Why do you see a doctor, tell the truth. Is it because she can give you more information than you can find on the internet? Is it because she provides you with more real hands-on care than you can get anywhere else? Truly? Or is it to confirm, by specialized testing or with too-expensive-to-own instruments or equipment what you have already checked out for yourself on the internet and just need to have confirmed or denied? Truth to tell, isn’t the only real reason you visit a doctor these days to get a prescription? Because you already know what is or may be wrong with you, and perhaps you already know what script you need for the problem you have, but the sad truth is you cannot write for that danged illness or condition yourself, can you?
No, only the esteemed doctor can write that script, the one who is in hock up to his or her ears for his useless medical education (an education that I assure you — because I have been there — they will forget most of shortly after leaving their internship (now called the first year residency –that one year is the only time they will ever really need it). We believe we need our doctors, but think about it, do we really? I always thought i needed my check-up every year, but I have gone a few years without one, and have I come down with any dread disease from not having a “physical” as they are called? Nope. In fact, I have scarcely come down with a cold. And when I do catch a cold, I KNOW not to go to any doctor, nor even the APRN i call my doctor… Why? Because they might be foolish enough to ply me with antibiotics, which only deal with bacteria. I have known for years that ALL colds are viral and NOTHING treats viruses. So far, not even the vaunted Tamiflu treats viruses. Tamiflu turned out to be as bogus as it was elite and expensive! Also because the doctors are told to ply their patients with largely useless vaccines like the yearly changing flu vaccine. I had this last year for the first time, only to find out it was worthless against that year’s flu virus. I think I won’t bother to get the pneumococcal pneumonia vaccine, which they are supposed to offer to all clinic visitors over 65. And why? Check out this aside which follows:
About pneumococcal pneumonia, since we are being told just to have this vaccine, each one of us after age 65 What is it about this, and is it so terrible to get it? Here is what this dread disease is all about, or at least what the first google search brought up:
“Pneumococcal pneumonia (lung infection) is the most common serious form of pneumococcal disease. Symptoms include:
Older adults with pneumococcal pneumonia may experience confusion or low alertness, rather than the more common symptoms listed above.”
Now, I am not saying it sounds FUN, and maybe some people really ought to be protected against it, but all of us? This is NOT Ebola or small pox they are vaccinating against but no one tells us when they pressure us that we have a big choice or a reasonable choice NOT to have this vaccine…They simply recommend getting it, period. Well, I say, Here you are folks. Get the news and READ all about it. Look before you leap!
So, we only really, to my mind, need doctors for a few necessities, and I do not include prescriptions among them, because frankly that is a manufactured one, and could and should be remedied, by an act of congress permitting others to write scripts for us, even if the writing of such papers remains limited to a “royal” few (of course, why would They allow everyone to prescribe for themselves? The American population is smart enough to elect their own government and decide who is to be their president, but we are definitely too stupid to decide what to put into our own bodies, lest we poison ourselves, right? And even given the proper resources, like, say, the ever popular and, hmmm, accurate, since drug research is ALWAYS truthful, right? but even given our use of that accurately research-based PDR, we could never discover for ourselves what drug would safely treat our ailments, no, because we are too stupid. We could not even find out by asking around for advice from those who might know more than we do…
No, of course not, we Americans are just silly enough to want to poison ourselves with accidental cancer chemotherapies and radiations, right? So naturally we should ONLY let doctors with education choose to prescribe when we get poisoned and irradiated. I myself would definitely prefer to let another person poison me than do so myself,…
OR WOULD I???
Wait just a minute. Am I really that stupid? Are we all really that stupid? (I was, I admit, that stupid for many many years…I trusted the medical profession and believed all their lies…But I was stupid, as I said. Only stupid people believe a lie, thrice told, so yes, I confess, I was among the most stupid people still alive today, and frankly I cannot believe that I survived, given the nearly terminal degree of my stupidity!)
