d’art not entirely planned.

We make them with care and the love they demand

and when they are finished, we give them away.

(The joy’s in creating; they’re not meant to stay.).

 

 

You gave us the spirit, this need and the drive

this hunger, this feeling of being alive.

I don’t know if knowing, you planted the seed

but the plant it grew gives us all that we need.

 

 

(A mother like you is so rare you’re worth pay,

which conveniently rhymes with this:

Happy Birthday!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Mother, Marian W Spiro, Died a Week ago…

fullsizeoutput_343bMy drawing of my mother, Marian Wagner Spiro, suffering from the effects of dementia,  wearing the iPod and headphones I gave her. (from a photo taken by my sister, Martha, in the last weeks of mom’s life…)

There is so much to say, and so little that I find myself capable of saying at this time. The loss of one’s mother, no matter how fraught the relationship, is always incalculable, quite literally unable to be calculated. Because of the divorce from much of my family, included the extended network of cousins and so forth, imposed by my father for nearly forty years, I lost many years and many memories I might have made with my mother, and needless to say with the rest of my native family. However, because of this, along the way I learned the value of friendship, not just the emotional support and love from some one significant other, since I had none, but the kind of friendship about which it has been written:  Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. I learned what true friends are, and that they can love a person and care about a person perhaps with deeper love and kinder regard even than one’s family of origin.

 

This is not to say that I do not love and care about my family, of course, but it is my friends to whom I dedicated my newest book of poems and art, my friends both old and new. And they know who they are, I am sure they do. Because I feel it and I know it.

 

But that much said, I loved my mother, and what is more, I know she loved me and would have wanted me to have these loving friends in my life,  especially once she understood that having a nuclear family of my own was not in the picture for me.  I do not believe that she cared about whether I ever became a doctor or even a successful poet or artist, but only that I found contentment and love in my life, somewhere, somehow, and that she would be proud of me now, not for my achievements but for all these wonderful friends whom I love and who I know love me in return ( and in return for nothing except being me).

 

I love you, Mom, and I wish you well on your journey, wherever that takes you…Be at peace and know that all is well.

_______________________________________________________________

I wrote this poem, or started it the night of my last visit to my mother, after weeks of not being able to put pen or pencil to paper. My younger sister, Martha and I had been splitting up the time and watch at the Hospice, though Martha had done the lion’s share of everything, living as it were just around the corner, while I needed a driver to get me first to Agawam and then to from Vermont to Amherst each day. In any event, just as I was finishing it, Martha called me with tears in her voice telling me that mom had passed away more suddenly than expected, no time to call me to come down to the hospice to be with her at the end.

 

HIATUS – June 18, 2017

“Just letting you know I am taking a hiatus because my mother is in the process of passing away and I need to give that my full focus.”

 

In the snapshot I take, you are almost not there,

barely stitched to your body by broken breathing,

those strands of beads upon which none of us pray

to keep you here, still here, still here…

the seeming years of days and nights

of your going having frayed the long wick of your life

till it seems impossible your heart pulses and breath

still clings to the flesh that clings to your bones.

 

 

In the stillness like stopped breath,

as the clock duties our days, from your morphine remove,

you can’t know how we mark a terrible time

while we wait for what is to come,

the inexorable exit-gong sounding: It is done.

 

 

All the same, they say life starts over, Mother,

if there is ever any life on earth without you,

as if we believed this day would come, or any other,

as if anything without you can ever be the same.

 

 

 

 

I’m Asexual, and LGBTQIA should have a letter for me…

I wrote the bulk of this piece back in Connecticut in 2013, when i still believed in the concept of mental illness yadda yadda.  i am adding this preface in Vermont, from a place of somewhat greater stability and even more firmness.

