Tag Archives: Love

This Post is Dedicated to TakingTheMaskOff.Com and Cortland Pfeffer, With Love

Read the English  Lyrics below first if you need to as this song is in Italian.

HUMAN BEINGS/ESSERI UMANI  or go to this link: https://youtu.be/U-4OrzSBfm8

Thank you, TTMO’s Cortland Pfeffer, you are a man of true courage. I thank you for your blog and for everything you have done and are doing in the world and for people who are or were where I have been.

http://www.takingthemaskoff.com

pam w.

Here are the Lyrics to HUMAN BEINGS, in English followed by the Italian (just in case anyone wants to sing along –as I did!)

HUMAN BEINGS/Esseri Humani

Nowadays, people judge you

Because of your appearance

They see only masks

They don’t even know who you are

You must show yourself invincible

Collecting trophies

But when silently you cry

You find out who you really are

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

The courageous ones

The courage of being human

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

The courageous ones

The courage of being human

Take my hand and stand up

You can trust me

I am an ordinary man

One out of many just like you

But what a splendor there is in you

In your fragility

And I remind you that we are not alone

Fighting this reality

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

The courageous ones

The courage of being human

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

The courageous ones

The courage of being human

Love, love, love

Won, wins and will always win

Love, love, love

Won, wins and will always win

Love, love, love

Won, wins and will always win

Love, love, love

Won, wins and will always win

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

The courageous ones

The 
courage of being human

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

I believe in human beings

The courageous ones

The courage of being human

Human beings

Human beings

Esseri umani

Oggi la gente ti giudica,
per quale immagine hai.
Vede soltanto le maschere,
non sa nemmeno chi sei.

Devi mostrarti invincibile,
collezionare trofei.
Ma quando piangi in silenzio,
scopri davvero chi sei.

Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani
che hanno coraggio,
coraggio di essere umani

Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani.
credo negli esseri umani
che hanno coraggio,
coraggio di essere umani.

Prendi la mano e rialzati,
tu puoi fidarti di me.
Io sono uno qualunque,
uno dei tanti, uguale a te.

Ma che splendore che sei,
nella tua fragilità.
E ti ricordo che non siamo soli
a combattere questa realtà.

Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani che hanno coraggio,
coraggio di essere umani.

Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani che hanno coraggio,
coraggio di essere umani.

Essere umani.

L’amore, amore, amore
ha vinto, vince, vincerà.
L’amore, amore, amore
ha vinto, vince, vincerà.

L’amore, amore, amore
ha vinto, vince, vincerà.
L’amore, amore, amore,
ha vinto, vince, vincerà.

Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani che
hanno coraggio,
coraggio di essere umani.

Credo negli esseri umani.
Credo negli esseri umani.
Cedo negli esseri umani che hanno coraggio,
coraggio di essere umani.

Essere umani.
Essere umani.

Depressed, Disconsolate and Distressed…Why??? With updates

The Scream by Pamwagg © pamela spiro wagner All rights reserved
The Scream by Pamwagg © pamela spiro wagner All rights reserved

 

I feel like screaming, I am a human being, you effers, treat me like one! But of course, that is what I would say only to one group of people, the hospital personnel who so tortured me, and not everyone does that. Though I get this sense that a lot of people treat me like I am my diagnosis and not a real HB…if you know what I mean. As soon as they know you carry some sort of MI Dx, and I do not blab about that, but they find out, esp if they know the meds I take, then they suddenly do not trust me any longer, trust that I live a life that even remotely resembles theirs. Suddenly they seem to believe that I am not like them in anything that they could possibly begin to believe in. Or worse that they cannot “get into my mind” and therefore they assume that I live in some world that they cannot possibly comprehend either…

Weirdly enough, I live assuming the precise opposite, that our worlds are pretty much the same, that what I think, they pretty much think. I assume that whatever differences there may be, they are very small when it comes right down to it, and that they are miniscule in the larger plan. So it hauls me up short when I realize that they believe they cannot understand me. And are afraid of me and do not want to try to get to know me, because of that fear. And it makes me feel VERY MUCH ALONE.