Here’s a little secret no MD will ever tell you. I left medical school in 1978 in my second year. I tried to keep up in the following years, but it was difficult at the time, because the books were expensive and kept getting updated every year. One major textbook, one updated edition of that textbook in any year, might cost upwards of $100.00 or even $200 and that was in a single subject alone, not to mention the several others necessary for a full enlightenment on the subject. Did I mention staying current with journals? Did you know how much it costs to subscribe to even a few choice medical journals if you are not part of a large group practice or a university? Again, one subscription can cost hundreds of dollars a year ( not to mention trying to find time to read the articles)
But, but but… since then, and frankly ever since the miracle of the internet, medical education has gotten easier to stay up on, and easier for anyone, even a stupid American, (yes YOU, did you know that! I bet you did!) to learn. Yes, this is the little secret your doctor will never tell you and does not want you ever to find out and it is god’s honest truth: Medical education is open to all and free of charge, right out there, everything you need to know, on the internet. It is not and will never again be arcane knowledge only doctors can learn in their special club for Moronic Dickheads (MDs).
Don’t let your doctor, or your moronic dickhead, tell you otherwise, because she or he will just be lying to protect her or his income…which I admit is a huge thing to be losing even a particle of, and I am sad that they need so much income…But hey, come down to our level, guys and dames, cuz you need to see how we, the other 99%, lives and, well, you know….
I have been appalled, seeing a doctor or APRN in the past just how much MORE than them I know, because you know, I do keep up on the information by internet and I bother to…and you know what else, they don’t need to because, well, they have the power to prescribe.
The power to prescribe is, quite simply POWER. They don’t need anything else. All they need to keep their power is the money to renew that prescriber’s license, and money enough to buy the world goes along with the license anyway.
So there you have it.
Except in the case of specialty surgeons, should you want to avail yourself of those services, and in only a few rare instances would I suggest it, some extreme bodily trauma — which many EMTs can treat as well as, or better than, MDs ( but the MDs won’t admit this) and in some critical ER care but there RNs usually do it better than MDs being longer experienced, and kinder, too.
Perhaps there are some other special cases where school-educated MDs truly can do some real good (please note that I leave psychiatry, that QUACK profession, utterly out of this discussion) but in general let’s stop calling/ treating our doctors as if they are specialized “providers of health care” or even as “providers of health care information”. All they really are is providers of PRESCRIPTIONS and that alone. They are Prescribers.
You know, I would love to have that power, MD prescribing power, more widely distributed. Then maybe it would be cheaper to get a script for, say, the anti-migraine drug, sumatriptan, for 60 tablets of which Walgreen’s pharmacy just tried to charge me nearly $1200.00. This was the exact same 60 tablets of the generic sumatriptan, yes, not a brand, that I found on the internet in Kentucky for, get this, around $64.00! Now Walgreen’s is not paying even a decently priced $900.00 for this sumatriptan which they “have” to then mark up for me, no, they buy it cheap then just decide that they can charge me this much for it, or I will bloody well do without! If I had not gotten “prior approval” from Humana Part D, for a “dose increase” that merely concurred with the PDR’s 2/day recommendation, Walgreens would never have filled the script. All this just in order to let me have 9 days of headache treatment per month! If I am unlucky enough to have 10 headaches this month, what happens? You guessed it, I am fucked! But Walgreens claims their hands are tied, that they can do nothing…Nothing my ass. They choose what they charge the customer, and they do not NEED to charge me $1200.00 for tablets that cost them $64.00. They choose to do so…
So I say, FUCK Walgreens and their collusion with Big Pharma and the Little-Big Pharmas and the HUGE-BIG prescribers,… and also fuck all these prescribers who charge us $300.00- $600.00 for a 15 minute visit, just to get their piece of the pie. We all know what is going on. I certainly do. I know whom I have to use to get my prescriptions, and I know why….But I hate this routine and I think it is WRONG, wrong, wrong. I do not think my provider knows more than i do. Moreover, I KNOW that whatever and whenever she knows more, I can find out and read for myself and learn about it on the net. I know her brain power is no greater than mine. She might at the moment be more informed about a certain subject, but not for long!
Stay informed, do not prove that Americans are as stupid as the drug companies and doctors think we are. Take back your lives and for cripes’ sake, take back your health. Take back your life-mind-health for the sake of your selves! DOWN WITH DOCTORS. We do not need them.
Take a look at this amazing Youtube Video link PLEASE!
Watch this and maybe you will have second thoughts…
Why is that we tolerate all these concealed firearm laws that allow people to carry guns hidden on their bodies into schools, churches and shopping centers and other public places in the name of the second amendment? Whether or not I agree with the NRA and other “gun rights” advocates, I believe that there are better laws that ought to be enacted that would keep us better informed and in the end safer. Those laws are OPEN CARRY laws.