Asexuality is not a common orientation but it is not unknown or in any fashion abnormal. As i note below, a good 1% of the human population may be asexual all their lives and many, many more may find themselves “asexual” at some time in their lives. I put the quotations around the word because i believe that those who find themselves suddenly asexual while taking certain psycho-tropic drugs may not quite understand that it is the medications that have induced this change in them, but sometimes the state is an unnatural change from their native orientation and not a natural state of affairs.

if you happen to be asexual, as i am, you surely know that it is not a state of being without discrimination. For one thing, people make assumptions about us that are almost always to our detriment, and they never bother to inquire first who or what we are about. For instance, i am 64, childless, unmarried, and unpartnered…and yet i like to contribute to the well-being of young people, either by teaching them or by assisting them in other ways. If i were married with children, i believe my intentions would not be regarded with suspicion, but as it is, i feel frequently suspected as some sort of sexual predator. An asexual friend of mine evinced similar feelings, saying that he could not invite a friend from work out for a drink without that person clearly fearing that he was being “hit on” when all my friend ever wants is friendship from anyone, male or female!

I dont understand why the A in LGBTQIA stands for “allies” not for “asexual” and why there is still no place for us within it.

——————————————————————————————-

Let me state this plainly so there is no misunderstanding: I am tired of people thinking there is something wrong with me just because I do not have a husband or boyfriend/lover or even a girlfriend/lover or a love-interest of any kind. I am not interested in sex and have never been interested in sex for whatever reason. This does not distress me and it never would have in the past, had others not insisted that it ought to. I have finally come to the conclusion that being asexual — definition: having no interest in a sexual relationship with another person — is okay.

I am not unhappy. I get a lot done and I am likely more satisfied by my life as an asexual than someone who is sexual and without a partner. I am never lonely. And I have tons of friends. (At least 16 friends — all of whom I adore — came to my 60th birthday party!)

It has taken me, via a tortuous up and down path, a long time to come to this position. And there may well be those who shake this foundation yet, as other people’s opinions, alas, still manage to have a strong effect on me. I have never told openly the story I am now going to relate, but I think it is time. It should be an eye-opener and a warning to those who believe they have the right, even the duty to “help” a young person discover “her true identity…”

As some of you know, a very long time ago, I was a student in a medical school in Connecticut. The two years I attended med school were extraordinarily difficult ones for me and I admit now that even as I matriculated, I “knew” at an almost conscious level that I would never get through. I didn’t honestly want to be a physician. Not really. Oh, yeah, I thought I could be a good psychiatrist. I knew that I understood people and mental illness enough to empathize and help others. But the notion that I could successfully get through four years of med school and four years of residency in order to achieve that goal was something I also knew would be impossible, even as I nominally attempted to undertake it. I had no choice. It was what you did in my family. And there was no question in my mind that I could work at a “regular 8-hour a day job.” I simply didn’t have the stamina either interpersonally or physically. I didn’t know why, I just didn’t. (I also didn’t understand that I had narcolepsy, so I construed my constant drowsiness as “boredom” for everything.)

So there I was in med school, without the ability to make friends or any interest in relationships, especially having just broken up with Bruce, the one boyfriend I had had and with whom I had sex (because he pushed it). I hated it…which was why I broke it off. I know I was noticed. I felt noticed. Possibly because I made little effort to be friendly, possibly because my narcolepsy made me noticeable. I don’t know. It is not that I was or am a striking person at 5′ 3″ and 105 lbs…hardly! Perhaps it was my mere aloneness that struck people. I dunno.

Things were hard to start with, but then the voices started up telling me to hurt myself and I acted on their commands, frequently. I had horrific nightmares nightly. And I could not stay awake in class or to study no matter what I did. People had all sorts of advice and jokes for me but no understanding. They gave me No-Doz and Vivarin for my birthday, which precipitated a caffeine-toxic all-night-up of horror. They took photos of “Rip van Winkle” sleeping on the med school lobby couch and published it in our newsletter. No one knew what was really going on, at home, at night, in my bedroom when the voices took over.

I had a run-in with the student health doctor, Dr E, to whom I had gone about possible Reynaux (sp?) Syndrome. When she saw certain scars on my body she became concerned and spoke with the psychiatrist I was seeing at the time. Dr S, who was a cold man who seemed to dislike me from the start, was angry at our next appointment for “parading” my wounds and warned me against ever doing so again.

