Category Archives: Violation Of Trust

Teach Your Children. . . Well

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I am getting so damned sick of having to bandage shaving wounds I inflict upon myself with gauze and medical tape to stop the bleeding, then having to go back to clean up scenes reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho in my shower.  This is what I get for having epiphanies while holding a razor so near to my ankle.

But this time, it’s worth it.  I haven’t had words for a very long time, they had literally gone, but thanks to a friend of mine (whom shall be henceforth known simply as The Muse, she has inspired so much that matters in what I write) and a conversation we had, I have something important to say, and I know how to say it.

So sit down and listen, because when Mama Ruby talks like this, those who fail to pay attention do so at their own peril.

Now I am going to say one word, and I’ll only say it once, so you will not turn away because you are over-saturated-sick-to-death of reading and hearing about it:  Steubenville.

SIT.  BACK.  DOWN.

That’s not what I’m going to talk about, not directly.  A lot of people have already done a much better job than I ever could, and I’ll provide some links at the bottom for those who are interested.

But, as it would turn out, I have something to say related to this that hasn’t yet shown up on my radar as having been discussed.  And if it has, it bears repeating.  Mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, anyone who is raising children, this matters.

I’m going to tell you how to talk your children about sex, and how not to.  I don’t mean I’m going to give you my value system, so you in the back there, getting up?  Yes, I see you.  Sit.

I had a conversation some time ago with a child of mine.*  I’m going to withhold all details of which one out of respect to her.  She’s old enough to be talking about sex (I think nowadays kids start doing that at preschool, right?), but what popped out of her mouth that day floored me.  It was a remark that came from some of her friends about rape, and if it hadn’t gotten me so livid, the subject matter probably would have taken me a bit by surprise.

The comment was how “such-and-such” behavior meant boys were going to rape her, if she didn’t do it differently.  Again, not mine to share, also not the point.  I got so whipped into a frenzy by this, I gave her the “doesn’t matter what you wear, do, if you’re drunk, etc.” and moved on and on, performing my denouement somewhere around, “I don’t care if you are lying naked on a bed, with a man you have had sex with hundreds of times before, I don’t care if he’s your husband, if you say no, he has no right.“

She got a little quiet by the end of my soliloquy — and I mean in demeanor, she never breaks in on me when I “get like that”, which isn’t very often.  In fact, she smiled a little inside.  Being able to read her, I can tell you it is exactly why she mentioned it, consciously or not.  She knew, but she needed the kind of fiery hot rage of reassurance that only Mama Ruby can provide.

She has good parents.  Wonderful parents.  And I guarantee that they have talked to her about sex.  Rape?

Here’s the thing, my loves.  I don’t believe in an abstinence only approach.  I also don’t believe that every child should be given condoms at a certain age.  I believe that if you are raising a child, you should absolutely do your best to instill your values into them (unless your values are really messed up, in which case you shouldn’t be raising a child and God help them).

But.

Your children are going to grow up, and they’re probably going to do some things you don’t agree with.  And even if they don’t, the odds are extremely high that they’ll have something done to them.  Every parent has that worst nightmare, and so do I, and every parent says, “not my child”.  That second thing I hope and I pray with everything in me, but I don’t say it blindly.  In the United States, one out of every six women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime.**

Here is where the conversation parents have with their children needs undergo a seismic shift.  Because we live in a rape culture, that is a fact.  It’s an ugly one, and one that needs to change, but I’m not dealing in what “should be” right now, I’m dealing in the ugly reality of what is.

Parents, when you talk with your daughters (and sons) about sex, if you tell them to wait for marriage, if that is fundamental to your beliefs, I support you wholeheartedly.  With two caveats.  And to clarify, the second caveat applies to whatever stance you take when you talk with your kids, so those of you who have no problem with pre-marital sex, back in your seats.

The first is that you do not ever use the words “wrong”, “bad”, “immoral” or even “sin” when you do it.  That isn’t going to change the mind of a child/young adult/teenager/adult when they have decided to explore sex outside of the bonds of marriage.  I know, I’m sorry, it hurts to hear that, but it just isn’t.  What it is going to do is plant a deep seed of shame within them.  Such that if they are ever molested, raped, or sexually assaulted in any way, they’re going to be that much more hesitant to come forward and talk to you.  After all, if sex outside of marriage is so bad and wrong and sinful, then they must be bad and sinful, too.  Think what that does to someone who has just been horribly traumatized.