After all, who benefits most from concealed carry permits, and the laws that extend such permits to allow concealed carriers to bring guns into all public spaces? Not those who do not like or use or own guns, certainly. No, they only benefit gun users and gun owners, who get not only to bring their death machines into public spaces, where they can be brought out and used in any “declared” emergency, whether necessary or not, but can be brought there in stealth and secrecy. This is because no one is brave enough to insist that what we really want and need are open carry laws, laws that not only allow gun users and owners to carry openly but in fact force them to do so.
OPEN carry laws would force gun carriers to reveal when they had brought a gun into a restaurant or church or shopping mall, and if that brought consequences for the person with the gun, well, they would have to deal with those consequences, whatever they are. I frankly believe that if bringing a gun into a restaurant results in people moving away from your table or the gun-shy other patrons not wanting to stay in that same building, with other consequences as a result of those decisions too, well, perhaps then certain laws would eventually be changed to favor protection from guns at last.
But at least we would see what actually results when gun users bring guns into public spaces when they have to do so out in the open.
Now, they have the benefit of doing it under cover and with the benefit of necessary secrecy, but this is not to the public good. The gun user does not actually want to be outed. Let’s face it, if he did, he or she would acquire an open carry permit. But most feel that concealed carry is all they want, because they are aware of the public fear and stigma against carrying deadly weapons in public, and they know this feeling exists against weapons carried in public, even when carried in secret. The thing about secretly carrying deadly weapons, of course, is that no one really knows you are doing it, so they can’t condemn or stop you or stigmatize you, can they? So you get to have your cake/gun and use it too…
Let’s call for all OPEN CARRY FIREARMS laws now. Stop allowing gun users to keep us from knowing just who has a gun in public.
(altered and a tad rewritten to eliminate sexist language)
with humble apologies to Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when neighbors doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with royalty—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all can count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
Your self’s true self in honest honor’s won.
PS if you want to see the original, you can easily google the poem and find it on line.
Aside from the fact that it is really stupid and cruel to say this to a student taking your course on creativity, and I was stupid enough to listen to him without objecting…Aside from all that, when Robert Fritz says artists can’t use art to work out their problems, I say, Balderdash! SAYS WHO? SAYS WHO?!!!
Can you imagine what the world would be like without artists who did NOT work out their problems in and through their art? A world without the likes of, and I am just selecting a few very famous examples from all over the art world:
Edvard Munck’s numerous depictions…
Just in case you doubt that he was rendering his emotional turmoil in pastel and paint, he wrote these sentences on the frame of one of the four known original versions of what the world now knows as
I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.
And where would the world of poetry be without Sylvia Plath. Surely it would be a milder and less rich place without her magnificent and moving poem, “Daddy”, which I will quote only in part below:
A contemporary poet who has for many years mined her life and traumas for art, is undeniably Sharon Olds. But one poet who made art out of exquisite spiritual agonies was the British Jesuit convert,
Gerard Manley Hopkins in the mid-1800s, who wrote what are now called The Terrible Sonnets, terrible because they portray with astonishing depth the suffering and spiritual anguish he experienced as a parish priest going through the dark night of the soul. I do not know of any poet, then or now, who has done it better.
This is one of my all-time favorites of Hopkins. But you really need to read it aloud…
Francisco Goya Saturn Devouring Son
But as Robert Fritz said to me in class, and I stupidly took to heart, “ARTISTS CAN’T USE ART TO WORK OUT PROBLEMS”…
Geee, they can’t? How dumb of me to think they can and do it, all the time.
Remember Franz Kafka? Why do I think he too might have been dealing with his authoritarian father in such books as THE TRIAL, THE CASTLE, THE PENAL COLONY or a story like “The Hunger Artist”…No, that is impossible, right? After all, artists cannot and do not do such things, not real artists…Not according to Robert Fritz, who is the arbiter of all things art!
Songwriters are notorious for displaying their hearts on their sleeves, as most of us know. But VIc Chesnutt, who later committed suicide, did this in spades, with his song, “Coward.” This song is far too raw and painful to me to place it here as a sound file. But I will give you the lyrics and tell you to look for a version of Vic singing it, as no one can do it better.