 

You who are married or have relationships or have had them in the past, you do not know how lucky you are. I never have. I have never loved anyone, nor felt that I was safe with someone and not going to be abused or taken advantage or or simply that I was with a person I loved and was loved by and was their first priority. Not someone who was my peer. Yes, for 7 years I was, I think, my father’s priority, maybe his first priority, I dunno. I felt cared about and loved. But he was my father and he owed that to me. I ought to have felt that way all my life. All children should feel loved and cared for by their parents…no matter what.

 

I feel so alone, so alone. I do not know who to turn to or who to talk to. I do not know what to do or how to stop this juggernaut from sliding down into the abyss, taking me with it . It started with the headache all week, which went away yesterday but came back with a vengeance again today! I feel like no one in my family cares about me or even likes me except perhaps my brother, and he may do so on sufferance, I dunno. I do not trust anyone…

 

How can I? I have been so broken by people who said they cared about me and wanted to help me and then tortured me (hospitals) or abandoned me (my father) that I have no reason to trust or love…I do love my family, mind you. I even like them all. But it doesn’t even matter to them whether I love or like them, my like and love are meaningless to them, worse they are burdensome to them.

 

I sense that this is often the case, and it is why I have never bestowed my love on anyone: people do not want my love, not my real undying love. They would fear it and hate it. It would be a huge burden on them. So I haven’t burdened anyone in the world with my love ever. Because I would never do anything so evil to anyone, not even my worst enemy…though I do try to practice love thy enemy, as I have said, and I try to make my enemies my best friends. Nevertheless, I would not in fact give my enemy the worst burden of all, the loathsomeness of my heart. Who could stand it, who could tolerate it? I would rather die than think that I had so oppressed any person with something so intolerable.

 

But oh, how I cry to think that I am so loathsome, and why is it? Who and what am I that I am so disgusting? Why did I turn out this way? I always tried to do good, and to do it secretly so no one would be embarrassed or have to thank me…and now what am I but a disgusting turd who only oppresses the world with her presence. Whose love and heart would only horrify the person to whom she gave it…Not that I would dare do so, but that is because I understand the horror of such a gift-curse.

 

How did this happen? What happened? It will never change, I know that. It is a fact of my existence, of Existence itself. My father cared about me, but he also know how burdensome I was…He was glad to die and leave me, I think. Or perhaps he could handle my loathsomeness because he didn’t have to deal with me much…Who knows. All I know is that I am alone, alone, alone…and I will never be anything but alone. How can I go on, knowing that? Oh, I will. I will go on. But how do you? Faking it, always, pretending to people that all is fine and dandy, because no one wants to know how awful things are, NO ONE. If they did, it would only be another intolerable burden…

So you fake it and smile and go on…That is all anyone can do, right? Stiff lower lip and square your shoulders and pretend it is okay. Because you have to have people like you, or smile at you…or you will die. And unless you want to die and you do not, you need those fake smiles back at you for food to relieve the loneliness that nothing and no one will ever fill.

____________________________________

Sorry about this post, but i had to write it. I had to get it off my chest or I would have cried all evening. I promise I am working on the Liebster Aware, slowly but surely. I still need to get all the 11 blogs in order, and the questions written, but I plan to do that on the train to NC on Wed. Perhaps I will have it all done by the time i am back on the 17th. My apologies for the self-pity in this post. I try not to sit there, but I cannot always keep my head above water, or my arse off that pot. I’ll try to do better. But if I cannot be honest here, then I won’t continue to write. It isn’t worth it to lie here and have to lie about how I feel everywhere else as well. Okay?

 

Thank you for listening, if you did. Thank you from the bottom of my impoverished, dried up, lonely old heart.

 

Pam W

I wanted to add certain comments that were particularly to the point. Here is one or two from Lady Quixote:Dear Pam,
I liked this post, although I hate that you are in such pain, I like the honesty, I applaud the bravery, very very much. And oh yes I do understand, I relate with all my being, to virtually every word you wrote in this post, and in these your comments, too. Both comments.

