Off-The-Wall—A Street Survival Journal: The Solution to My Problem

Thankfully, I have my answer to my crisis. I had fasted on bread and water to find a solution and found it. Fasting has not failed me ever and that’s how a Power greater than myself will lead me to fiscal sanity.

The Daniel Fast for A Financial Breakthrough, written by Susan Gregory, is the medicine for what ails me.

It is written, No (fiscal or legal) weapon formed against (me) shall prosper…and He is my inheritance…

I fasted on bread and water on the three days drive from Montana to Kentucky because I had no funds from the trustee for the trek. He expected me to crash and burn and have to be committed somewhere along the way, but this basket case made it. I have an awesome guardian angel!

So I need to keep remembering how he got me here in spite of all odds against me. The ride that backed out on me, I learned a big lesson. I can trust my guardian angel. He cares. And I am grateful.

Off-The-Wall—A Street Survival Journal: Bankruptcy as a Catholic Value?

Is it morally ethical to declare fiscal bankruptcy to avoid making legitimate amends for grave crimes? It’s part of the Catholic playbook now, at least in the United States.

We have freedom of religion enshrined in the U.S. Constitution and it’s a marketplace of possibilities for finding a Power greater than oneself. If poverty is a virtue, then perhaps being bankrupt is the greatest evidence of it. And so the Court at the Vatican now has its highest-profile case prosecuting financial misdeeds. That’s the top priority evidently.


The trustee of my inheritance thinks I should declare personal bankruptcy. I guess it’s the Catholic approach. He married a woman raised in that religion. I still have in the trust portfolio part ownership of an office building in Menlo Park, California which hasn’t been assessed in a number of years. Maybe Facebook would like a share because that’s the town where their headquarters are located. It’s not a low rent district, to put it mildly. Silicon Valley properties are not quite without market value.

Who knows?

I deactivated my personal Facebook page when I was moving and was sleeping in my car for a bit because my ride fell through. Being a disabled trust fund baby with my brother as trustee is not exactly always a picnic, but it’s grist for the writing mill.

So now, my quest for financial freedom and vocational rehabilitation is on the skids, it seems. Last year, the trustee decided not to pay for my blog, so I figured that was a sign from the Deity that I write on.

I may deactivate my Facebook account again but first wanted to post that Jeff Anderson and Associates is representing me in court to call to account the Archdiocese of San Francisco. I really don’t see why the U.S. government should have had to foot the bill for so many years when I became disabled by Fr Miles Riley’s sexual abuse in Mission Dolores in 1976–and have remained so since then, in spite of trying to recover. I had my first breakdown and first psychiatric hospitalization right after his “ministrations” and while I am getting help at a wonderful facility in Louisville, Kentucky, it seems I have no inheritance left to speak of, if my brother is to be believed.

Could be true—or not…Taking the Archdiocese to court is not a fiscal fix for me. It won’t come quickly and it will not be much money, probably.

Those who take delight in my having troubles should rejoice now. This is for you! Enjoy!

The Stigma Of Being Sick in the Head

It took the assistance of Pharma to get me through the 20th anniversary of the mass suicide/homicide on 9-11. Dates are significant to those with post traumatic stress disorder, I have been taught by an expert in the field.

And so it was for me in so many ways because it was the beginning of the end of my career as a health reporter. I never really got over watching the endless newsreels of people flying planes into buildings and people jumping out of other high rises.

It would have been far better for me to work rather than watch the spectacle endlessly. I did work a bit, but my brain was so slowed down I could not function properly. I was clinically depressed.

I needed to delve into finding a way to cope. And what I did was become a mental health advocate who ended up focusing on suicide prevention. And I found out that PTSD can be helped with a radical change in diet.

Now I just want to report on what I found on both fronts, but who honestly wants to hear the message?

Is a health reporter who is challenged by a fickle brain a salable commodity? Best not to answer that question, perhaps…

If truth be known, what large numbers of Americans are doing in refusing to be vaccinated reminds me of those of us in State Psych wards who refuse our meds. Been there, done that and still have the secondhand sweats and T-shirt to prove it—the uniform of the committed. I was sure that generic olanzapine was going to kill me because it had aspartame as a filler (which is according to Dr Russell Blaylock, MD, a neurotoxin).

That is what my disease does when it takes over my brain, which it did because I was 2 days without medication when in an episode and staying at the Crisis Center. After that and the “ministrations” by the attorney who succeeded in destroying my recovery, I was beyond help.

It took a court order after I had gone through all the legal channels. When the 25 or so people surrounded me with the hypodermic needle to forcibly medicate me, I had no intention of resisting. I had done all I could in the legal battle and lost. Then I just was prepared to die. I really thought I would but at least I tried to save my life, I thought. It wouldn’t be a suicide, at least. I was wearing my scapular so I wouldn’t go to Hell.

Of course, I didn’t die, and in fact the next week I earned a patient of the week award for the most improved attitude. Imagine that! What sleeping can do for a person, in addition to medicating the excess dopamine that kept me up and pacing the halls for 2 weeks straight after the destruction of my recovery—courtesy the fallen attorney. I was also sure my mother’s spirit was inhabiting another woman patient and that she was trying to attack me and rape and kill me. So I just paced all night long.

