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!

 

 

 

 

Off-the-Wall Street/a Journal of Recovery: Beware the Ides of March (March 15, 2020)

I would never have guessed that the heirloom jewelry I sold to pay for a shelter would have turned out to have been sold in vain. The shelter was not ready and never was built and my family never forgave me.

It forfeited any right to my mother’s significant jewelry by what they saw were irresponsible actions on my part. I was not to be trusted with the family jewels quite literally. Or anything else. Everything had to be managed by the sane sibling.

Ah, well. Thirty years ago today were we advised to go into our shelters. Since I did not have one, I slept that night in my car, a Mitsubishi Mirage L, that I called Mel.

Everyone was fine, including me. I remembered my mother’s lessons on how to dress for the cold and sleeping in a Montana winter outside was no problem.

Some afterwards bemoaned their fate and the fact that nothing happened. What we were actually taught though, is that prophecy is given that prophecy may fail because it is heeded. Nineveh is the example. People repented and so disaster was averted.

Interestingly enough, the intelligence community was baffled at how we knew to go underground when the threat of nuclear war between India and Pakistan was considered likely that very day.

Now we have a pandemic virus and shelters are not the need of the hour. Social distancing is, and today I remembered the lessons learned from three decades past.

I had completed a macrobiotic cooking course for cooking in shelters previous to that Ides of March 1990. Today, I made a macro-survival meal for myself and offered it up to the Ancient of Days, who gave the menu to the Prophet Daniel.

Grains, beans, greens and veggies are the recipe for success in recovery now. I remember Brother Lawrence and how he Practiced the Presence of G-d and wrote of it.

I cannot say who will survive this viral threat but today I am grateful that I remembered my lessons past. I have castigated myself for not being macrobiotic as defined by Michio Kushi because I still have disorder in my place.

I have been cleaning though, now. I’d relapsed into disorder after cleaning really well when I went back to the Catholic Church. It seems it must trigger my disorder, literally. It’s my co-dependent ways that make me feel it is my duty to absorb all the bad vibes of a family as a way to heal it. That never worked. And it just makes me crazier and unable to function to take care of myself properly and no one else is going to do it. Also, I was given the assignment by Father Patrick Collins, an Irish exorcist, that I am to write. And that goes by the wayside after I try to go back to Mass.

Maybe one day I will be healed enough, but now I am really trying to go back to work. My goal at Vocational Rehabilitation is to be a recovery writer. At least today, just for today, I did not go to the party they had tonight where I live that had alcohol and sugar snacks. I did not try to spoil their “fun” but I am grateful to have recovery from those addictive substances that would put me into the psych hospital. The last time I had to be committed, it all started with my having fruit-juice sweetened cookies. I went into a mania and eventually was locked up. I have a fructose intolerance as diagnosed by a blood test and it seems that it affects my brain functioning.

I have been 31 years sober from alcohol and that too is a blessing, although not my drug of choice. Being in a treatment center for the mentally ill homeless brought me a new way of life. A macrobiotic cooking class put on by a church teaching center was my moment of a personal peace, truly a gift.

I hope to pay it forward, but for today, I remembered to beware the Ides of March and stick to recovery. Others have their paths, but I have mine. They have free will. We have been asked to have social distancing and I have obeyed. And I am working to keep my own side of the street clean as recovery teaches. In the Self-Healing Cookbook, it recommends brown rice, lentils and dark greens to help find order and organization and to strengthen the lung and large intestines, which ought not to hurt in keeping the coronavirus from destroying my lung functioning. At least it is better than partaking of sugar which tanks immune functioning for hours after consuming it. So no matter what my future holds, I am grateful that I accomplished my goal of being a recovery writer.

I remember when I did not think I could go one day without ice cream and trekked to Baskin-Robbins in the middle of a blizzard and fell on my butt in the icy parking lot. I still got up and went in and chowed down. I also remember when I had been eating well for a bit but then binged on a coffee ice cream shake from the same 31 Flavors spot. Then I went right into a manic psychosis from the caffeine and sugar and had to be committed to the psych ward. For a long time, if I had the craving for that binge food, I would call to mind exactly what happened then. Now, by G-d’s grace I do not crave that stuff, because of the blessing of macrobiotics.