As I’ve told you, I am writing a memoir about my similar history. I’ve changed the working title on my book a few times: From Here To Insanity, Healing From Broken, Growing Up Crazy, and some others. The working title I have now is my favorite. I’m now calling my book GOING CRAZY, a memoir of horror, hope, and healing.

The pain, the loneliness, the “shame” and isolation of having a been labeled Mentally Ill…. the label is a curse that hurts as much, if not more, than the disorder itself.

Here are the words I have on the cover of my memoir-in-progress, words that echo this post to the marrow of my bones. I have this on the front cover:
Mental illness seems to run in my family. (So does Protestantism and the tendency to vote Republican.) What causes mental illness: nature, nurture, or a combination of things? After a series of traumatic events, I had a “breakdown” at age 14 and was put in an insane asylum for 2 years. For the past 4 decades I have tried to forget my allegedly schizophrenic episode. But when I learned—in the midst of a family crises—that my first great-grandchild was on the way, I embarked on a Madness Marathon in search of answers.

And this is on my back cover:
Was I Cured of Schizophrenia? Do I Have “Complex” Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

MY MIND WAS BROKEN—DOES THE “LABEL” MATTER?

The extreme childhood trauma that caused my mind to shatter was painful. Being diagnosed with schizophrenia at age fourteen and placed in a state insane asylum for almost two years was even more painful.

But my most damaging experience by far has been the shame and isolation I’ve lived with for over forty years, caused by the demoralizing stigma of having been labeled “mentally ill.”

For most of my life I’ve tried to hide my history. Now I’m telling my story to help transform the hurtful prejudice borne of ignorance, into the healing mindset of understanding and compassion. Having recently become a great-grandmother, I feel compelled to write my memoir as a legacy of truth and enlightenment for my adult children and grandchildren, who have suffered so unfairly as a result of my emotional wounds. I am also sharing my story for anyone with a background similar to mine, to let you know you’re not alone.
………………………..
I’m sending you love and hugs and compassion in my heart and mind right now. I hear you. Loud and clear. I have stopped communicating with a sister who refused to honor my request to please stop passing messages on the me from our mother, particularly the “tell Lynda I love her” messages. NO, my mother does not love me. Her actions have proven it over and over and over again. I told my youngest sister: “I’m not asking you to agree with me or believe me, I’m not asking you to take sides. We can agree to disagree about whether or not our mother loves me, that’s OK with me. All I ask is that you please stop telling me that she does.” My sister said nothing, no response of any kind to my request. Then a few weeks later she posted right on my Facebook wall, on Christmas Eve of 2012: “Merry Christmas Big Sis, and Mom says to tell you how much she loves you.” I deleted that message off my wall, and my sister then deleted her account… so I deleted my account, for over a year, only coming back to FB a couple of months ago to keep up with my grandchildren.

I think we know when we are not loved, when we are not wanted, considered an embarrassment and a burden. I have grown nieces who do not know me, but they would post rude things on Facebook about me because I was locked up in an institution and diagnosed with schizophrenia 46 years ago. I was released from that place 44 years ago. I have had numerous doctors and therapists over the years tell me that I was misdiagnosed, I had PTSD or something else. But in my family of origin’s eyes, all but a couple of my relatives still treat me like the embarrassing crazy lady…. it HURTS. Yes it does. It EFFING HURTS. Worse than the pain and horror of “going crazy” in the first place. You SEE it in their eyes, you HEAR it in their words, their tone of voice, you DISCERN it in their body language, that “jumpiness” that 99% of the people get when you tell them, or they otherwise find out, about your MI Dx. It’s like a mask comes down over their face…. and you feel that ARCTIC CHILL, the deep-freeze of being frozen out.

Also, Pam, in a marriage the loneliness and the judgments, the raised eyebrows, the rolled eyes, the heavy sighs, the thoughtless comments, such as my now EX husband made to the intake nurse at Johns Hopkins University Hospital Psychiatric unit, where I had gone voluntarily hoping for HELP with my then-intractable depression. In describing the harrowing traffic in the streets of Baltimore as he had driven me to the hospital that day, my now EX quipped: “The traffic was so bad, I thought *I* was going to go crazy, HAHAHA.”