Is that rational? Of course not. I did need sleep and generic olanzapine was the only way I was going to get it. I didn’t trust it though and even if I’d had brand name Zyprexa there, I probably would have found some reason in my deluded brain to reject it.

They gave it to me by injection. So now all these people who think that the vaccinations are unneeded or harmful remind me of my past except that now it almost seems suicidal for people to be refusing their shots.

Are they a danger to themselves and others? Perhaps they are. But it’s a mass delusion unfortunately. And people value freedom more than health obviously. I wanted to be free of Pharma, too. I wanted to be free to roam the halls and not sleep to escape my would-be killer who was medicated by a former psychiatrist. Surely he must be deliberately allowing her to stay up and pace all night because he never believed my mother was incestuous either.

He was not particularly psychologically astute; he was a medication manager. It was better living through chemistry courtesy of Pharma and I was hooked on him and his pill-centered practice. Surely he would find the perfect pill to fix me—a wafer of a communion that would overcome the vexations I’d endured from the fallen priest those many years before. But once the dopamine surge that is sufficient to precipitate psychosis is initiated, Pandora’s Box is officially unhinged forever.

Such is life. Not even Eli Lilly’s white knight of dopamine damping-down Zyprexa can return the box back it’s to pre-psychotic state permanently.

What I’d love to tell people who are refusing vaccination is that risking psychosis and other severe mental illnesses is not worth it. Some people are indeed going into deranged states from COVID and dying in extreme states of mental distress.

Being in a living waking nightmare that does not end, is not freedom. It’s slavery. It’s being enslaved by a deranged brain state that is the very definition of dis-ease. It’s so unpleasant that many take their own lives to escape it.

Being free to kill oneself—is that true freedom? To me that is what madmen desire and I want no part of it.

You can kill your body but that’s not all you are. And you won’t be in a better place or be free if you do. You’ll reap what you’ve sown. What goes around comes around.

Feel free to disagree with my take on it but at least it’s a deterrent and no first responder will have to suffer with seeing my carcass killed by myself, by the grace of G-d.

If you want to know how physicians regard patients who show up in the ER after suicide attempts, I can only tell you what people I know who were frequent flyers in the psych wards said. They said were not well-regarding by doctors who saw them in the ER repeatedly after multiple suicide attempts and saved their lives.

Imagine spending the years and years of training to save lives and then having people come in who just do everything to destroy themselves. It must be demoralizing.

So now doctors and nurses are spending countless hours trying to save people who are refusing to take the simplest, easiest care of themselves in taking two shots in the arm. And many are dying—very many. Needlessly.

Others can’t get lifesaving care because the hospitals are filled with deluded people who think vaccines are the devil. Unfortunately I get it. I know what it’s like to be totally deluded.

It’s nuts. There’s an app for that in this post- modern world: a double shot of Moderna—STAT. At least you won’t die hooked to a ventilator with multiple tubes invading every nook and cranny as the fruits of your ersatz-freedom. And you may live to see your cherished delusions were just wrong. Welcome to my world!

Stigma Blog: The unbearable burden I am, lightened

Eli Lilly’s White Knight comes to the rescue as St. George slaying the dragon of dopamine excess!

Zyprexa, How blessed thou art! The dopamine dragons would devour my psyche with their fire-breathing flames of Hell on Earth ignited by the life of Riley long ago.

Dampening-down Zyprexa, you are the led zeppelined rockstar that takes down the pleasure-reward center of my fevered brain. My brain will be able to rest because of you and the abuser will not win, so help me G-d! Amen.

Off-The-Wall—A Street Survival Journal of Recovery

Being not just a survivor, but to strive to thrive is why I moved to another state. Wherever you go, there you are, of course, and I brought with me all my considerable baggage and challenges. It’s not like I expected them to magically disappear in a “geographical cure” which recovery veterans say never works.

I moved myself and my equine partner so that I could work again. Often it seems that what I have to do to have recovery is a full time job. It is my work because without it, I have not one iota of a chance to find financial freedom from the financial abuser.

This Father’s Day is the first one where I know of my birth father and can celebrate his giving me life along with my birth mother. Both were artists. Eugene Kibbe was a photographer and his works were exhibited in a national gallery.

I can’t say I inherited his level of talent but I have been paid for photos when I worked as a health reporter. I used a disposable camera then.

Now, as I type this on my iPhone, I realize that while my financial overlord is fine with my not having had a functional computer for a year, I do have an awesome camera on this phone. Today I will celebrate my father by taking photos of the stunning sunset at the farm where my equine partner-in-grime boards.

On this, the longest day of the year, I celebrate summer solstice with gratitude to my father and leave behind any and all thought of what a fallen father of the Church did that so traumatized me that I have been disabled since the sexual assault.

I remain a handicapped reporter. On Earth Day, I took a volunteer weather spotter training and reported earlier this month on a flooded road. I wasn’t able to submit a photo because of the conditions when driving, though. I’ll try to do better next time.