The courage of the coward
Is greater than all others
A scaredy-cat’ll scratch ‘im
If you back ‘im in a corner
But I ,I ,I, I am a coward
I, I, I am a coward
Courage born of despair and impotence
Submissive dogs can
Lash out in fear and be
Very, very dangerous
But I ,I ,I, I am a coward
I, I, I am a coward
Anyhow, I think I have made a case for stating that art — which can be used for a great many purposes, in fact can be used in whatever fashion and for whatever use you want to employ it, because truly there are no rules — most certainly one can work out one’s problems in and through using art. What better way to do so in fact? Better than taking a load of guns and shooting up the nearest _________! (fill in the blank with the most recent mass shooting locale.)
I welcome my readers to send me examples of artists who expressed themselves or used their problems to make art. I will add them to the list, especially if you provide a link to an example of their work.
Much love to all,
Pamela Spiro Wagner
Oh, I plum forgot! Here is my own example of using art to deal with problems:
All art copyright of Pamela Spiro Wagner
Folks, below this I post part of Hillary Clinton’s grand Mental Health Care plan, not because I believe in it, but because I want you all to see what our next president has in store for us. And because I hope you noted what the last thirty years have wrought in DAMAGES. Yes, after all the miracul0us advances of SSRI’s and SRI’s and adjunctive atypical anti-psychotics added to these so-called miracle anti-depressants. OOOooh, we have gotten so much healthier on our miracle pills.YES! We have gotten so much better that we now, get this, commit suicide at a rate 24% HIGHER than we did in 1999, In fact we kill ourselves at our highest rate in 30 years.
Well, I am sorry, people, but this is fucking BULLSHIT, just bullshit. You don’t believe me? Okay, i am used to that. No one ever believes me. So go ahead and read what dear Hillary posted in her Mental Health Care Plan below, from the National Institute of Mental Health. Those are not my numbers but right from the NIMH. So let’s go ahead, take our happy pills and tell ourselves we feel better, go right ahead, but what do we do when another buddy kills herself or himself despite the sweet help of his or her neighborhood pusher, er, psychiatrist???
Well, don’t tell me they did not warn us: ANTI- DEPRESSANTS DO NOT WORK THEY KILL. And it is posted very clearly right there, above.
Okay. Being forwarned is only part of the battle, we have to listen and we have to act.
Sorry for being so strident, I am really sorry.
I AM JUST SO ANGRY, SO FUCKING ANGRY AT THE LOUSY BASTARDS THAT DID THIS TO ALL OF US.
Go ahead and discount me, I do not care. But look at the statistic I posted above and ignore the implications at your peril.
Hillary CLinton’s MENTAL HEALTH CARE PLAN
Federal Support for Suicide Prevention
Suicides, which are usually fueled by mental illness, are rising among numerous population groups, from adolescents and college students to veterans and older adults. The overall rate of suicide increased by 24 percent between 1999 and 2014, and is now at its highest level in 30 years. Over 40,000 Americans die of suicide every year, making it the tenth-leading cause of death nationally. As the former director of NIMH, Dr. Tom Insel, often notes, suicides have 11 victims: the person who dies, and at least 10 people close to them who will never be the same. Hillary believes that suicide is a critical issue that she will prioritize as president. She will:
This video is not only brilliant, it is funny as hell, and amazingly instructive to boot, especially for anyone who might need answers about what is or is not consensual sex.
Dear Readers, here I am again, some scant four months after getting out of the Vermont state hospital unit in Rutland, Vermont, after two years of nearly nonstop institutionalizations, and i am dedicated to the proposition that i will never again see the inside of another mental health facility in this state, or any other state for that matter. Nor will i allow myself to be lied to again by a practitioner of mental health care, a subject i consider almost completely bogus, both the diagnosis of so-called mental disorders and their almost universally dangerous “treatments.”
In this spirit of rejecting the mental health system, rejecting even the non-system, except insofar as I need assistance in getting out of it, and rejecting *any* and all mental illness diagnosis, i decided to take a course in creativity for five days in Newfane, Vermont, just to try my hand at something outside the usual realm of “recovery-” and or madness-oriented activities.
While this ended up being, frankly, a bust — for reasons i will explain, i can report that i really liked the people i met there, some of whom came from as far away as the UK. As for the course itself, I feel that a requirement of valor means that i leave this at “the less said, the better.” I admit, however, that the teacher, a certain Robert Fritz of self-proclaimed international renown, seems to have been taking out his private pique on me ever since the course ended, for leaving the class early, on a few days, and for not praising him lavishly, or even, god knows, “enough.”
So be it, so be it. If he is so small as to exact such petty revenges, i myself need not stoop to his level.