NOW I am lucky, NOW I am married to a man with severe chronic PTSD from Vietnam combat, a man who has spent time as a patient on a psych ward, so he UNDERSTANDS and does not hold himself above me or apart from me.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again and again and again until I die: The CURE for all types of mental illness labels must begin with CARE: Compassion, Acceptance, Respect, and Encouragement. Everything that is the opposite of the shunning, the subtle cold shoulder, the jumpiness that we can SEE and FEEL and HEAR because, yes, dammit, we may have a screw loose here or there, but we are not stupid, deaf, or blind.

And this:
Oh no, I just went back and reread my comment, and it’s full of typos. So sorry, I was writing in my emotional part of my brain, not in the editing part. Also I put that the message that made me go off FB for over a year was posted Christmas Eve of 2012. Obviously that’s wrong, it was 2011.

Brenda, I wanted to tell you that I appreciate the things you wrote, too, particularly the part about our need to be kind and loving to ourselves. So true. It’s also very true, what you said about hospitals being an unnatural setting, and that we cannot read minds, and there may be times when we are mistaken in thinking that certain people do not really like or love us. I do believe that is also true. However, that jumpy feeling you so honestly said you feel when you discover that someone has an MI Dx,,,, thank you for being so honest, and yes, that is an all-too-typical response, and it is THAT RESPONSE, that involuntary attitude of the general public toward people with certain mental illness diagnosis, that jumpy reaction is very easy to discern. And it may be involuntary and unintentional and even understandable, thanks in large part to how the media portrays people with serious MI labels, BUT.IT.HURTS, when YOU are the one being looked at and talked to like you are a freak, the boogie man, a strange and unpredictable creature from another dimension.

I am lucky to finally have my “certifiable” husband, whom I did not meet and marry until we were both in our 50s, and our sweet fur-baby Cattle Dog, who doesn’t know a thing about Mental Illnesses and couldn’t care less, so long as we feed and water and walk her and give her lots of back rubs. I worry about you, Pam, feeling so alone. Loneliness is a soul killer. I know, for I have spent the vast majority of my life feelings just as alone as you describe in this post, yes, even when I was married. In my experience, there is nothing more lonely than being married to someone who talks down to you and treats you like the worst of the personnel in the psych hospitals treated you. I don’t know why a man who looks down on the mentally ill would even want to marry me in the first place, when I had not ever hidden that part of my history from a potential husband. I can only surmise, based on how I was treated, that a man like that is looking for a woman he can control and verbally and even sometimes physically abuse, cheat on her and do whatever the heck he wants when he wants, and feel all justified about it and superior to her because, after all, his wife is “crazy.” I would rather live all alone under a bridge and eat out of garbage cans, to ever be in a marriage like that again!

Note to Lynda from pam: i looked and looked but just could not find any typos to correct for you…sorry. The date part i let you correct in your note, but the spelling typos just do not exist so far as i know or even that spellcheck can see. I know that there could be homonyms that were misspelled, but i did not detect any of those either. So there! 8) thanks for your brilliant addendum!

Happiness is….

You know what they say, that happiness is not to be found in how much money you have or in the things you own or can buy, nor even in how many friends surround you or how many people love you. The poem about Richard Cory, upon which Simon and Garfunkel (remember them?) based a once well-known song, just about says it all:

RICHARD CORY

By Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean-favoured and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good Morning!” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine — we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.

We all know it’s true, both the cautionary tale of Richard Cory, and that money doesn’t buy happiness. At least we know it with the left sides of our brains. Alas, this is still the side that does the intellectual calculations of how many friends or about the nice car we’ll need to have before we will finally be happy. And if we didn’t know it before, all we have to do is listen to the news because nearly every week it seems there is yet another story about a celebrity who seemed to have it all – money, beauty, acclaim, adoring fans – who ended up destroying himself on drugs and alcohol or who committed suicide (“no one had any idea she was so depressed…”) at the height of her career.