I heard someone say that they’d rather die than eat bird food. Well, actually millet is quite nice with oats in a morning cereal. And I choose to live, which for me, is a recipe for success.

“God bless the whole world, no exceptions,” says a refrigerator magnet…I think I’ll stick to that…

 

 

Off-the-Wall Street–a journal of a non-violent resistance to abuse of trust (March 2, 2020)

Thankfully, I can now find my way to freedom from money drunkenness through non-violent resistance to injustice and abuse of trust. When the trustee submitted fraudulent documents to the manager of the federally-funded housing place I live, I knew that was the end. And so it is.

I have no contact with the trustee and he can pay or not whatever he wants. It is all in his hands. Whatever he wants to do, he is free to do.

I just refuse to cooperate in this fraudulent scheme. That’s all.

He listed the expenses which are demonstrably false. And I won’t take part in it any more. No one cares on this Earth and that is fine. They don’t have to. I do not expect anyone to do anything. Why should they?

No one cares to stop the trustee from violating the law. Not one person. So he will.

And I am done, completely.

End of story.

 

 

stigma blog: on discernment

Pope Francis said, according to Father Bart Stevens recorded in a homily, “Open your heart to the Holy Spirit to discern what the will of God is.” For Father Bart, this is not correct.

The Holy Father Pope Francis has my vote on this approach, though. St. Teresa of Avila, a Doctor of the Church, wrote of the Interior Castle and indeed, that is where my King resides. It is not easy to discern these days and I truly like the “Marian Option” as described in a book by that name in taking the holy rosary to the culture.

The new rosary that is worn as a bracelet and has an electronic recording of some sort is an example, as is the SoulCore movement of praying the rosary while doing stretches and core exercises.

I envision SoulCore taking Europe by storm as a way that the body-conscious European culture can re-embrace it’s roots and have churches used for this kind of prayer which is also a physical workout.

Maybe also the Daniel Fast cuisine of plant-based whole foods can also be served to all as a way of prayer and fasting.

Stigma blog: The Cross

When I was committed to the State Hospital for the insane at Warm Springs, I had a few conversations with the priest there and attended services there as well. Fr. Pins gave me a rosary which I still have and I hung of my door where I live now as a protection. Well, the owner of the place decided to strictly enforce a fair housing rule from the federal government that no one can display religious symbols of any kind. So, I took down my rosary from my door.

One my neighbors, Lisa, had a cross someone had given her and she had it displayed and she, too, took it down for the same reason. Not that long afterwards, both she and I had our medications stolen. That really unhinged the both of us in a very big way. I am not sure she ever recovered and while I definitely do not know the whole story, she and her disabled daughter were eventually evicted.

Her daughter and I had bonded because she’d had surgery to remove a brain tumor and had only one-third of her brain left. She lost the ability to order and organize, too, after that as I did after shock treatments (ECTs). Amanda also said she only had a 5th grade math level now and before she was really good in math. That got my attention because I tested only at that level now as well. I had done well enough on the GREs to get into Stanford Grad School and while I did not go far in math, I was told I had abilities in higher math because of my perfect score on Raven’s Progressive Matrices test. And I used to do really well with computers but now I just stink with them.

So, Amanda was actually the one evicted and she now will not be eligible for public housing because of the eviction. I think that really is the pits. She is far more disabled than I because I have made it my hobby to study neuroplasticity and heal my brain. I have a long ways to go but I like Dr. Daniel Amen, M.D.’s work and his suggestions. And recovery is my job.

My goal at Vocational Rehabiliation has been “recovery writer” and this blog is part of that goal. Of course, I have enemies of my recovery and all addicts do. The most formidable enemy is addressed in the book: The Enemy Within: Encountering and Conquering the Dark Side by Mark and Elizabeth Clare Prophet. So, what is detailed in there about dealing with my internal enemy, the carnal mind, which scripture says is enmity with G-d, is key to my recovery.

I gave my notice where I live because it turns out they may have found I have done wrong. I did not do it on purpose and if I did, then I am sure I will have to pay the price to the max. I am okay with that if it is so. I do not know where I will go or how I will pay for the move or anything of the sort. All I know is that I will move out by one month from yesterday.