Don’t tell me it doesn’t work like that, either.  You expect them to listen when you say don’t have sex before marriage, but not remember all the other things you said when someone forces sex upon them against their will, their want, the very beliefs you have instilled?  Uh-uh.  No way.  You can’t have both.

Which brings us to caveat number two.  When you talk to your daughters and sons about sex, talk to them about sexual assault and rape, too.  I know.  Really big and really scary and my guts are churning just thinking of how to broach it.  But bite the damned bullet and do it.  Make sure that whether or not you think sex should only occur in marriage, when you teach your child about sex, you also teach them that if they are raped, if they are attacked in any way, it is never their fault.  That even if they have broken every rule you have ever made for them, if they have had sex before, if they were out drunk partying, I don’t care, doesn’t matter, they can come back and tell you what happened and you will support them with all of your heart.  And follow through on that.

If, God forbid, your daughter should come stumbling in at three a.m., clothes a mess, sobbing, and tell you she was assaulted, don’t ask what she was doing out, don’t ask her where she got that dress that’s so short.  Sit down with her and tell her that you love her and will do anything she needs you to.  I can’t tell you what that may be.  Maybe the foundation you laid will be enough to help her want to call 911 and report it.  Maybe she won’t be able to do that, and it won’t be anyone’s fault but the scum who put her in such a state.  But at least she’ll know that you have her back 110%, that you don’t think she’s “bad” or “sinful”, and that you want to do whatever you can to help her.

And, sadly, even that won’t make her magically feel better, like when you used to be able to kiss a bump and make it go away.  But it may make it easier for her to see herself as a worthwhile, valuable, beautiful human being once again.

*For those who don’t know, I have no children of my own.  I do have several “daughters of my heart” that I used to care for and still consider “mine”.

**Source:  RAINN | Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network

Relevant Reads:
I’m angry | Meizac
The Wrong Message | The Bad Luck Detective (trigger warning)

And if you read nothing else, please read this piece:
Steubenville’s Jane Doe asked people to do something…

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Because I Can

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I’m finally letting myself show anger, even rage, call people on the bullshit they hand me, their lies, singular or repeated, all of it.

Because I can.

I purged an old, dead email account of its contents the other day.  What (at the time) I felt was a stupid move was reading a bunch of those emails first.

I was aghast.  I saw myself being emotionally and psychologically abused to a horrifying degree.  Had there been a physical analogue, I would have been the woman in the ED who “fell down the stairs”, “walked into a door”, or was “just the clumsiest woman ever, you won’t believe what I did to myself. . .”  And I would have ended up there daily, until eventually I landed in the ICU, on life support.

Reading those emails was something that needed to happen, though, because it wasn’t just one relationship, and it hadn’t been just with guys I was “involved” with.  I took a long, hard, painful look at the woman I have become, and I’m angry.

I’m angry at myself, but I’m also angry at all of the people who had a big hand in turning me into this woman.  Because I never used to be this way.  You swung at me, I ducked and hit back twice as hard.  You lied to me, I called you on it straight out and gave you the option of being honest henceforth or getting the fuck out of my life.  You treated me badly, or took advantage in any way, I walked and never looked back.

I entered treatment for my bipolar, and slowly, but slowly, I began to wear down, and people took advantage of that.  Even though I knew I was doing everything possible to be well, and that I had never taken my illness out on others — except for a few, a very few, bursts of shouting and tears — I felt like I was a burden just being in people’s lives, and I had to do everything I could to compensate and please others.  This belief was reinforced when friends I’d known for years started backing away; the mother of one of the children I nannied for started distancing herself and telling me how disappointed her child was when I didn’t show up for something because I was curled up in my bed, sobbing, unable to even move (yet I always at least gave her notice that I wouldn’t be there); and finally, my sister, with whom I had always been very close, and my best friend of 20 years both decided to cut off all contact with me, basically telling me that they couldn’t handle “my drama”, and other behavior that was completely beyond my control — even though I was still working my soul to the core trying to prevent them or anyone else from being negatively affected.

Clearly, there was something wrong with me beyond my illness, as a person, and I was lucky to have anyone still in my life at all, so I had to (and did) do anything and everything to keep them.

FUCK THAT.