But if money and things and friends who love you don’t offer a path to happiness, what does? Is there a map, a guide, an instruction manual, a recipe? One look at the number of books on the market purporting to teach you how to be happy tells me there are lots of people making lots of money trying to tell you they have the secret. And given the number of books they sell, an awful lot of people out there are desperate enough to spring for them. If you have bought any of these books and found their secrets to be The Secret, or even to be one effective secret that worked for you, I would love to hear about it. Truly, I am not being sarcastic. I am a writer, and I believe that writers are for the most part sincere. Not all of them, mind you, but most of them. And so when a writer writes a book promising happiness, I believe that he or she probably believes it. I just don’t happen to think most of  it ends up being effective.

But maybe it’s me, I dunno.

Let me explain. I have had many, many struggles with self-acceptance and self-regard over my lifetime (I am 58 years old at this writing, so you can see that I am far from young) and I assure you that I am far from winning the battle. My self-esteem is very low. So low in fact that I hesitate to say more… But at any rate, when I say my self, I mean my inner self, my soul, my – well, whatever it is that one might want to distinguish from the “self-that-produces,” the working self. What I mean is, I know that I write well, and I am learning to become a better artist as the days go on. But those skills have not fundamentally affected my self-esteem, only my level of confidence. And there’s a big difference between the two. I have a lot more confidence in my abilities than I did years ago, partly due to greater skill and long experience – though only in my writing — and partly due to caring less what others think, because there is less at stake at my age. My self-esteem on the other hand remains utterly unconnected to this, and largely unaffected by it. Whether or not I love or utterly despise myself has little or no bearing at all on whether or not I am able to write or paint or draw well. All it might do is affect what I write well or paint or draw about.

And I can be proud of my poem or essay or my drawing, proud of what I produced, without that having the least effect on how much I fundamentally love or hate myself.

But, and here is the thing: I do not believe that hating or loving yourself matters in the search for happiness. Or at any rate, it is not the sine qua non, the primary requirement before you can be happy. In fact, I think in the happiness department, self-regard is over-rated. It is not that I want other people to feel badly about themselves so much as that oddly enough     I think it has little to do with whether or not one can find happiness.

Maybe I should amend the word happiness to contentment. I do not like the first word all that much, as it smacks of little yellow smilie faces and balloons and other inanities. Happiness is decidedly not inane, but our emphasis on the importance of it has made it seem so. Contentment as a word and concept has been all but forgotten in the rush towards the seemingly bigger motherlode of happiness.

So let’s switch gears and say that we are on the search for contentment, which also is not found in money or friends or in being loved by others. So where do I think you can find contentment? (Clearly I write this with my own agenda in mind…why else write it at all?)

I think contentment – indeed, even happiness – does come from within, and it starts with forgiveness.

Forgiveness? Why that of all things, you ask? It seems like so many other emotions and “emotional acts” should be more important – like loving yourself and others and being compassionate etc. But I assure you that without forgiveness, you can have and be and do none of those.

Kindness and generosity were always supreme values to me, even when I was a child. It hurt me inside to see anyone going without something that I had it in my power to give them. But it was many years before I understood that forgiveness was also a crucial value, that it not only partakes of both compassion and generosity but presupposes both. Not only is forgiveness an act of kindness but it is freely given and therefore an act of extreme generosity. You cannot force forgiveness any more than you can force a “sincere apology” despite what our parents might have thought when they made us “say you are sorry and you better sound like you mean it.”

Okay, so forgiveness is critical for contentment, maybe, but forgive what or whom? And why? First of all, everyone is scarred by their pasts, everyone has baggage from childhood. In fact, while some people had more than less happy childhoods, everyone has bad memories that they cannot shake, that have stayed with them and in effect traumatized them.  Second, scars are simply an unavoidable fact of life. You can’t get through life without them, and childhood I’m afraid is a rough and tumble place where you pick up the bulk of them. Three, who “caused” our childhoods, for most of us? Answer: our parents, or whoever took the place of our parents. That is why our first job is to forgive them. I’m serious, and while we are at it, we have to forgive childhood itself, all of it. It doesn’t matter what happened, or how terrible, it really doesn’t. If you do not forgive it, if you do not forgive everything that happened to you, you cannot let your childhood go and get on with the present, which is where happiness, where contentment lies. Contentment is not in the past, that much we know, and no one knows a single thing about the future. But if you cannot forgive the past, and especially the childhood where you got all those scars you carry around now, you will never move beyond it to experience an undefiled present.