I went back to Dr E and told her what Dr S had said. She seemed perturbed and gave me the name of a therapist that she said she often referred “troubled students” to. I might consider seeing Tamara instead of Dr S. The other students liked her a lot, Dr E said. What were their problems? I asked. Dr E shook her head and responded, Not so very different from yours.

I sit nervously in the waiting room, hoping that Tamara will be so late she won’t have time to see me today after all. I feel sick to my stomach and wonder why I’ve come. Five minutes late, ten minutes late. I am just about to leave when a very pregnant woman opens the door to the office and welcomes me in. I do not look at her face but whisk myself inside, trying not to guess how many more weeks she has.

Before she asks me anything, Tamara says, “Now, I see girls who like girls and boys who like boys. You’re okay with that?”

What is she talking about? I don’t understand. Girls who like girls? I like girls, I like boys. Why shouldn’t I be okay with it? So I say, yes. And assume that even so, she sees people whose issues are very different…

I didn’t ask her. I simply assumed that she had other interests. And went on from there. But it was critical, because I did not get that she was conducting therapy as if I had agreed that I was a lesbian, and yet I had made no such admission. I did not even understand what she was getting at. Why was she so coy? Why didn’t she just come out and ask me whether or not I was gay and then tell me that she only treated lesbians and gays with issues around their sexuality?

As it turned out, she had no idea that I was not in fact assenting to her coy proposition that I “liked girls.” On the contrary, if she had asked me point blank, I would likely have said, “Me? No way. I am not even interested in boys. I couldn’t care less about sex. I like, but don’t love, boys and girls…so to speak.” But the operant word, clearly, was not “like” at all, but love, as in “making love.”

Actually, in point of fact, I would not have been able to respond at all, if I remember my former self accurately. I was nearly mute much of the time, esp in therapy, and when I did speak it was often very cryptically and with difficulty making myself clear. This may account for the misunderstanding that so horrified me in what follows.

It was a crazy-making psychotherapy for about 6 months. I had no idea what notion she was operating under, because I didn’t know what kind of therapy she “did.” Likewise, if she knew the least thing about me, it was completely mis-colored by her mis-understanding of me as a lesbian. So when one afternoon she “told” me that she empathized with me, because I had had a sexual relationship with my previous psychiatrist…I hit the roof.

“WHAT? What the F— are you talking about?!” I nearly leapt out of my chair.

“It’s okay Pam, I understand,” she soothed me.

“It is NOT okay! I never said anything of the sort! This is YOUR filthy mind! I’m out of here. Go to hell!” And with that I got up and walked out. I realized then that she was nuts. Somehow she had gotten the entirely wrong idea, but I didn’t understand how. It made no sense to me. Where on earth had she fashioned that notion? I certainly had never said any such thing…

Then her statement “I treat girls who like girls…” came back to me. And I understood more. Dr E surely knew Tamara’ orientation, her clinical expertise, so Dr E must have believed that I needed to talk about conflicts about my “homosexuality,” about coming to terms with being a lesbian, unbeknownst to me. So she had set it up that I see Tamara, believing that she knew me better than I knew myself. But what right had she to do that? And how would she know whether or not I was a lesbian? Just because I was a conspicuous loner? How dare she? She knew nothing about me! What she had done was a violation of me as bad as any man who wanted to have sex just to prove he was Mr Right!

I spent a lot of time after that utterly paranoid that I might be gay, feeling that I must be gay, certain that I was gay…I even came to the point that I accepted it eagerly. But it was never true. It was just another identity forced on me by others who would not let me be. Who would not accept that I simply have never had interest in sex or sexuality beyond a pervasive non-sexuality. My libido, my psychic energy, is invested in other things, in art, in science and in life, but not in erotic interests. And you know what? Being non-sexual or asexual doesn’t make me an amoeba or less than human.

At least 1% of humanity is asexual, has always been asexual, permanently. That’s a LOT of people. We may not be the norm, but there are enough of us out there to rate your acknowledgement and the respect you would pay to any other human being. That’s all we ask, that’s all I ask. And for you not to try to change me just because you do not like it or understand my way of being. Thank you.

 

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