A sister who walks out on you when you are at your lowest is not a sister.  For a long time I have been compassionate, because she genuinely didn’t get it.  She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting well.  But you know what, it doesn’t matter if you understand or not; you love someone, you support them.  You do not call them “a black hole”.

A friend who uses her children to hold you hostage — consciously or not — because you know they are little and they love and need you, and that if you call Mommy on her lies and bullshit and manipulation she will cut off the contact you have with them, I don’t even have a word for that.

Friends who back away because you are as contagious as a leper, and even if they know that statement is true, who don’t want to deal with the fact that you have to fight constantly to keep your head above the swells while they can get up and live their lives every day are not friends at all.

And new people in your life whom you will put up with, excuse even, all manner of garbage from, all while hiding or making light of how bad things have really gotten, because you’re desperate for someone, anyone, to “support” you and show you kindness. . .  Well, that one is on me, but I never would have gotten there without the concerted efforts of the people above.  Yes, they had every right to make a choice to remove themselves from my life, but they were cruel and weak and cowardly to have blamed me, instead of having the guts to admit that they couldn’t deal with being spectators to the struggle I was living and the constant pain I was in.  Because, had they done so, they would have had to admit to themselves that what I lived every day was an enormous struggle, and so unspeakably painful, and they were cutting and running, abandoning me when I needed them more than I ever had.

For years I have searched for the reason I let my former psychiatrist lie and manipulate and force me into electroconvulsive therapy — I can finally use the word FORCE, for the very first time, and you don’t know what a triumph that is — and at last, I have found it.  It was the result of a long line of abandonments and betrayals and manipulations and lies by those I loved and trusted most.  I had been made to feel like less than nothing for so long that I had come to believe it as gospel truth, and who cared that the old me, the real me, had been firmly and unwaveringly against ECT with all of her being for three-and-a-half years?  She wasn’t standing guard any more, and my opinion didn’t count.  How could it, when I didn’t count as a person myself?

That’s something I get to carry with me always.  The permanent brain damage, and the post-traumatic stress I have from being anesthetized, having electrodes hooked up to my head, having a current, a shock pass through my brain to induce a seizure in me — sixteen times over.  I blamed myself for that, too.  Up until about an hour ago.

And still, I put up with bullshit and manipulation and being treated as less than a person by people I love, because it is all I know anymore.  Almost three years to the day of my first shock and seizure.

Now, three years and fifteen days after that first blast of electricity, arguably the lowest point of my life, it ends.  I’m done.  I’m worth more than that, a hell of a lot more.  I am often a hard person to have in your life, and that has always been so, it has very little to do with mental illness.  But I am the best friend you will ever have, if you are willing to accept me, all of me, and give back.

I am smart.

I am compassionate.

I am intelligent.

I am strong.

I am creative.

I am resilient.

I am supportive.

I am loving.

I am beautiful.

I am selfless.

I have a strong moral compass.

I am patient.

I am understanding.

I am honest.

I am accepting.

I am forgiving.

I am idealistic.

I am open-hearted.

I live my beliefs.

And I once again believe that I am worth it, that I am worth more, much more than I have been given in the past six years of my life.  From friends, from lovers, from family.

So I will live my life accordingly from this day on.

Because I can.

“I ain’t a soldier, but I’m here to take a stand. . .”

~ Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora/Billy Falcon


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Please Don’t Take A Picture

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Any psychiatrist who says to a patient who is crying frantically to him or her on the telephone, “Well, there isn’t anything left to do,” should be taken out into a field and shot.

Not shot and killed, mind you.  Not even shot where it might do severe damage, maybe just leave a lifetime of arthritis.

Then, they should be rushed immediately to the hospital, and given all the best medical care — but absolutely no anesthesia or pain medication in any form.  They should have to lay on the operating table, wide awake and fully conscious as the doctor probes around for the bullet and patches them up.

And every time they cry out from the agony of it, the doctor should respond with, “There isn’t anything left to do.”

They should be given nothing to treat the pain for the duration of the healing process, either. Not even an aspirin.  And they should be expected to immediately resume all duties of life, never wincing, never groaning when the pain shoots through them, not limiting themselves because they know they are injured and healing.

They should have to keep going through every day of their lives, and I hope that doctor who removed the bullet did a shitty enough job so the old injury does pain them regularly, so that they can have a constant reminder of what it is to be desperate and be told by the only person who can in fact do something, “There isn’t anything left to do,” when they knew the whole goddamned time that there was a great deal left could be done.