Look, I believe that forgiveness comes from inside the brain, but heals a place in the brain we like to call the heart. And I believe that forgiveness is more healing for the person who forgives than the forgiven. So I wish you could forgive all those people who harmed you too. All the people, relatives, friends, lovers, rapists, molesters, thiefs, betrayers and more…because I truly believe it would be good for you and for your heart. But I think it is essential at a minimum if you want to be happy to forgive your childhood, the entire experience of it, not the individuals or the single events, just the fact that you were a child and had to go through it. Once you can forgive it, you see, you can let it go just as it has and be gone.

After you have forgiven your parents or parent-stand-ins, and your childhood, you are well on your way. Many people would say that this is a step towards self-acceptance here, and that is how you reach happiness, but whether it is or not, is not important to me. In some ways, self-acceptance is not what I am after so much as acceptance of the world, both of the past and of the present. And when I say “acceptance” I mean such utter acceptance of it that you can forgive it. Because only when you can forgive, so I believe, can you really accept the world. And when you can accept and forgive the world both past and present, then you can be happy.

( I realize that I have put my poem below on this blog before, but clearly it belongs here, though it is for a second time. And dang, I do not understand why this program will not allow me to get it single spaced!)

TO FORGIVE IS…

to begin

and there is so much to forgive:

for one, your parents, one and two,

out of whose dim haphazard coupling

you sprang forth roaring, indignantly alive.

For this, whatever else followed,

innocent and guilty, forgive them.

If it is day, forgive the sun

its white radiance blinding the eye;

forgive also the moon for dragging the tides,

for her secrets, her half heart of darkness;

whatever the season, forgive it its various

assaults — floods, gales, storms

of ice — and forgive its changing;

for its vanishing act, stealing what you love

and what you hate, indifferent,

forgive time; and likewise forgive

its fickle consort, memory, which fades

the photographs of all you can’t remember;

forgive forgetting, which is chaste

and kinder than you know;

forgive your age and the age you were

when happiness was afire in your blood

and joy sang hymns in the trees;

forgive, too, those trees, which have died;

and forgive death for taking them,

inexorable as God; then forgive God

His terrible grandeur, His unspeakable

Name; forgive, too, the poor devil

for a celestial fall no worse than your own.

When you have forgiven whatever is of earth,

of sky, of water, whatever is named,

whatever remains nameless,

forgive, finally, your own sorry self,

clothed in temporary flesh,

the breath and blood of you

already dying.

Dying, forgiven, now you begin.

Changing Therapists and Current Concerns

When I was in the hospital this past February, I made the tentative decision to leave Dr O, despite having seen her and indeed depended upon her for nine years. At the time, I was feeling, I dunno, burned? Not in the sense of angry but in the sense of, uh, oh, I’d better cut out while I am not too hated, because soon she really will be sick of me and won’t remember anything about me but how much she hated me…Where did that come from? Well, you might laugh, but I did not. It came from having called her on her cell phone, as she has encouraged me to do, on a working day, and reached her instead of her answering machine. I had wanted to know if she had informed the book publisher about my hospitalization. I was taken aback by the sharpness and peremptory note in her voice as she answered. It did not sound like her .

“I, uh, it’s me, Pam, I was calling to –”

“Yes, Pam, what do you want?”

“It sounds like you are sick. I’ll call back later. I was expecting your answering machine anyway.”

“Tell me now. I don’t want to have to answer my machine or call back later.”

“But it is clear you are in a bad mood. I don’t want to talk to you now…”

“I’m not in a bad mood, I’m ill and you are calling me at home.”

“How was I to know that. It is a work day and this is your cell phone, you shouldn’t have picked up if you are sick. You are allowed to be sick you know…”

“Why did you call?”

So I told her, then when she said she would call the Press, I hung up. But I felt terrible, because it was clear that she was angry and it felt personal, felt as though she was angry at me. But I didn’t know why, could only imagine, and so I did, I came up with 100 reasons why she might be angry with me, hate me, want to get rid of me or leave me…This is important, that reasoning, because is lies directly beneath my first impulse to leave her, though it is not and was not in the end my primary motivation. Because I feared she wanted to leave me, I determined to leave her first. It was an old old story, and not a healthy one at all.

