Extended acute care

I almost died, my kidneys were in failure.  My mother found me and called 911.

Here I am mistreated.  I was flying on one wing when I got here and they haven’t  been kind, just the opposite.  They have the wavelength for my stuckness and press the pedal on it every chance they get.  I’m back pedaling to stay in one place and seem to be losing more ground even though I finally just saw the therapist here who run things.

What I’m in touch with, tho, is the beautiful.  I have my son, myself and I in some sort of amazing gestalt that flattens all the stuck years, it’s like being in the mountains in California south of LA.  I don’t know what it means, it’s like we are together but I can’t call him, he doesn’t answer.

Strange as anything to be integrated after so unbelievable a long time of  bizarre stress.  Just hanging in there and praying for the good.

Everything is prayer, chanting all day and all night:

“PREPARE YE THE WAY OF THE LORD, PREPARE YE THE WAY OF THE LORD..”  GODSPELL

“HOSANNA HEYSANNA SANNA SANNA HO SANNA HEY SANNA HO SANNA…”  JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR

AND THE DIVINE MERCY CHAPLET

Agua

Thanksgiving night I almost killed myself.

Now I am in an extended stay facility after two weeks in the ICU and recovery units and 3 !/2 months in the hospital inpatient psych unit.

I was ?sp? intibated, in other words I had a breathing tube in my throat.  No food or water for two weeks.  AGUA.  It’s all I remember, how  beautiful was the sound of water in the sink and Extremely frequently on the t.v., you can’t believe how often they show water and oxygen in ads and so forth.

I remember the first cup of  coffee and the grilled cheese sandwich.

Here it’s diffiult.

Posting from my cell phone

Updated:  gratitude list Thanksgiving 2016

1  for my sister.  we remembered each other from long ago.

 

2  for my father, who stood up for me at the dinner table.

 

3  for my mother, who pulled out all the stops with a whole filet mignon.  it melted in our mouths.  seasoned perfectly.

 

4  for my mother and father, who are trying to communicate about something that happened long ago involving my sister.

 

5  for my first real Thanksgiving, a milestone I’ve missed all these years.

 

6  for my savior Jesus, whor i love

 

7  for my son

 

8  for my son

 

9  for my son’s cats, who went out for a walk with me in the wintry weather today.  Tanner ate every plant in sight.

 

10  for winter, which buries us in forgetfulness  (T S.Eliot)  I loved my long time in the sun but I was getting over baked.  the return has been too hard for me but the Good Lord is making it okay.

 

11 for my sister’s husband.

My Gratitude List

  1.  That the huge trees by the cemetery down the road are completely blighted, while nearby trees still have leaves. It is somehow so fitting and righteous.  I have noticed lately that cemeteries smell bad.  According to my mother I used to love them when I was a child.
  2. For the first signs of winter.  Last year it never seemed to come.  After four years back NE, shivering, I am eagerly awaiting a true winter season.
  3. For my beautiful apartment, which I will likely, or maybe not, being saying goodbye to.  The neighbors have hushed up, anticipating my going.  Today they heard me on the phone saying I may have to stay.  Here, I have a “H O M E” sign with a clock for the “O,” and a “LOVE” sculptured plaque with branches full of colorful parakeets on the wall to my left.  I’ll probably miss it a lot if I go.
  4. For the new mobile home, which I can only rent so far, and t h a n k y o u “Mom” and “Dad” for helping me to secure it.  If you do.  If I go there I will have privacy with my various embarrassing and disturbing health needs.
  5. For my ex-husband, who listened to me texting about suicide all day, God bless him.
  6. For the attorney who may be prosecuting my ex-husband for the assets he owes me.
  7. For poverty, which teaches humility.
  8. For life, which is full of contradictions.
  9. For my son, who remains a gift to me and I hope that I can be more of one to him.
  10. For the family cats, my mother’s and my son’s, who are the dearest creatures.
  11. For my mother’s beautiful antique home, in a beautiful park-like setting which she maintains; I get to visit sometimes and even though I feel uncomfortable there I appreciate the loveliness.
  12. For mother, who has the odor of love.
  13. For my father, who has given me so much that is bizarre and fascinating to preoccupy my mind in my damaged body all my life, for his protection, for the grace I have received through them.
  14. For situations like Thanksgiving 2016, and the ability to get my feelings about it out, as without this I’d be sinking right now.
  15. For God above, Jesus within, and the Spirit and my Guardian Angel to guide me, for all the saints and angels in Heaven who prevail over this Holiday and will make it come out right.
  16. For all the pain without consolation which God has given me in my life, which brings special grace, I have learned, and for the consolation He gives me now that I know Him better.  For relief from pain where I have it.  For every mark and scar on my deformed face and body, and there are hundreds of little notches from picking for nits.  Because they remind me of Jesus’ precious wounds and of his Fount of Life, Grace, and Hope for despicable sinners like me.