* * * * *

In case I haven’t made it vividly apparent, I had a very upsetting encounter with my psychiatrist this evening.  The story is for telling another day (if at all), but I am okay.  I want everyone reading this to know that.  And I am sorry if I worried anyone with my previous post.  Sometimes I need to write to get things out, and sometimes that writing needs to be public, and sometimes that writing needs to be vague.  It was not my intention anyone should be upset.

Sending you love and kisses,
(a very tired)
Ruby

“After all, tomorrow is another day.”

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The ECT Post

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So you want to talk ECT?  Let’s, then.  Let’s, then.  I can’t tell the truth about it when I am sober, it’s still too scary.  It’s even a little scary while I am drunker than I have ever in my life been.  Does that give you a preview?

You ask me if I would tell you to have ECT, “If I wanted only your best interest. . .”  We’ve been over the best interest part.  I have, anyway.

Do you know how simple the conversation about ECT would be, if I had only you to think about, someone I love and know intimately?  Were it only you, I would say outright that ECT is evil, it is the most fucked-up thing I have ever, and will ever encounter in my life, I do not doubt that; and if it were you and me only in this world, that it should be banned, outright? Made illegal, a form of torture, a war crime, a crime against humanity, whatever the very worst thing in this world that would bring forth the worst retribution could be?

Yes.  It’s that bad. Honestly.  So bad that I think I may have to have another blast or two, then take my vodka into the bathroom and write this there, because I am feeling sure anything else will make me throw up.

But I need to get the truth, my honest truth, out to you.

Fuck.  It’s a fine line, because once I start puking there will be no more typing.  But I need to maintain a certain degree of inebriation to be able to let this out.  More than two years in the making.

ECT is the Devil, Em.  Capital D, Devil.  It is the worst thing I have ever experienced in my very intense life.  (And wow am I wishing I had never eaten those potato chips right now.  The fear of vomiting is less to me if I don’t taste first what will come up).  Fuck don’t close your eyes or you’ll get the spins.

I have said before that I cannot explicitly say that I am 100% for banning ECT, because some people claim it has helped them.  And perhaps so they feel it has.  But it would help you exactly the way it did me.

Which it didn’t.

Would you find some temporary relief?  Perhaps.  Because it would numb and destroy the pain.  It would numb and destroy your brain.  And the pain would come back, but your brain wouldn’t.  And you are so incredibly intelligent, Em, that at some point in your life you would notice.  Lots of people don’t, and so hooray for them, because they never ever know what they have lost.  They live forever in mindless oblivion, and so hooray for them, because of their ignorance, they are happy.

But you wouldn’t be, as I am not.

I have found peace, this is true.  I have gotten back what I can possibly retrieve (which is more than most people, and now I know why I was never an alcoholic), but few days go by, if any, when I am not reminded of what is forever lost to me.

Forever.  Forever.  And ever and ever and ever.  I may finally have reached a point where I have decided to live with what has happened (consciously, I have made the decision), but that doesn’t mean that I am ‘okay’ and am moving on with my life.  In the broader sense, yes, but in the more exact sense, I will never be okay with what was done to me.  What I said, ‘Okay, do to me.  Please, please.  You said it would help, you said it would fix me.  Dear God, fix me!  Make me better.  Please make me able to face another day, another moment.’

I’m sobering up, I think that’s all for tonight.

Except for two words:  Self-blame.  (One word, it’s a hyphenate.  I think I’m going to vomit up that Grey Goose now).
 
 
(I have edited only major mistakes for the sake of clarity.  I will not allow for comments on this post, because I am in a terror at the possibilities.  Please respect that.)

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

I Don’t Know Why I Feel This Way

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But someone whom I respect tremendously (and have a bit of a crush on – yes, still, and forever) has kindly offered a medium to explain at least the way I feel for me so’s I can give my overloaded brain some respite.


(This song and video are solely the property of their respective owners and artists. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.)

(And anyone who knows anything about me knows how crucial it is to me that he introduced the bass player/vocalist.)

Moral of the story:  “Give your ears a chance.” ~ My maternal grandfather and most kindred spirit, heart of my heart, soul of my soul

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Something Else Happened

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During my course of ECT treatment.  While I was in the care of the doctor and nurses at the hospital.  Something discrete, something additional, something specific.  I’ve been trying to cope with the PTSD, and I’ve attributed its genesis to loss of control and manipulation and lots of things, and I’m not wrong to do that.  But there was something more, I just read some of my writings from that time period. . .