But as I said, in the final analysis, it was not really the reason I wanted to find another doctor. No, that was for two other more reasonable, um, reasons: one was that I did not want to have to traverse the state to see her any longer. It took me all the morning and part of the afternoon to do so, which ended up exhausting me for the rest of the day. That, plus the fact that I did not even drive myself, so it cost me extra to pay Josephine to drive me there and back. But more than that was the fact that the doc at the hospital was so – what? not into power, not into authority, or at least played it that way. He would ASK me what drugs worked for me and at what dose. And then proceed to prescribe precisely those drugs, not just ask me and then ignore what I said. Dr O never asked me what drug I wanted or what drug worked for me, simply decreed what I would take and then asked me to take them. She only listened to me when i refused to take them, perforce.

Now, this is not to make Dr O seem like any sort of dictator, because in fact I was very resistant and noncompliant, and often refused any med at all that seemed to help, so I could be infuriating. Also I was in and out of the hospital when not taking her meds. It was only she who had the patience to work with me for 6 years to finally find a combo that worked for me without any undesirable side effects (except a little sleepiness) so that I’ll take it willingly. Nevertheless, I think she is so used to my being ill that she cannot actually treat me like an equal, and someone who might be getting better..For instance, I really need to be able to call my shrink by his or her first name, esp if they call me Pam, which i would insist upon (because I cannot feel comfortable sharing personal information with someone who still calls me Miss Wagner!). It is patently ridiculous at my age that I should call someone twenty years younger than me by a title when they do not use one for me…But I would rather be Miss W than Pam if he or she is going to be Dr so and so at age 35-45!

Anyhow, where was I? Reasons why I was leaving Dr O. Yes, well, be that as it may, I had a feeling as well that she herself was not going to be staying. Don’t know why, but I just had this strange niggling feeling that somehow it was time, or would be. Then I mentioned, in my first appointment post-hospital that I might need to have some help finding a local therapist. She did not seem surprised or if she did, did not object at all, mentioned in fact that she was leaving her sleep practice in June, which precluded my continuing on as her sleep patient in any event. That gave me the first indication. Then when I returned two weeks later, which was last week, I said to myself, I know she is ending her practice of psychiatry as well, because she is moving, moving away, moving, well, inland…I knew this with absolute conviction, not delusionally. I knew I could be wrong, and I was hoping I was. But somewhere deep down I suspected I was not.

I was so exactly on the money it was uncanny. She was moving, was ending her practice. I asked her if she was moving inland. She made light of it, said she wasn’t going closer to the coast if that’s what I meant, but that wasn’t the point of moving. I said I doubted that…And she said nothing. But it scared me, as it always does, because I still feel that I will drown when Antarctica and Greenland melt, as they will MUCH sooner than any scientist now predicts…

I will not continue on that path at this time, however. I was speaking of changing therapists. So now I have made an appointment to see someone new, and only 10 mintues away from me, close enough that I can actually drive there myself. Very close, in fact, to the Vision Therapist I used to see. I do not know how to interview a prospective psychiatrist, or to doctor shop. All the other switches have simply been handed me, and they stuck, or I stuck with them as they seemed reasonably good, and i liked them. But this time, I have no one to hand me someone with their imprimatur and am on my own. I don’t know how to do this. Will I know who is good, who I can trust? I am very bad at that, trusting all the wrong people. Well, this person at least comes recommended by someone Dr O knows well, or at least knows. That ought to count for something. But it is a he, and I have not seen a male shrink in many years, nor had a good experience yet. Dunno how that will go.

But things change and so do people. The doc in the hospital was male, both of them were, and I liked them both. So maybe this time I could tolerate it. Dunno, but we’ll see. If I can, I will write again on April 1, which is when I have the consultation. Will let you know how it went, if it turns out to have been productive in any fashion.