I can see the handwriting on the wall. It was time to give notice before they evicted me because I will not have another eviction on my record. My brother ordered my eviction from a place that was bought for me because he could and it served his interests. I have photos of the place. It was not trashed at all. I used it for a home office and planned to go back to work but he opposes that at every juncture. Maybe that is because the trust will dissolve if I am no longer disabled and can make a living. So he will lose his job of dominating me for pay and doing all sorts of accounting that Bernie Madoff’s accountants would envy in its obfuscation. He is practiced at the arts of deception as were they.

Ah, yes, the love of money is the root of all evil. I am recovering from my own money madness and that is my path now. The “Mr. Hyde” within that is my ultimate enemy is the one that conceals and hides and makes my life utter chaos. The trustee only gets to me because I still have a Mr. Hyde that defeats the Dr. Jekyll who is trying to heal me–or refers me to the Great Physician and His medicine of prayer and fasting, as well as work.

So I will be with or without a home in less than a month and it is alright because it is time to find a place to live where I can have my rosary displayed and that place may be my car, which is perfectly fine. It is not cold weather like it was when they evicted Amanda and Lisa. And I have a car that I can sleep in if necessary until I save up for a place where I have a roof.

I am grateful for returning to sanity because I do not expect mercy from one who mercilessly evicted a woman with one third of her brain onto the streets. I realize my powerlessness over others and she needs to do what she can to get funding to fix up the property. I wish her the best. My Saviour teaches, love your enemies. Pray for those who despitefully use you and persecute you. And resentments lead me straight to my drugs of choice as is taught in recovery books.

And of course, no experience is lost upon a writer, as my first journalism teacher taught. The experience should make for a great blog, even if it write if from a public library computer. I am stoked because I am on my way to gainful work!

******Update: I did not become homeless. No human being helped me out of my mess nor tried to help. It was truly divine intervention, as I gave prayers for the will of God with a CD and He came through and gave me focus and energy to get the job done. Mel was also at the vet clinic in the town where I live and his heart close by during a time of terrible suffering for him made me determined to step up to the plate.

Also, Amanda may not have that on her record, as the judge might have arranged for some sort of way for her to escape the trap she was put in. It turns out the Adult Protective Services worker failed her as she failed me. She did not help her as she was supposed to do. She really needs a welfare check called on her. Maybe I will ask the governor to check on her. Let’s see if he cares.

And I have heard that Lisa and Amanda are doing alright in another state. Maybe they were able to find help and some people that care in another state. Here people just put their judgments on them, it seemed to me, and most everyone always wanted to pass the buck and blame. But the judge may have judged justly.

So, mea culpa:  I could not handle going to their court case because I was nearly non-functional myself. It was way too close to home. Their being evicted was a trigger for my stints at homelessness and having the eviction notice, although not legal, given me by my brother’s attorney, was front and center in my consciousness. That was a few years ago, but my brother did not one thing to prevent me from becoming homeless and I think he was gunning for it. He lied to the property owner about paying off the balance each month, which was stupid because it is so easily proven not to be the case. It could have gotten me in really hot water, but my defense was the truth.

Now, though, I have gotten through another trial by fire of my own. I want to find out what happened to the APS woman with whom I have a history. She blocks my emails and doesn’t answer my phone calls. She messed up investigating my brother and fell for his Bernie Madoff accounting tricks and did not get a lawyer to look at the trust violations. So, I just thought it was because I was scum to her but for her to treat Amanda like that, who has a far better heart than I do, and is missing one-third of her brain from cancer surgery, is just rotten. So maybe the worker needs an intervention. Maybe she does. Sometimes being like a dog with a bone in its mouth who will not back down, as a editor described me when she gave me an assignment, is necessary to get a job done. And I can really be a cantankerous b*itch, to be sure.

