glad to be here

here meaning wordpress.  encouraging, positive posts so unlike the ones I used to write.  It’s been some time since I did all that awful posting that came from somewhere in my mind, heart, and soul but I’m not quite sure where,  I think I must have been twisted like a pretzel and upside down to reach it.

EAC (the Extended Acute Care Unit) has finally cracked through my shell and, through intense suffering, pure pain, I have burnt and broken off those many stiff and broken old layers of me from 30 years of psych.

They don’t want me to attempt suicide again.  Too costly (ha, ha.)

The gain is my soul and, I pray, my son’s life.  He is in prison.  Where he is safe.  I won’t say any more.

I didn’t think it could happen but I, too feared I wouldn’t be able to stop another suicide attempt and, more than that, the relentless death wish that dominated my who being and experience.

So, EAC, keep it coming.  I don’t want to go back at the end of the day (I am at a daytime work program), but at last I really know it is for my good.  It’s my son I want.

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wow

wow

it’s been months since ive been here

my computer was STOLEN from the psych ward where I continue to reside

weird to blog from a psych ward

even weirder to be altogther without computer access for an extended period of time.

 

with St. Isodore it’s all good

I’ve also all but given up smoking and also the patch

here I come during the day as of a  couple of weeks ago and I will be going to a group home.

After my recent experiences of single apartment living on alimony I am willing to go.

don’t know yet whether I will continue to blog and what I will do about my book efforts.

 

 

 

 

 

sad sea change

I come here through the help and guidance of St. Isodore to record a sad sea change.

Recently I’ve been applying a stunning fix to my heretofore frequent childish bewilderment and confusion in certain types of matters I encounter.  I have to postpone judgment in matters where I don’t know the answer to a key question.  What someone else did or knows, for example, and doesn’t have to say.

The “fix” is that, of course, God knows, and is guiding you based on this infinite and intricately minute as well as vast understanding of these matters  beyond one’s ken.

Today it came to me to answer the worst question I ever asked and I got the worst answer I could get.  So m sad.  But even so it’s still a relief.  It will probably change everything.

How could I have been such a child–how could they have let me loose with a college degree?

Nothing more to say at this time.

People use to have a lot more faith and self-confidence and faith in the 1970’s and 1980’s than they do now.  That’s the only excuse I have for being me.

If my “fix” is helpful to someone else in trouble I would be happy to know it.

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