I also cannot say that I rise to the level of race horses who are given extra weight to make the contests fairer. My handicap was not bestowed upon me for any other reason than the lust of a man who wanted a free ride.

I’m not winning any races, either. It’s no contest because just surviving is winning in this game of Church abuse. I have lived long enough to see the exposure of what goes on unabated. And in a few days it will be the Feast Day of St. Thomas More, patron saint of lawyers and adopted children. Whatever happens, I will celebrate him because I know he cares about victims even if it seems few others care enough to actually stop the soul slaughter.

For now, there is a barn cat who bites when he wants attention. His name is Church (after a Stephen King character). A Church that bites is not something new to me. So I stay clear for my own health because no one is going to pick up the tab for my hospital bills. And Uncle Sam ought not to have to pay when I know that I am putting myself in harm’s way to have traumatic wounds inflicted.

Church is great at catching mice. That’s his job there and his teeth are useful. A Church of predators is not so useful to sheep who want protection from wolves. Far be it for me to try to tell the Vatican what to do about their problem. I guess I just keep trying the prescription for healing given by the Founder: “this kind goeth out only by prayer and fasting.”

That’s my plan to find financial freedom. I learned through the years that I can trust the Salvation Army to pray with me when I am desperate, as I was when I needed to find a new place to board. They were there for me years ago when I was kicked out on the streets by my family. And I know they will help anyone of any background always. Thank you Major Garrett of Lexington Salvation Army for praying with me, for me! Praying the Our Father with you truly helped and I am grateful to you for being a true shepherd!

I will celebrate today the answer to those prayers with a photoshoot. May the long winter of my soul’s discontent become a glorious summer of my soul’s ascent out of madness—captured on camera…

Off-the-Wall: A Street Survival Journal—the stigma of living in The Nut House for Horseaholics on Chinese New Year

The Year Of the Ox began eventfully with Splendid High. He’s completing his tour of the Equine Inns in the area around the Horse Capital of the World: Lexington, Kentucky. Mother Nature has been more of a bear than on it to the area with a brutal ice storm event that has been a frozen Hell for most anyone with livestock or those with cars or who just want to survive—so just about everyone.

Splendid High, known as Mel, is sampling his last and favorite Equine Inn experience at A Little Bit Of Horse Haven. We have a few days left there but The Chinese New Year yesterday brought an unexpected surprise. While I was looking at a new place for him with an Irish horseman in Georgetown, I received a message from the proprietor of the Horse Haven. Of course, it alarmed me to see it on my phone, but I finished out checking out the possible new digs for Mel where he would learn to jump with a person on him.

He’s given me all sorts of indications that he wants to jump, such as at the Horse Lodge a few weeks ago he leaped up in the air over the goats and did a capriole and kicked out—while in hand—in response to the goats getting his goat once again. Mel is not a goat fan.

He does like having mule neighbors at the Horse Haven because he feels safe, as they will smoke any nasty critters with impunity including deer who kicked him in the head a few months back and fractured his skull between his eyes. That is the most likely scenario to me for how he got the huge protrusion between his eyes at The Stables at Queenslake. Deer do have a nasty kick and they were after his high value food I stupidly fed him on the ground in the turnout.

Trust me about deer, I lived in Absarokee, Montana which is run by the deer. People stupidly feed them although it’s rightly against the law and they roam around causing extreme hazard. Deer carcasses line the highway where miners drive in super fast buses to fuel the State’s economic engine, the Stillwater Mine. One accident with one of those buses would cripple the State’s greatest contributor to the tax base and cause anguish to many families whose breadwinners depend upon the lucrative jobs there. The deer still have some kind of suicidal desire to jump out in front of speeding 4 wheel drive trucks with grill guards. And the carnage piles up, but I digress.

Now Mel is safe in a stall at a time when many Thoroughbreds were at risk with what mean tricks Mother Nature desired to pull out of her rabbit’s hat. This ice storm was freezing rain that poured down for hours and hours and left an inch of ice coating my entire vehicle. Subarus rock, though, and I made the trek to Mel 30 minutes away to the Horse Haven which I was advised was too icy to risk driving in the driveway.

Well, my little Impreza drove on black ice at 17 below zero when no truckers were on Highway 3 outside of Billings. They heeded the warning not to drive that day, but the Southern Belle owner of the barn where Mel was then living needed supplies and I had my little compact Subaru with Winterforce tires and I made it there and back although she was stuck with her 4 wheel drive Dodge Ram truck. I just drove really slowly and was happy because no one was on the road but dumb me. It was that dangerous and I risked my life and I knew it but I felt the drive to get the supplies to a woman who gave me the chance to have a horse again when no one else would.

Love—it’s what makes a Subaru and Subaru. And how I loved Rimrock Subaru’s ninja Master Mechanic Tim who worked his superhero powers to keep my two cars on the road despite sabotage by others. Someone once actually drained the oil from my Outback in Absarokee and they carefully documented it. God bless all their hearts at Rimrock Subaru. I really miss them.

So what was the New Year surprise in Mel’s and my world and why did the proprietor call? To be continued…