 

Begging for a slap in the face

Evidently this is standard English (British) behavior.  (Sorry, England.)

My father has always told the story of how you had to say “Thank you, Sir” each time you got struck with a cane or the ruler.  I am just beginning to connect with how this applied in my own family of youth.

Same for the time-out-of-mind abandoned atheism, socialism and arrogance of my father’s class (working class promoted through scholarship to Middle Class.)  Dad you’re MORE THAN HALF A CENTURY BEHIND THE TIMES.  Quit watching BBC broadcasts.  They still watch news of America on British news channels.

(They took refuge with the League of Women Voters after the election.  My father made his vote public this time, and couldn’t get away from it.)

12:04 a.m.  (Now it’s Thanksgiving Eve.)

Thanksgiving 2016

Well I thought me and my family at the Holidays was bad, but this takes the cake.  I am remembering all the holidays I spent away from them, and that while some of them were the worst days of my life, a lot of them were the best.

Thanksgiving in California with my new husband (1991), for instance, was my best ever.  I made my first turkey! and it were delicious.  Christmas that year was also probably the best ever.  We decided not to celebrate in any particular way.  We just had a pleasant day.  Compared to make-believe Christmas with atheists this was a real gift.  My baby’s first Christmas was definitely the best ever.  He was only a few months old; he loved the tree; so did my husband (I did it all by mine own.)  I made rolled filet of sole for dinner and somehow it was right.  I’d have to ask my ex if it was good, I thought so.

This year is going to be the WORST ever.  In the past I was either with THEM, away from THEM with someone better, or away from THEM alone, the last being probably the worst:  New Year’s with an old lady and a dual diagnosis MHMR man who liked to talk about sex.  That wasn’t the worst.  I remember figuring I had to learn to be on my own for the holidays.  The worst was the day on R-1 at the old Reading Hospital in West Reading when it was Christmas Day, everyone had visitors, and noone ever showed up to see me.

Easter at the state hospital was a GOOD holiday.  Easter at my parents’ home was always dismal, and still his.  I got yelled at for wearing my cross.  At the state hospital some Good Samaritan brought us colored, real Easter eggs, hard-boiled eggs, and it was the holiest thing in the simplest way, that I had ever experienced.

This year I am supposed to moving.  Tomorrow.  Uh-oh.  My sister and her husband, on whom I am not, as far as I know, on speaking terms, are here as of today, so of course my mother has dropped all the eggs in MY basket to flatter, baby, and pander to my sister for as long as she wants to stay, so I’ll have to stay away (Thanksgiving, what?).  And all my months worth of planning for a good move and some other major issues, go down the toilet.  My mother is getting to old for this in a number of ways.  Fortunately I happen to have already bought a microwaveable turkey dinner and the other day by chance I picked up a big can of yams, turkey gravy, and whole berry cranberry relish.  So I’ll be okay.  Now that I have gotten all this out I am back in touch with the reason for the season, which is of course as all the posted signs remind us, to be grateful:  for a roof over my head tonight, and for my son’s new job.  He’ll be working Thanksgiving night I think.  As for gratefulness, my parents can take a hike this year.  They made me beg for a slap in the face.

