moving on letting go live and let live and let the past go

the title is thanks to Mat Kearny but im listening to Danny Goeke, who is looking forward to “best days still ahead of [him].”  Age is nothing but a number he says but my fifty five years include a lot of physical scarring.

 

this morning at breakfast on the unit with the staff who I have a crush on, I couldn’t escape junk pasting on my teeth and it took me five minutes to get it off without sticking my finger in my mouth and then I remembered the point when that started and how devastating not to be able to go out to restaurants any more, especially salad stuck to my teeth and it just wasn’t tenable.

 

So i don’t feel so good presenting myself even as an asexual being.There’s other scarring, the short tongue from when the dentist cut the [?] string under my tongue with the x-ray device, the bad nerve in my nose and the closing right eye from the dentist who gave me a bad shot on the right upper roof of my mouth.  No wonder people fear dentists so much.

Even thinking about kissing someone made me want to seal myself in a sarcophagus and just wait out the days I have left.  vaginal damage, cheese pimples in my vagina,prolapsed uterus, dropped bladder, damaged right breast, and now both my shoulders are damaged from wrestling with the plastic covered bed here at night.

that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing, hiding myself in suicidal fantasies and near-death ideation, still, it was pleasant to remember when I was more life-like and to be called back to my human reality which, however horrible, still has warmth and reason.  Enough to dread the negatives that have brought me to this place.

I love St. Isodore of Seville, I have that.  He is the Patron Saint of the Internet and the designated Saint of an order of the internet that anyone can join so I have.  I will also sign up for Danny Goeke’s mission just be spreading the word, his music is so beautiful and he is a very physical and spiritually beautiful man who surrounds him with other beautiful souls in a way the is so loving and kind.

I realized that my psychologist here wouldn’t miraculously “show” on time this afternoon before going home just as my husband wasn’t “There” for me ten or more years ago when I was on my way to the airport to pick him up on a Friday night, listening to a song, “baby be there.”  He would be, of course, I thought.  And he wasn’t.

So I picked up my computer and here it is 430 and I was right, the therapist ddn’t show.  But my husband’s song just came on the radio somebody hgs on so maybe I still have to give  a chance.

My son is making his third showing at a rehab, this time for 3 months.

I’ve been hospitalized for 6 months now.

O and I have been praying the rosary almost ever day for the past week and I am starting to prefer it to other things.  Maybe I will sign up for ht confraternitu if they will permit somebody who is not formally baptized.  The chaplain comes every day.

 

heinous

what do you do when someone says something so heinous and it upsets you so much you don’t want to repeat it, but how else do you get it off you?  I mean, literally, it sticks to you and obsesses you and threatens to lead you into harm?

 

This has happened to me before and today I am looking at TWO instances in a week’s time, one from my mother and another from the female patient, about my age, on this longer term extended stay psych unit.

It’s been hell here.  I finally got to talk to the priest and it helped.  Today I got communion (even though I am not formally Catholic yet) and prayed the rosary (the Luminous Mysteries) and identified the Fourth Luminous Mystery, the Transfiguration, as my touch-faith.

Now this.  This woman who torments me and won’t own it to my face (just talks about it so I can hear it) is talking about something horrible someone did to a dog.  Just because I said I was afraid of them.

help help

Thank you St Isodore for being my friend

my son is going back to rehab

Order of St. Isodore

I’m joining.  I was thinking of starting one and then bingo, there already is one.  All you have to do is be Christ-honoring in your online interactions.

I have a nasty history of this, so this can only behoove me.  I have the equivalent of an amputated foot from my early days of blogging, when I shut down a site here at wordpress in a panic.  It was just awful.

And I lost a critical email even before blogging existed through hitting a button in error.  O Tragedy.

Here I am on a long term acute care ward picking up the pieces of the last four years of trauma and finding my way through years of misguidance and malfeasance, praying hard always and with every step I take.

Time to go–dinner will be arriving shortly.

 

a woman here

there is a woman here with whom I have been struggling.

she is a humble soul

today, when my mother came to see me after a visit to Long Island for the funeral of one of their very best old friends, she drew me up off my knees, where I landed after idling praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet, St. Faustina’s humble and magnificent prayer for the worst and most recalcitrant sinners.  I went from idle to mighty as this prayer took me to the moment where I crashed 24 years ago after having a first-trimester abortion on the (questionably) last day of the first trimester.  The point is you can’t do a first-trimester abortion after the last day of the first trimester, and it might have been too late, no way to know.  They did an ultrasound.  I refused to look at the picture.  I was dry eyed.  I was merciless.

The first abortion was without anesthetic.  I was yelling epithets at the non-English speaking practitioner who was supposed to talk to me after examining me but that was a lie.  He just started after verifying that I was pregnant.  The needles to anesthetize the cervix were so painfully I was practically screaming.  I don’t know which was worse, that, or waking up sobbing from the anesthetic of the second abortion thinking I was dying.  We took off North for San Francisco for our first wedding anniversary.  What a mess.  It was on our return a couple of days later that I felt the loss set in, I didn’t really understand.  Somehow I knew to think I was going to hell.