Alas, the course ended up depleting me deeply and the sole worthwhile lesson it left me with concerned “structural tension.” This, Fritz repeated literally ad infinitum, or at least ad nauseam, all day long for five days, 8 hours a day. Sadly, the one time we did worthwhile hands-on practice, when he *first* outlined this notion and gave us a narrative structure — take point A and reverse it to point B (with a character, crisis and certain developing plot points) around which to easily design a monologue — Fritz then gave us an hour to write a piece in the voice of a single person, and was rewarded when every single person in the class wrote what i thought was a professionally competent piece, this was never to be repeated.
How much more he could have taught us and built on that, had he used the example of what we had learned and done and our confidence to “grow on and go on…” but instead he opted only for more of the same old same old, which was just going over the same ground again and again, with analyzing music video after music video but doing it FOR us, not even having us participate in any meaningful way. Readers, it truly appeared that class participation in any real sense was simply too threatening for this teacher, who was not one of those who felt he could learn anything from his students, no matter their age and life experiences…
No more recriminations on my part. I could not have known this would happen, especially since we were provided no clues, no syllabus, no handout that gave any hint as to Robert’s plans…I went in every day, every single day, and to every session with (dimming but) renewed hope that things would change, right to the last session of the last day…To my dismay and disappointment and growing exhaustion, it never did.
At least i enjoyed the monologue- writing exercise. The following was mine, which is fiction, though it was based on someone i know pretty well (and he knows who he is! )
I, Winton Wooster the third, had sex for 30 years with one man and one man only, Arturo, whom I’d met in Culinary Arts school and absolutely despised. It took me another three years and five other men, one woman, and an Electrolux, before I came to realize that it was Arturo to whom I was attracted and loved with all my heart and soul and body. “Over The Rainbow” sung by Izzy Kamakawiwo’ole was our song.
Some people think gay men can’t be monogamous. That is so not true, so not true. I might have been promiscuous before Arturo, but A.A, that is After Arturo, I never looked away, that is until…well, how do I explain this?
It all started with cars. And collections. Collections of cars. And collections of everything else under the sun. I had the car collection, and I had the other collections. I had Kewpie dolls and Christ statuettes and I had spoons and books of spoonerisms, and I had jackknives and jack-in-the-boxes, I had bowls and bowling ball collections. If there was something to be collected, I collected it and more. I collected art and books, and books of art and china and vintage Chinese clothing and if you think there was no space left in my three-story house, that is saying nothing. I rented space in several other houses, my clients’ houses, which I cleaned each week, and those were soon filled with my collections as well. As for the cars? I had seventeen cars and that was only after culling them down from a high of thirty-seven.
As for Arturo? He had one. One car, and no collections. Only an affection for zinnias, which he called the gay flower and he grew tons of them, for me. His car was named Ada, and she was a 1987 Toyota Tercel. I always said I didn’t think they still made the Tercel that year, but he showed me the papers and proved that they had. Ada was pale yellow, a custom color, and still had the original fabric on her seats and the same original everything, just a tad creaky and fading. I joked with Arturo that we too were creaky and fading. Now, to tell a gay man of 55 that he is beginning to fade and creak is dicey at best, but we were not just old lovers, we were practically brothers, so the degree of his taking offense surprised me. But then he retorted that I shouldn’t talk, since I needed Viagra more often than not and that was only when I managed to get interested enough to take it.
Oooh, that got me where it hurt. But he wasn’t wrong. The thing is, I had once had enormous sex drive along with everything else but along the way, things seem to have just dissipated. I don’t know why exactly. But it was that remark that crystallized an amorphous dissatisfaction into the huge lump of cruel coal it was: Arturo was the source of my problems and my discontent. If I hadn’t been supporting him, if he didn’t live in my house, I would have more space for my things, and furthermore I would find someone I could, frankly, feel something for and well, get it up for. Period.
The end of our partnership came one night during a quarrel about my car collection, which was occupying several other garages as well as parking spaces in town. Several times a year during snow storms we had to play a desperate game of move the cars – in order to stay ahead of the tow trucks and the tickets to get them out of wherever they might be impounded. Arturo was sick of this, and frankly so was I and I wanted, I proposed, and I had actually had the plans secretly approved by the town zoning board, to build a giant garage in the back yard, a “garage-mahal” that would house my entire car collection on site. The problem was that in order to finance it, I wanted Arturo to pay rent, to help out, that is, with my second mortgage.