Dr. Roy Allan Ginsburg, former psychiatrist said I had the personality of a “chubby Cocker Spaniel, with the tail wagging the dog.” No more. Today I announced my job plans to my psychiatrist and said, you probably won’t like it. Later, I said I don’t care if you don’t like it. I also said I was over doing exactly what psychiatrists told me about how to live me life, such as what to study in school or not and what job to take. I did not care if he did not like my plans. And I meant it. In the end, he was fine with it and he really has not tried to tell me what to do like the others. He said that my executive functioning was working perfectly well in my decision. So, I feel much better right now because people-pleasing is an affliction, not a positive character trait. And being an Akita b*tch is a good thing in hunting down the truth.

I left a situation where I was told I could not write to others, and I said well, I am going to leave for my recovery. I did. It turned out for the best because the situation was itself unsustainable in so many ways. And I did not walk in fear of the man venting on me when he had a bad day, like my dad would do. I was done taking the brunt of it and I said so. I told him he needed to grow a spine and I told it to his face. I was not the problem in that situation and I knew it. So, I have recovery and am writing about it, and that is a real win for me.

No one has to like my recovery. I am not doing it for them. I do not want followers. I do not. This is a solo path and I am fine with that solitude. Today, I know He is with me. I know that for a fact. And that makes it more than worth it. My Guardian Angel has come through once again, thanks be to God and that angel is my conscience which is backed up by St. Thomas More, my patron saint and the patron saint of lawyers, who got me through college. In the end, as I left the psychiatrist with the words, “thank you for dealing with my shrew,” I can echo those words to my patron because he is an expert at shrew-taming—or in my case, shrew-training because he uses some of those traits when properly channeled, to his purposes. When I have to, I can really stand my ground, just as an Akita is bred to stand down a bear.

I really love the saying now, more than ever: “rejection is God’s protection.” The song “Holy Water” washed over me today, as a River Island of baptismal love from a Father who truly cares. My meds mysteriously showed up in my place when I was cleaning for the inspection and the Cross is just a part of me now, as an ash wood cross given me. I bear those scars and so does Splendid High and we always will, but he is a racing warrior and he is teaching me to run again. Life is good, praise Him!

 

 

 

 

stigmatized and marginalized by consent

Who cares what Pope Francis thinks about anything? I thought I wanted to have a dialogue with him about what it meant to be a priest sex abuse survivor, but now I really do not care. I just do not.

He has his path and his followers and they are free to worship him or revere him or whatever. I do not.

I do not care about the Catholic Church’s view on this or that because it just feels so hollow and vacant. It is one more fallen woman who is out to get me and kill my soul. It is not a spotless bride and it was not for St. Francis of Assisi either. It was in need of repair then and now it is way beyond in desperate need. Who will care to rebuild?

I know not.

It is just one more devouring mother to me. It just wants to swallow me up and destroy me. My soul would be no more and it would just be collateral damage. Image is all and my demise is necessary to maintain the image of perfection and the ideal of the one true church of Jesus Christ.

That’s alright, I guess. Whatever.

I am gone and no one cares and that is good. They can maintain their sanctity of their exalted path.

Their faith is intact and that is good. I do not want to destroy anyone’s faith. I just want to not be devoured by their hypocritical self-righteous appetite for souls demise at the altar of their worship of men as gods–the priests who repeat the sins of the Pharisees. And the Lord Christ Jesus is crucified once again and again and again in the victims who have perished. These fallen priests are perfectly possessed and are the Devil incarnate just as Caiaphas was.

The Magisterium is but another Pharisaical parasitical body of ravening wolves, truly.

Stigma of desire for the Divine

Some time ago I began this blog on stigma as I felt guided by divine direction. That same divine direction accessed through a novena had urged me to become a Catholic, at long last. Why, would become apparent to me.

I often wondered why after that because mostly I have had a very difficult time being in a Catholic Church. That was not always the case. They used to be places of great peace for me.

All that changed when I became clear that my psychiatric disability began in earnest after being sexually abused by Father Miles Riley in Mission Dolores in 1976 when I was 17 years old. I had not faced that before nor the import of that reality. And then things got exquisitely worse when the new wave of sex abuse crisis in the Church flared up once again and only became more infernal as the inferno raged last summer and beyond into the present.

I have said to numerous psychiatrists and therapists over the years that my real diagnosis was an Electra Complex for God. So how did that all begin? Of course, with the abuse by the priest.