Note: All the information that I have been reading points to two things that I find very disturbing: one is that Inderal (propranolol) which I take for akathisia, a side effect of many psychotropics but for me of Geodon, apparently and quite effectively “blocks traumatic memory.” Now this would be fine, except that it seems to block the formation of emotional memories of ALL bad events, or at least block the bad emotional memories of the events, such that if you recall the event, you cannot actually go back and feel the way you did at the time. Now I imagine that this would be desirable for most people, who usually do not want to suffer from their memories, but I feel deprived of so much of my life, having been on Inderal or a beta blocker (the same class of drugs) for thirty years. I never knew why i could not quite feel the memories I wrote about the way others seemed to be able to feel their memories…I can see them, but I am outside of them, looking on. I feel nothing. I literally look in and see myeslf from the outside, that is how detached I am from the person I used to be, all because, as i believe, I have no emotional recall of the event. Which is why I want to stop taking the inderal…If my blood pressure rises (it is also effective for that) then I will deal with it another way, but I need to see if not taking the Inderal brings back something vital to my memory.

Number two is much more problematic, because it involves the very medications that keep most of usw with this ilness sane and this side of an institution: most antipsychotics and even the SSRI antidepressants block dopamine to a greater or lesser degree. Now no one knows where or even if people with schizophrenia are actually suffering from an excess in dopamine. That is the theory and it may be that dopamine is involved in some fashion but it is not the whole story, The newest drugs are now working on glutamate, another neurotransmitter entirely. Either neurottransmitter may not affect the entire brain the same way. What is certain is that the drugs tamp the dopamine levels down. Supposedly this is only down to a “normal” level, but who knows what a normal level of dopamine is? We know that dopamine is the pleasure molecule, that without enough of it people become thrill seekers, needing highly exciting situations in order to experience pleasure. But what does it mean that many SSRIs cause sexual dysfunction and/or loss of interest in sex? It implies that with suppression of dopamine (and cure of depression?) the dopamine falls below “normal” producing this lowering of normal pleasure and pleasure-seeking.

It is well known that many fewer people with schizophrenia marry, have children or even fall in love…I myself feel detached and cool, feel no particular sexual urge or even the desire to meet a significant other, let alone pursue someone with marriage in mind. Now I’m wondering if this was not me, not really, so much as the anti-dopamine drugs I’ve been taking most of my life…What a tragedy if the reason I feel no love for anyone is the lack of dopamine the drugs forced on me! What a pity if the coldness I feel towards all of my life and all people in truth, is due more to my drugs, the inderal as well as the anti-dopamines than to any deficient genetic make-up . It’s like the wind farms and the sonar of nuclear submarines etc. We build them as if they are reasonably green, having zero effect on the enironment. only to find out years later that the effect was devastating. (I suspect that the wind currents and subsonic vibrations given off by mega-windfarms might be discombobulating our honeybees and even undermining the vitality of our bats (both dying off alarmingly in 2009). What I mean is, we have developed all these so-called miracle drugs for schizophrenia and depression etc but do we really know what they do to the person, quite apart from the alleged antipsychotic effects? What about other costs to the individual? What are they and has anyone thought to look for them? Does anyone have a choice in the matter? Is it fair? (Obviously no, it is not fair, but then life isn’t fair, so that is a silly question…) Should they have a say, a choice?

These are notions that currently concern me. I wonder if anyone else has been pondering them…If the honeybees and bats and dying whales and dolphins deserve our attention, as most surely surely they do, the highest priority, I would hope that somewhere down the pecking order we with schizophrenia might deserve someone taking a good hard look at just what the suppression of dopamine might be doing to us in the larger picture as well as the smalller one. Just as schizophrenia, I am convinced , does NOT condemn one to obestiy, but the drugs do, just so I believe that the drugs do a number on us the full nature of which we have no inkling of.

Note: this is NOT to encourage anyone to stop taking their medication. Obviously I still take mine, fearing psychosis and the return of the voices far more than I want some dopamine at this point. But I ‘d like some input in the matter, too, and wish they’d develop some better drug or treatment protocol than the present one. Surely I can still be human even with schizophrenia. What with Inderal and the antipsychotics etc I feel more like an automaton, or Mr Spock or Data.