When I had my born son I was cycling through four moods every day, and one was the threatening onset of a feeling of grief, misery, terror over the abortion.  While I was carrying him I was keenly aware that he came too soon after her, I was sure it was a her.  After a while things started aborting all the time, thoughts, decisions, especially writing.

 

Anyway this person who threatens me here seems to have some sort of moral claim over me.

She claims she has not ever had anal sex, that she has virtue over me there.  That went down the other night.  From the beginning she has claimed some sort of piety and humility through being simple and pious even though she doesn’t specifically claim religious piety.  She has been homeless and can claim street smarts.  She threatened to lose it on somebody yesterday and I am afraid she means me,  She seems to get upset whenever anything is looking up for me, so moments after my praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet this afternoon and then falling to my knees on the pillow I have been keeping handy (I pray they don’t take it away) when I recognized that this was the end of 25 years of dread and grief, and I got up as my mother had arrived for visiting hours, I heard them mention her name in the nurses station and as my mother and I sat down she plummeted unto the hallway and was banging on the plexiglass surrounding the nurses station and pounding on it and climbing on it like an ape.

 

Dear, [ —], I won’t give your name but I will certainly pray for you that you clean up your life and figure out how to resolve your issues in a better way than they have been teaching you here.  I won’t let go of you for the way you have used me.  I am humble too and I have been used by far worst customers.

Get away from me girl.

Bless St. Isodore, to whom I was called here from my knees where I was stuck in prayer in my bedroom which is right by the phone in the nurses station which is the only one we can use as the patient phone which is broken and they aren’t fixing it.

 

 

QUALM, many words

noone visited my last post, because noone likes to hear about my problems i guess, but I am so full of QUALMs today that I am back with more MANY WORDS.

 

Here on the extended acute care unit there is rife reason for being up in arms with many QUALMS.  Moat people don’t like the food.  I think it’s pretty good because I don’t get three square plus a nighttime snack when I am providing for myself.

 

The problem is that being on a psych ward means sharing a meal with others and socialization can be very awkward,  There are Spanish speaking patients and former State Hospital patients (like me) and sometimes there isn’t really enough room, although I finally figured out how to fit four trays on one table top.  Getting up on time in the morning is key because if you don’t get your vitals taken before breakfast you can’t fill out your menu for the next day.  Hence my last post, which was about ALSO getting my plastic utensils taken away, except for the spoon, as an additional, quirky punishment.  I talked about it to the psychologist yesterday, and I a glad that I also posted it online because when I also talked to him in treatment team meeting this morning he didn’t even remember it.  I have been getting worried looks from the nurse in question, who was here today, but I was unable to connect with the psychologist with her name.

The two male nurse techs responsible with another part of the big huge qualm have been aping around all day but generally nothing is getting done.

 

At least I have been able to connect with my son.  Don’t know what to expect except a meltdown.  My mother is sick.

PANIC BUTTON

threat of harm lurking in my mother to whom I finally gave permission to call here in a bad patch last week, I won’t bother to say I shoulda known better.  I felt like I was dying, I just don’t know what to say.  I’ll just say it passed through God’s hands.

Talked to the Unit pychologist today and got out what was eating at me, a physical malfeasance by a nurse last week (official Nurses’ Week), which I hadn’t figured on being able to do.  Now it’s out and it’s from the frying pan into the fire which is actually a good thing in a way.  She made me eat my scrambled eggs and cheese with a spoon for being late for breakfast, wouldn’t give me my plastic knife and fork.  I got a nasty stomach ache.  Maybe it was psychosomatic but that can be just as bad.  Ironically, the nurses had cooked up omelettes for themselves to celebrate nurses’ week so I got a plate of eggs with cheese, onions, peppers and ham that night, delicious, but I feared I got less and was desperate to get a fork as there were also some spoons, scrambled eggs with cheese are one of my favorite foods, now I have an aversion.  this is awful.  I had scrambled eggs the next morning, house tray, the other, standard punishment for being late for breakfast is that you don’t get to fill out your menu for the next day.  This is awful and it’s hard not to awfulize in a place like this, just like when I got a pencil without an eraser in a meeting when I first got here, I was very paranoid, I kept looking at it and everybody else looked at theirs as they got them, it was really silly, but it’s human nature in this weird setting.

The psychologist, who was supposed to be talking to me about sex and relationships, deduced that I was scared of being looked at as different than others, which is true I guess, so I look to my roommate, a guardian angel, whose father worked at AT&T for 35 years like mine, for company in my isolation and finally feel at peace.  And I come here, to my computer, and blog, clinging to the black plastic electric warmth and light.

I gotta go, running into overtime.

Thank God for electronics hour here.  It makes all the difference in the world.

I trust in telepathy for this gotcha to get my mother.

 

O St. Isodore!

O St. Isodore guide me in my Internet Walk from now into the future, and undo the pernicious filth of the past, to which the internet was ever proxy.

 

St. Isodore is widely considered the patron St. of the internet according TO the internet although the Vatican has not officially declared this says the site I went to.  I thought it was St. Ignatious of Loyola, I guess I just misheard the name, don’t know why, on googling it I found the correct advice.

