Off-the-Wall-Street: A Journal of Madness (March 19, 2020)

All of a sudden, China’s threat to withhold pharmaceuticals becomes very personal. Zyprexa has been the White Knight to the rescue for me for many a year. The State of Montana spent a lot of money to have me committed to the State Hospital in Warm Springs so they could give me 10 milligrams per day of the white magic and lock me up.

I had gotten so incredibly out of it that I regressed to the point where I lost my ability to know I needed medication. I got there by an attorney deciding it was a good time to try to take down my recovery. And he did.

I own my part. I really do. And I have done everything I possibly can think to do to make sure I never go down that road again. I have not, thanks be to G-d.

I still made men the gods of my idolatry after that but not to the point of my relapse. It is written, I will no longer live to the lusts of men but to the will of G-d. So that is what I am attempting.

The night before my monthly appointment with my psychiatrist, I knew I needed to take Zyprexa. And I did. And it was the perfect amount because I was functional the next day. Dr. S. thought I showed good judgment in the amount I took, which is all PRN. I was taught to titrate by Dr. D.C. and I have taken Zyprexa for a number of years. It’s not my first rodeo.

What Dr. S was most concerned about was whether I had tried to contact my dear brother, the trustee of my Special Needs Trust. No. No. And No! I was manic, not psychotic at that point. The idea is not to get to that state because he said it has proven not to be wise and that the trustee is detrimental to my mental well-being. Yes, indeed.

So, the entire world is in upheaval and no one cared to do anything to help me get the trustee to abide by the law of the land and the trust, so I very much doubt anyone will care to now. It’s okay.

I am learning that some things are impossible to change and I have to learn radical acceptance. So I am just practicing non-violent non-cooperation with injustice. That is what I am doing, but I do still get to write about it.

It doesn’t matter if no one reads this, it is like a Tibetan sand painting that will all wash away and disappear forever.

I was afraid I was going to become homeless once again because the trustee submitted fraudulent documents to the manager of an apartment that is subsidized by the federal government. She knew right away it was not correct. My side of the street is alright because from that time I have not cooperated whatsoever with the trustee. He has complete free will to do whatever he wants. And no one will stop him. No one cares and I get to learn radical acceptance.

I am glad Gov. Bullock did not get to be president because if his management of my case is any indication, it would not be good for the country. His employee, an adult protective services worker utterly failed me and another woman who lived here who also had a brain injury but hers was from cancer surgery and was worse. We both lost our ability to organize from the brain damage and that was used to get her kicked out in the Montana cold.

Now with the coronavirus, they are going to need an Adult Protective Services worker who actually shows up and does his or her job (and doesn’t block my emails and not return my phone calls as the worker does). I hope to be long gone before everything hits the fan here, but I may also expire here. That is not my desire whatsoever, so I am going to make whatever time I have left count for something.

I get very litigious when manic. I just do. And even if they decide to lock me up, which will be more difficult now that I have LegalShield on autopay, I get even more troublesome for the powers-that-be. Just ask the attorney at Warm Springs. I kept him busy and was not very nice as I developed an antagonistic relationship with attorneys in general after the other one took down my recovery.

Oh well.

Live and learn.

I am not in the slightest bit interested in being romantically involved with any man, ever. That is the gift that attorney gave me. The experience was so bad and the results so wretched that it is a deterrent extraordinaire. I know about my shrewishness and it takes a saint to deal with me–or G-d or Thoroughbreds with their huge hearts.

Today is St. Joseph the Worker’s Feast Day. At least I am working as a recovery writer. That’s something. And I am working on my recovery because I have to in order to stay out of institutions.

St. Joseph the Worker, I am going to work at recovery cooking more now, because the Daniel Cure is helping. It is written, this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting–and this madwoman needs it. I can pour it onto the page instead of acting crazed.

The pharmacist knows I am compliant. So does my doctor. And I am practicing social distancing–like that is a problem for me. Ha! That’s been my life here in the tiny town where I live. The number of hours I have to do just to tread water and have recovery is unbelievable. I literally don’t have time for chit-chat. I just don’t.

I am a really driven woman. I was driven mad by a priest who decided I was fair game but I can put that in the past. I found, once again, peace in the Catholic Church so that is my “win.” I can’t say I will ever be able to be Catholic. I don’t think like one. At all.

It’s alright. I am still a reporter, albeit a handicapped one.

Eli Lilly, thank you for Zyprexa!





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