And I did everything I could at the time to try to find out what it was.  And I had no success.  But just because I was told nothing happened, doesn’t make it so.  I can’t necessarily detail for you the reasons why I know it, at least not right now, but I have no doubt.

There was definitely something more.

Moral of the story:  Somehow this will either destroy me or help me.  Maybe both.  But I would rather know than not.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

It Must Be Me

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I must be crazier than I thought.  I kept this blog public because I thought, it would seem erroneously, that I was doing positive things for those who don’t know me by being completely naked and not censoring anything, and I also thought that people who had seen me through some tough times in the past would understand.

Except all but a very, very few individuals have withdrawn themselves from my life.  I understand that people have their own lives, and that I am not the point around which the universe revolves.  But I also don’t believe so many people could have become so busy all at the same time.

So going forward, until I feel safe changing my mind, all of my entries will be password protected.  If you would like access to them, let me know.

See you on the flip.

Moral of the story:  I’ve got one, at least.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

What Makes A Girl So Tired

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I’m so tired that it’s beyond description.  There’s a physical component, but it’s secondary.

I’m tired of not ever believing in people because they have never failed to disappoint.

I’m tired of going out on a limb and having it break beneath my weight.

I’m tired of never trusting anyone completely, because I have never once found anyone to be completely trustworthy.

I’m tired of having to be hypervigilant when I hear that voice because it’s always right.

I’m tired of being shown support up until the point when I am most in need of it.

I’m tired of testing the waters and winding up with third degree burns.

I’m tired of reaching out for a hand and finding empty air.

I’m tired of being mislead and lied to.

I’m tired of always being on the defense because people constantly attempt to manipulate or coerce me, consciously or not, for their own ends.

I’m tired of always thinking about how my actions and words will affect everyone else before me.

I’m tired of seemingly being the only soul in the world that realizes in the end you always have, and always will have to do it alone.

I’m tired of trying to figure out ways to cope.

I’m tired of offering unconditional support and not having it returned.

I’m tired of people telling me, implicitly or explicitly, that because I’m mentally ill my perceptions are wrong and theirs are right.

I’m tired of having to badger to receive even the smallest amount of attention on a potentially serious matter.

I’m tired of people assuming instead of asking.

I’m tired of being dependent on anyone, for anything, in any capacity.

I’m tired of being responsible.

I’m tired of telling people how important something is to me and how hard I worked only to have it summarily dismissed.

I’m tired of constantly trying to keep others from worrying.

I’m tired of keeping my secrets because I know there will always be a need to.

I’m tired of being tired, and I’m tired of this list.

Moral of the story:  If you can’t read it in the body of the post, there is no possible way I can make you understand it here.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Fair Warning (The Chameleon Post)

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The “Fair Warning” in the title refers to the fact that I’m back, and after two days I have a lot of ground to cover.  Translation:  This may be my longest post to date (I am inserting this after looking at the word count, just so you know).  It will also be backdated to yesterday, because that’s when I began writing it.  Here I go.

Since I seem to have lost my sleepies (perhaps temporarily, but I’m crossing my fingers for longer), I have a million different ideas and I want to get them out – but they’re in all kinds of bits and pieces and pieces and bits, and for once I don’t care!!!  I’m just excited that my mind is back.  So I’ll probably be jumping from thought to thought with no connection that makes sense to anyone except me.

I’m going to guess my bipolar friends will have the thought of hypomania in their minds, either in the forefront, or as an unconscious, nagging feeling.  I won’t dispute it outright, but this has only been going on for about five or six hours, and I usually am pretty self-aware.  But there are definite instances when I still,  after years and years of this, need a little nudge to notice when my moods are out-of-control (or verging on it), so if you get this and you aren’t subscribed – or you are subscribed and know bipolar (or even just me, you know what I mean) – would you be kind enough to keep an eye on the next few posts, and “nudge” me (comments, email, whatever your preferred method) if you think I need it?  This is an honest request, and I know it’s asking a lot. . .  But I don’t flip shit anymore when someone comments on my moods – honestly, that’s one thing I have learned.  Aside from which, I’m asking for what I realize could be quite a favor.  Never in my life have I asked a favor of anyone and then had the gall to be upset with them because they were so kind as to complete the favor, even if it didn’t turn the way I would have preferred.  I may have some memory blanks, but I still don’t believe I have ever behaved in such a manner.