 

There is included a prayer for those who utilize the internet, you can look it up for yourself, I will have to do the same as I have already forgotten it by I am glad to inform those to whom this hasn’t yet occurred that there is one.

 

Of course there’s a prayer.

 

Now the last 17 years of my life, since accidentally trashing a very important email by brushing the wrong key back in the fragile early days of emailing, and then making a suicide attempt over ditching a prolific and effective but dangerous blog site, fall into place.  I want to do something with language and computers.  I am a technobrat.  I am a natural at it.  I wrote a computer program that generated two-paragraph essays on input poetry back in 1982.  It was a smash.  I was invited to teach a section in the course but I was too fragile as a woman to pursue this.

 

Thirty years later I am looking back on a crazy marriage, 2 abortions and a beautiful child, a wish-child who never even got conceived, and a divorce that I am still trying to turn around,

 

Thank you Jesus for bringing me to clarity through this unlikely circumstance of utilizing the internet in silent prayer to you.  Amen

Radical acceptance, abortion, Mother’s Day

How many mothers out there suffer on Mother’s Day or on anniversaries of abortions?

In 2012, on Mother’s Day I fell on the path to the front door in broad view, slamming my left wrist down on a glass bottle as it was simultaneously breaking on the concrete walk.  My son, who was inside the house, immediately presented himself to the scene with his self and the car keys and drove me to the ER where I got  several stitches and a wrist brace to guard the wound.  It was the visible wound of my life until recently, when everything started to break or tear from ill use.

Embarrassingly, the bottle I fell on was a laxative product, God seemed to be telling me something.  I got a tetanus shot on a date I could remember so it wasn’t all bad.  I nursed my wound while driving my son around to graduation parties.  Let’s not go here.

Now, he’s in rehab and I’m in long term acute care at a unique program for this back up North in Pennsylvania where I don’t fit but I have to make things work.  I just do, that’s all.  My son is in the same boat with rehab and life at my mother and father’s bizarre little country place, a rehabilitative ancient cottage that was the heart of a farming complex some three hundred year’s old.  They sold the larger, more modern home a while back and moved into the smaller home after spending years piecing back together two smaller buildings with putty and hammer and nails.  It took ten years or so.  It was a labor of love.

Today is Mother’s Day and I am reflecting on the two abortions and the child I unconsciously carved out a place for in my world of psych meds, cigarettes, and coffee, but never had.  Dorothy Day, who was being considered for sainthood last time I looked at it, had an abortion.  Last night I was praying to her at last in horrible desperation, she said that she always regretted the abortion through her dying day, and that discouraged me but when I went to her in my need and in trust that day , yesterday I did find relief and I left myself open to the feelings, I was ravished by them but in it  I at last found rest.  Peace. 

 

 

 

Diabetes on a psych ward in Florida

Being a Harvard grad on a long-term pscyh ward where inevitably numerous have also, like me, been on a state hospital ward is tricky.  This time I have been hearing threats,  one woman here is a frequent customer has me pegged against the wall and I don’t know how to read her approach, she is yanking position against me all day long and it’s the last thing I want to fight, I can only lose.  Fortunately I have some wiggle room, oddly, from my past failures.  These merit a second a glance here, but it’s a funny row to hoe.  I have only ever had one friend in from this city, a high-society poverty case at the time which at that time I didn’t read well.  She was different from me, and did better.  I  met her on a psych ward similar to this one, in Florida, where she was going by a different name and denied she knew me but I pinned her on it as I knew the university she had attended and she had to admit it.

This helps  me every so slightly. but I don’t have have much else going for me in this extended care stay in this city.

More later, my foe here is right in front of me getting her sugar checked, and I’m next.

Still praying

This extended care unit becomes more familiar and less frightening as I pass the  days, three weeks tomorrow, Tuesday.

This is a Catholic hospital and the Psychologist who runs things is Catholic, everything keeps coming up Catholic in my life, this is good.

So I will pass Easter among friends if I could only count on the kindness of the staff, there is one patient who is making things very difficult for me and is a grave test of my humility.

I touched base with the Psychologist about my family’s hi-tech background, and felt relief that somebody is aware of my severe trials, I do hope that I can navigate the weird social network here and continue to get by.  I am looking at 3, 6, or 12 months here, my personal habits and occupations have to change and the suicidal ideation has to change,  tho I feeled pulled down at times I have been bouncing back.

Right now I am sailing on a Hail Mary and a Hail Holy Queen, and a Memorare to St. Joseph.

I haven’t talked to my son for about a month, he is still in rehab, and the separation is producing marvelous progress.  My mother and father are getting a break, and I only don’t know what to do about my husband whom I feel close to but not confident of his feelings towards me, I’m not sure at all what he is thinking.

My last email was about the expression (?) and musical group name “system of a down,” which seems to me to accurately denote the bizarre problems I’ve faced since I took the overdose when I was 24–things have systematicaally worked against me in the weirdest way since then, and it seems to be breaking up and maybe I am coming back to the surface, I do so humbly pray.