Arturo was hurt and he said so in no uncertain terms. He had lived with me and paid me in so many other ways, he told me, how could I do this to him? He cooked, he cleaned and he shopped and he did everything in the house to have made it a home for us and now I expected him to pay rent like a mere tenant? Firmly and obdurately I stood my ground and said, yes.
With tears in his eyes, for which I admit I felt a small pang, but not as big a pang as I ought to have, he turned around, climbed the stairs to our bedroom and packed a suitcase. Then I heard him tread the stairs downward, open the front door, and close it with a thud.
I was such a cad I did not even ask him where he was going or see him off. I felt a relief just to be rid of him. I can’t even say why. It was only the next morning that I discovered, in the small car shed I was planning within the week to tear down and replace with my garage-mahal, Arturo’s pale yellow Toyota Tercel, which he had left behind, for reasons I did not know and could not divine. After he didn’t pick it up for a month, I decided that he likely could not afford the payments or the gas, now that I was not paying for everything. Nevertheless, I could not bring myself to get rid of it, so I paid the insurance and made sure the registration was up to date and kept it on the first floor of the new enormous garage that was soon built on the back of my property.
I did not hear from Arturo at all after that. I learned from friends that he was renting a small first floor apartment on the outskirts of town, in exchange for taking care of the owners’ property. He was rumored to have neither phone nor email. I did not try to contact him but got absorbed instead in my own busy-ness.
In the garage-mahal there was room for all of my vehicles, all the ones in driving condition, including the Bentley for which I had paid only $22,000.00 but kept in mint condition. I had some cars on lifts and others were withdrawn down into specially constructed rooms underground. Only my special fire engine red Mustang and Arturo’s Tercel were in the front bay, readily available for driving.
I spent many of my leisure hours polishing and cleaning the cars, as the house had gone to seed, ever since Arturo was not there to pick up after me or sort the collected items. Also, it was – to be honest — lonely. I was able to have sex after Viagra, yes, but then only to have the Electrolux as my partner — what was the point? I gave up sex altogether. But that made me feel even worse. I tried the gay dances and party scene, and once even an “orgy” that a friend urged me to go to. But all of that just made the loneliness worse.
One night in the summer, sitting in a deck chair, under the bright LED lighting in the garage-mahal, I thought I heard someone’s radio playing a yard away. I got up to listen and heard our favorite song, “Over the Rainbow” performed by Izzy. I stole down the street, and listened to the radio on a porch nearby, and found myself standing in a clump of tall bright-petalled flowers as if by coincidence. No coincidence, I thought, there are no coincidences. I am a total cad, but I can’t let this be. I have left the love of my life and I need him back.
I ran back to the garage-mahal and jumped into the red Mustang, but the starter just made a coughing sound, as if it had just then given up the ghost. “Damn!” I yelled, then I realized that Arturo’s Tercel was still insured and ought to be drivable. Ought to be. Hell, yes, why not?
It was. As if it knew just where it was going the Tercel seemed to drive me all by itself to a small pink stucco house on the edge of town, a house surrounded by trees and with planters filled to the brim with zinnias. To this day I don’t know how it was that Arturo happened to be there, or why he did not seem surprised or even taken aback that I’d come. But without questioning anything, he just smiled warmly, opened the door and opened his arms.
Edited on July 29, 2016 and reposted.
The poem below is the introduction to my third book, and my second book of poems, this time with art, which should be published in the spring of 2017 by Sundog Poetry and Green Writers Press, both Vermont publishers. Wowee!!! I am thrilled. Tamra Higgins of Sundog has generously said that she wants to make sure that I have an art show and reading at the time of the book launching. Moreover I believe that Sydney Lea, Vermont’s wonderful former poet laureate, who had agreed to write the forward for it when it was still going to be published by CKP will still do so for the new publishers. I feel especially blessed!!!
I am very much a novice watercolorist and these are two beginning paintings.