I know so many of you have incredibly busy lives, and you haven’t necessarily the time for much.  I apologize to all of you for even asking.  But I am trying really, really hard here to head off something extremely not good.  Any help at all. . .  And you don’t have to give me some detailed response, you can leave a comment/send an email/send a text/whatever that simply says “nudge.”  I’ll get it.*

So far I’m wrong on the “jumping from thought to thought” bit (surprise).  I think that can be easily explained.  First, when I write, I often go in a completely different direction than I consciously meant to, which is one of the reasons I find it so beautiful and therapeutic.  Second, I feel like I kind of “got my brain back,” I guess would be the best way to put it (maybe another post – one day I’ll look for all of my maybe/another post references and make myself actually write about them, that should give me material for about a month).  Aside from my girls, my brain is probably the thing I love most in this world.  It is decidedly that which I cherish, adore, and appreciate above all other things that make me the specific and unique Homo sapiens sapiens which I am.  And ever since I emerged fully from the ECT haze (not to be confused with the long-term effects the experience bestowed upon me, those are still thriving), once again able to fully utilize my fervently adored synthesis of gray and white matter, I have not had more than a week or two where it hasn’t given me some reason to worry.  That’s damn near a year straight, and I’m not counting back to the beginning of the ECT, when I should have been extremely worried (that would tack on another eight months, for a lovely round 20 months, or well over a year-and-a half).

Had I known then. . .  Actually consulting my notes, I was extremely worried at first, but not for the reasons that ultimately still plague me.  After a few treatments, I basically progressed into a rapid-cycling, delusional, completely unaware, and even at times clinically psychotic haze.  The psychosis was a very strange, oddly curious experience, honestly.  I was hallucinating, full-blown hallucinations.

The background being that I have had very mild tactile (affecting the sense of touch) and olfactory (related to the sense of smell) hallucinations for years, but literally so mild that the first few times I startled and looked around (tactile), or asked anyone near me if they smelled what I did, usually food or smoke (olfactory).  After that, the disconnects didn’t bother me, which probably seems very strange. . .  And still, to this day, if I smell something and there is someone in the vicinity, I’ll ask them if they smell it, too.  Honestly, I do it completely out of curiosity and an attempt to be aware and monitor the things that go wonky with me (much in the same vein as the plea above).

But the ECT hallucinations. . .  I was seeing things (visual), hearing very distinct noises as well as voices – not in-my-head telling me things voices, but someone calling to me from another room (auditory).  And of course the tactile and olfactory increased.  What makes this very odd and interesting to me, is that while in one part of my brain these were absolutely real occurrences. . .  It was almost as though my mind was split.  As real as they were, and as gone as I was (and believe me, I was gone), I knew as I experienced them, with a very faint but absolute certainty, that they weren’t actually real, external stimuli that existed.  They were strictly a product of my wildly out-of-whack mind.  I knew that no one else could see/hear/feel/smell what I did.

It’s. . .  I don’t know, I guess unfortunate is the word I will choose, in retrospect.  I was still semi-cognizant of reality, but not quite enough so to make the connection of, Hey, if this kind of shit it going on, maybe it’s a signal that it’s fucking my brain up instead helping it.  The hallucinations were fairly early on, but as I’ve written about in previous posts, by the time I even consented to the shocks, I was so psychologically and emotionally worn down, desperate, and in my doctors’ thrall. . .  Add to that repeated shocks to my brain. . .

I can honestly say that is the only time in my life that I ever “let” anyone force me to do anything.  I researched the treatment very thoroughly, considered it very carefully, made an informed decision, and said to my doctors (vociferously, and without doubt or hesitation), “No, never, absolutely not, under no circumstances.”  I expressed this determination explicitly to five doctors.  Repeatedly, for three solid years.  I have a written report from one of them who had suggested electroconvulsive therapy as an option for me, more than two years prior to my “consenting” to it.  I know this isn’t important to anyone but me, but it is so important to me.  Please be kind and indulge me.

The psychiatrist in question is regarded as the best of the best, the doctor for bipolar in the whole of my state.  I won’t detail his credentials, due to my rule of not disclosing identifying details about anyone in this forum, but they are extremely impressive.  He doesn’t even have a regular practice, he is one time consultation, and by referral only.  Translation:  He is the doctor to whom the utterly confounding, seemingly hopeless, inarguably treatment-resistant patients are sent.   A few months ago I was granted a second consult with him.  I say “granted” not in a snide manner, but because to my understanding, anything more than one visit is nearly unheard of, and it took some string-pulling, as well as genuine kindness and sympathy for me on his part.