I really was searching for love from a Divine Father. I recently realized the sex and love addiction I have been in recovery from for some time really could only be healed by a Holy Spirit, the true Comforter. I did not want an unholy father’s lust and the only way to cure myself of that memory was to find a Power far greater than myself.

Enter the Our Father and cue the Hail Mary for an holy Mother who could love me instead of an ill mother I had an incestuous relationship with when as a young child. This made the Catholic Church even more toxic to me because I was not going to stand for another sick mother abusing me sexually. I just was not and it was not healthy to remain in it. I just exited.

The holy rosary remains my touchstone of something holy in my life. I can surrender all my strange desires and weird longings and they just can go away. They just can and they can be transformed.

I become non-functional after attending a Catholic Church now and have for some time. I shut down and can hardly get even the most basic daily living tasks completed and my equine service animal cared for properly, who is also a treasured friend, heaven sent. My place is still a horrible mess, although not as bad as it was.

Why do I keep wanting to go back? Because I am a muckraker and that is the biggest mess on the planet by far. It just is. And I have no way to fix it because I have my own personal Hell of a mess which defies my attempts to order it.

So, today is a very significant day in the Church and for me also. It is day of consecration (and for me a reconsecration to the Blessed Mother) I do not know what the Lord has planned for me in the future but I can honestly say that for right now, this moment I know I am still called to be a reporter in some capacity.

I can report that I remain a handicapped reporter, unable to handle the war zone because I still have shrapnel embedded in my brain and am on life support. No one sees it that way but it takes everything I have to just minimally function and my functioning is not up to par because if the inspection were to happen today, I would fail.

I am determined to get myself out of the mess I am in. The Catholic Church is but one mess. The main one is the violation of my trust by the trustee and it handicaps me in a far worse way. I have become a source of income and a “mark” for the trustee, my brother, and his wife. I had tried everything I could to force them to do the right thing and obey the law and it did not work and it infuriated me to no end.

My psychiatrist said that the trustee’s machinations have only made my recovery stronger. I realized that I had to be able to live with him and anyone doing unspeakably awful things and trying to destroy every aspect of my recovery, steal from me and my trust and still be alright. And I got to that point. I realized it was my codependency that made me think I could make others do the right thing if only I did–whatever. I cannot.

Same with the Catholic Church and ditto for everything and everyone. I admit to my powerlessness over others.

And now I find I want to start writing my blog on stigma about being a Muslim reporter who is handicapped and a recovering addict with psychiatric illness and a brain injury. It’s true. I may be the worst combination of attributes of any reporter on the planet. Who wants this mess as a muckraker?

I’d like to show up at Mass in a burka and at a lot of Christian churches and see just what they’d do. I do not know if I have the guts because I really do not want to be lynched and I could easily be. I have often thought that the Lord Christ might in His Second Coming come as a Saudi prince and see how He is received by the so-called Christians. It would definitely test their discernment. I am not sure many would pass that kind of test. I could be wrong.

How about covering the White House and getting a press pass with that set of qualities? The truth is, I have been a Muslim since High School, just not really a practicing one. It was the first religion I believed in. My first elective in public high school was Muslim-Hindu Worlds (then called Moslem-Hindu Worlds) and our teacher was definitely not a Muslim and just taught us the facts of the religions. She said that if you can say and believe “there is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet” you are a Muslim. I said to myself, well I must be a Muslim because I believe that and so it was and remains.

After that I started to draw designs that looked like the ones in Mosques in ceramics and on paper. It was not so much a faith as an aesthetic. I did not do the practices that are called upon. In my last year of high school when I attended Sacred Heart High School and took a Comparative Religions course and we studied all the major source-books of the major religions, I read a bit of the Holy Quran. At that point I had come to believe in Jesus Christ and loved reading about Catholic saints, but I wanted to join an ashram and be a renunciant. Saints of all religions were honored there.

I do not know that anyone has expressed more beautifully his knowledge of the Christ than in these lines:

“I am a hole in a flute/which the Christ’s breath flows through/ listen to this music”

Thank you Hafiz, Muslim Sufi mystical poet for the most beautiful tribute to the Messiah I have ever encountered.

Namaste.