TO THE READER
who may be sitting as I am
in a green recliner with a cup of tea
staring out through the porch
to a darkened streetlamp outside the diner,
with a book in her lap, mine, I hope
the only one I feel I should have to mention
if I mention a book in a poem I write;
to the reader, the nitpicker, the one
who may be wondering why
on p. 47 there are two ands, one
right after another, and whose fault that is;
and to the reader, who may be tired
after a long ride home on the bus
after dark and a meal not worth mentioning
who picks up my book but finds his eyes
closing before he has opened the cover,
I say: Forgive me
I am only a writer sitting in a green recliner
with a cup of tea, I can’t explain
those two ands or the mysterious
streetlamp or warm the feet of a tired
reader in his bed. I can only put music on
and tell him stories to make movies
turn in his head, to let him wake
with the sudden understanding that poetry
may be all it takes to make a life—
well, my life at any rate, and maybe his,
and maybe the nitpicker’s and yours, too,
staring through the porch to the streetlamp
where what happens so mysteriously is poetry—
and the whole night is wrapped
in the words spoken by two strangers
meeting there, or not spoken, which is poetry too,
and all of us who listen are waiting
for the music of what is to happen.
Counterpoint Summer 2016 please see this important article that just came out in the Vermont paper. It is very important! Thanks, pam
Living in a hospital is like living in an Ice Hotel
where all the appointments beneath the furs and fleece
are hard frozen to the floor
Like Ice Hotel staff, the nurses try their best
to be kind, to find compassion for those suffering
here on their sub-zero beds.
But really, they have their warm lives elsewhere.
The psychiatrist knows better. She visits briefly
once a day at the height of the sun, chewing her Vitamin D,
and encourages Hotel visitors to Happy Talk
and Life Skills. If she fails to ease their suffering
in any part, it is because she does not see it, blind
to the fact that the beds are frozen pallets that chill
to the bone. She sees only the furs and warm fleeces.
She cannot fathom why one would not rise and walk
under her cheerful ministrations after a few nights
spent on a banquette of ice. Only the aides
are savvy enough, being low-paid and long-working,
to bring in oil lanterns and hot water bottles.
The patients love them and when finally it comes time
to leave, strange how difficult it is to say good-bye
to even the hardest corner of this place.
luckily i no longer live in a hospital but in a little corner of paradise, in Brattleboro Vermont. And soon I will be writing you about my place. All week i had a headache, which was a beach that was decidely not Miami. But I stopped taking the Abilify on a whim, and wouldn’t you know, immediately the headache ceased. I cannot tell anyone this, because they will become up in arms at my stopping a “necessary medicatoin” but if I do not tell anyone, and things go just fine, won’t that be funny as hell? I think so. And that is precisely what happened when I stopped the Zyprexa, the last time. Everything was fine fine fine,. for six months, and never stopped being fine. I mean I did just as good off it as on it, and we never started it with any good being done, again.
But no negativity from me today. Instead I will leave you with the sunny face painting I did for a member of BRattleboro TIme Trade, in preparation for a papier mache sun we want to work on. Love to all of you!
Zentangled easter eggs!
Please note that i am reposting this frorm a week ago as it got accidentally deleted, but i cannot repost the comments. Anyone who wishes to recomment is welcome to.
It all started when i bodily “escorted” the nurse,KJ out of my bathroom, where I had situated my mattress, and had her leave my lunch on the table outside. I had been vocalizing loudly and softly virtually only the three words, “oswall wistofi matootam” for days uncontrollably, and over the past hour i had screamed at the top of my lungs from my room, which the nurse had to have heard but made no response. When she simply left my lunch at the table, i felt utterly ignored and abandoned, and in a rage of certainty that she was plotting against me, picked up the cup of coffee and threw it straight at her. With unusual accuracy, it found its target in her center. My next lob hit only the wall.
In certainty of repercussion, i slammed my door and waited. Soon the usual code was called, but instead of burly men bursting in the door, i heard them packing up the sitting area for quite some time, and it knew it took them some several minutes to prepare an injection of my medications. But my terror only increased, so i grabbed a chair to defend my self. Finally they opened the door. KJ in an oh so nice voice said, “pam, i have medication for you.” And they quickly grabbed the chair and four men upended me and laid me on the floor near the bed frame, which was covered in my artwork and books. It took quite some time for the staff to methodically pack up all items they feared, apparently, might go flying at them afterwards ( though if proper protocol had been followed from tHe first, nothing would have).
This proper protocol, by the way, had been developed by another nurse and i after much discussion of my detailed advanced directive and my intense horror of locked seclusion and mechanical restraints, both of which i have experienced in abundance and usually for discipline or convenience, almost never for any truly emergent reason. That said, i believe the first nurse, KJ had lost her temper with me, and decided not to follow this protocol on the unit because she wanted to punish me, as will be demonstrated by what followed.