His relevant assessments on my “Mental Status Exam,”  (direct quotes).

  • “-cooperative, insightful, thoughtful”
  • THOUGHT PROCESS:  ”Logical Directed”
  • COGNITION:  ”Normal Cognition”
  • INTELLIGENCE:  ”Above Average”
  • JUDGMENT:  ”Intact”
  • INSIGHT:  ”Good”

Direct quote regarding ECT:  ”-Consider ECT.  Ms. ~ and I discussed this.  She is currently not in favor of this strategy, though it has proven remarkably effective for many patients.  She is aware of the primary side effects, cost and commitment to 6-8 weeks of intensive treatment.”

Psych speak for, ‘She’s intelligent, she lacks neither judgment nor insight, her thought process is ideal, she understands concepts without any distortion, she takes her time and considers things carefully,’ (Mental Status Exam).  After doing some research on the Mental Status Exam and the terms psychiatrists use to complete, or “score it,” if you will, I can put it much more concisely:  I passed with flying colors.  

Next, ‘As far as ECT as a treatment, she has researched the shit out of it and refuses outright to even put this on the table as an option,’ (quote about ECT).

Couple the two, and what you get is, ‘She is cognitively flawless, and has made an informed decision about which her position is absolutely unyielding.’ 

How did I deteriorate from a lifetime of being that woman to one who was helpless, easily manipulated, and so drugged that I ceased to think at all – I just listened to what my doctor declared was best and regurgitated it as my own idea.  To guild the lily, I’ll point out the period that ends the previous sentence is deliberate, no error, because that is a question for which an answer does not exist.  Thinking back, I feel as though I was living my life in Brave New World.  Close to three decades of an exceptionally strong will and independent mind occluded in two-and-a-half years.

As I said, it’s the one time in my life when I was so broken and desperate that I allowed someone else to make my decisions for me, if you honestly believe that in such a state I was capable of doing so.  The word “allow” implies that one has thought about something and given their consent.  Two of the Merriam-Webster definitions, “permit; to give consideration to circumstances or contingencies.”

Of everything that I have lived through, it is the one and only thing that I would ever go back and undo, if I could.

Moral of the story:  Don’t ever let someone decide things for you.  If five professionals are telling you one thing, all the same thing, but your instincts are telling you something else, listen to your instincts, damn it.  If you can manage to hear your mind over the sound of their insistence, there’s a reason for that:  You know what’s best for you, because despite the combined 160 million years of training and experience of these people, you are the only person in the entire world who has lived your entire life in your body.

Sorry for the complete derailment and uber-long post.  That’s what happens when I can’t write for days.  It all rushes out of me in one enormous burst.

*Oh, and I’m already feeling way more level.  So if you would be so kind as to keep me on your radar (because I’m not new at this, level can be quite fleeting), that would be nice.  But I don’t think you should be quite so concerned for me as I was when I started writing about this.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Well, I Haven’t Killed Myself (Or Anyone Else) Yet

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That’s about the best I can say about the past few days.  I refrained from posting yesterday, because I hated everyone and everything so violently (well, there were a few exceptions – a very few).

And I don’t hate.  Anything.  Ever.  There is no upside to or productive reason for it.  But yesterday, even pulling a Gorgon and turning people to stone with my gaze would not have been enough.  I wanted to annihilate them completely, burn any trace of their existence from the earth.

It hurts when someone (multiple someones) you love and care about show that they don’t feel the same way about you.  It hurts even more when these are people you have known for a decade or longer.  It hurts still more when they don’t just disregard you, they take a knife and plunge it into your back.  Publicly, for anyone and everyone to see.  There are ways to do things properly and discreetly, and there are ways to do things where you portray someone you once claimed to care about (say, as recently as a week ago) as worthless, to everyone you know who knows them, too.

I could sit here and wonder about what else has been done, confidences betrayed, things like that – but I won’t.  I’ll just learn from the experience and move on, and score one for trusting people even less than I do now.

I need to get the hell out of here.

Moral of the story:  When you’re going to say unkind things about people, at least get right to the point and say them quickly.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.