 

 

Nothing

Nothing.  That’s what I have, post-divorce, at 55.  Nothing.

I love my son but he is scared of me and I can’t keep up with his problems.  He doesn’t want to live with me.  Since signing on for the background check at the mobile home park yesterday, he has been incommnicado, I don’t even know where he is.  We were very closely recently and suddenly as of last night he’s not talking to me.  I can only pray my father and mother haven’t done something to him in retaliation for sending “Daddy” those two emails of the posts I wrote on sexual abuse by him and “out of the woods.”

I still called him “Daddy” in college, and so did my mother, until he told me to stop.

I feel it all slipping through my fingers, the marriage, all those times and places, California…nothing.

My God stays with me but doubt still comes first.  It’s a struggle to believe and sometimes I think I’m only doing it to stand up to them.

I went to Harvard a runaway.  I wrote my essay about running away from home, and then I showed up alone off a plane wearing a cut-off dress without even a change of clothes.  I asked directions to Harvard Yard in the subway.  During my second year I came to this same point:  NOTHING.  “I come from somewhere half-way across the Atlantic Ocean,” I said to my two friends and roommates.  NOTHING.  NOWHERE.  NOONE  Maybe that’s what God means by asking me to be His “small one” again.  Give up the pretentions of a middle class suburban housewife and be the vagabond again, whose psychoanalyst asked in Boston so many years ago, “Don’t you have a better coat than that?  Are you a waif?”  I told him I wanted to be like Ted Koppel, who had just given the graduation Class Speech.  “I’m deeply moved.” he said, I still don’t know why.  That route led to the state hospital.  This voice I hear, I can’t say for sure it came from God, I only remember the confused prayer I said that seems to have brought it on me.  It makes me feel sick to talk about my family and then talk about God.  The one thing I do know is that He did say to me, “Be my small one again,” in the garage, smoking, after a failed Thanksgiving dinner, when my son and the boy who threw the dart at him stood in the driveway talking.

That’s what I have.  That’s all I have.  I don’t know how you go into old age like that.  My next step, which I can’t share, may take me there.  Maybe I’ll find peace in old age.

Then there’s my father

continuing from my last 3 posts…

Panicked, traumatized, likely Asperger’s syndrome…

His only recourse, with my mother as his wife, is to use plain logic to resolve all problems.  He is a scientist.  He uses the scientific method.

There are limits to logic.  You always have to have premises and my father’s can’t be challenged–if you can figure them out.

All religion is wrong, according to my father.  Spirituality? Mysticism? Sexuality?  These are subjects not to explore or discuss.

When you die, you’re dead.  Well, what’s “dead”?

What we need here is a Glengary, Glenross scenario to weed out the b.s.  It has taken a lifetime to get even this far and if I could have, I would have escaped the situation a long time ago.  It was all I wanted.  My first psychologist involved me with trying to untangle the mess at an early age, challenged my mother, instead of my father, which was a terrible danger to me, and mired me in this situation for life.  The next thing I knew I was on mind-altering medication that made me suicidal, with a rep for mental illness.  I can’t even justify my religion because it came out of the period when the younger Dr. Sharon Shrensel was driving me insane.

The Problem With My Mother

continuing from my last two posts…

 

The problem with my mother being the problem is that this again goes against my father’s reputation, as one of his tenets is that he made a careful and excellent choice in marrying my mother.  Sheer vanity.  My mother comes from an English Middle Class family with a bad reputation.  My father, working class, picked up on the sleaze, without realizing it, and thought she was just terrific.  They still watch their wedding video whenever they have a victory.  I won’t try to explain.

So “one” isn’t allowed to say anything bad against my mother.  Like criticizing my father, things brings on moral outrage.

What a long strange trip it’s been.