Having brought the two IM medications with her, which the protocol for agitation we had worked out calls for, she eventually called for the men to deposit me on the bed frame so she could inject them, one in each leg. She did so. Then, instead of having them keep me in a protective hold for as long as i needed to calm myself and potentially fall asleep, which usually took little more than 10-15 minutes, she said, she was having everyone leave and locking me alone in my emptied room. I screamed aloud at this. “I have an advanced directive! You cannot do that!” I pleaded but they forced the door closed against me and locked it.
I screamed to no avail and then started hitting my head in terror against the door in an effort to get them to open it. This worked in a short time, and three aides were sent in. We sat on the bed frame and they actually held my limbs, i thought in such a way as to comfort me. Little did i understand the truth, because even as i very quickly calmed down, soon through the door, the same angry nurse pushed a big prison-issue restraint chair. She yelled at me, “now you are going to have to sit in this!!!
I yelled back, “No!!! No restraints. My advance directive says so!”
I want to interrupt here to quote the government’s own research. SAMHSA’s issue brief #1 March 2010 on promoting alternatives to the use of seclusion and restraints says:
“…the use of seclusion and restraint has often been perceived as therapeutic to consumers. This misconception has been challenged and refuted. Increasing research has identifed the role of trauma in mental and addiction disorders. Research into trauma and trauma-informed care identify common themes about the impact of trauma and how traumatic life experiences can impede an individual’s ability to manage his or her own behaviors or engage in appropriate behaviors in the community.
“Also, there is a common misconception that seclusion and restraint are used only when absolutely necessary as crisis response techniques. In fact, seclusion and restraint are most commonly used to address loud, disruptive, noncompliant behavior and generally originate from a power struggle between consumer and staff. The decision to apply seclusion or restraint techniques is often arbitrary, idiosyncratic, and generally avoidable . Moreover, some studies indicate that seclusion and restraint use leads to an increase in the behaviors staff members are attempting to control or eliminate.”
But they grabbed me and forced me into that chair and despite my struggles and terrified screams of protest they forced nine straps around my body, yes, 9-point restraints because K— J—-, RN, was still angry with me and refused to utilise our calming no-restraints, no seclusion protocol. This protocol had not only helped me but had also since then, so i was told, been used to calm and help other agitated patients without seclusion cells or mechanical restraints after i insisted that the unit staff start doing their “best to avoid restraints” with everyone, not just for me because my A.D insists on it.
Once strapped in to that horrendous chair, i screamed at the nurse, “You are just punishing me!” And calmly, she answered back, “Well, you threw hot coffee at me, what do you expect but punishment!?”
Then she walked out of the room, leaving two aides in the room to tighten the straps so tight that i could not move and felt the circulation in one hand go dead.
In horror, i shrieked for help. I pleaded for anyone to help me, for god’s sake. What the hell were they doing to me?!? Please just help me, someone!!? It upset the other patients to hear this just outside my room. I even begged them to put me in regular 4-point restraints on a bed where at least i could relax and fall asleep. Why hadn’t the nurse not brought me to the seclusion room to begin with, where the walls and door were all were padded if she was not going to follow the protocol?
In the end, it took two hours and two episodes in that terrible chair before they freed me.
That evening, as a response to the trauma, i defecated on the rug in the dining area, and painted with feces on the wall.
Surely this is no way to treat an animal, let alone a troubled psychiatric patient, especially not when there is already a calming,non-violent protocol set up to deal with her when she is agitated?
I say, chairs like this need to be trashed. Once a hospital orders one — and where do they get them? From prison suppliers!) they will use it. They say they use it for emergencies only, but as i have shown, once they have such a chair, it will be used abusively–always, always, always.
The only way to end seclusion and restraints is to stop it now and. For good. The more hospitals dilly-dally saying, soon, we will when we can, they will never stop. There will always been someone to say, no, what about this or that. But abuse is abuse and restraints are abusive by definition. Stop the use of a restraint chair and bed and all use of mechanical restraints by stopping. And then you will find a way to deal with problems arising that work better.
The painting i did below depicts the chair they held me in, minus the waist strap but with the toe restraints.
“There is no negative space, only the shapely void. Hold your hands out, cup the air. To see the emptiness you hold is to know that space loves the world.” P. Wagner
Pamela Spiro Wagner
rutland regional medical center
Rutland vt 05701
802-747-1855 until i can use my cell phone
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