So (on the DL) I have massive brain damage.
Since leaving PA, in 1990 and leaving the clamped crotch episode of my life (but, of course, it came with me as well), and going to California, and getting the Wart-Mole removed from my face RECENTLY, I have become an entirely new person from what people think and expect of me. The “episode” didn’t exactly “change” me but it did “alter me” in a way I couldn’t change. Finally it has gone off of me into the past. Going to California brought me back to life in an altered state that has persisted ever since. Until now. When my heart came back up in the Tower Unit when they were doing an EKG I knew that something peculiar was happening. It was one of several small miracles that had been going on. Difficult to explain. As far as the Wart-Mole everybody has been hearing from me about this for going on two years now –Oh Wow–I finally figured how to sort out the dates. It came out at the end of June, as far as I can remember (the Wart-Mole, so that would be that all of this recent stuff started a little under two years ago. (Today it is April 17, 2023). That is help that I needed.
So, there is a big wide swathe of time between Alex and I meeting late in ’89 and marrying in 1990 (Im still not sure about the date. I have terrific trouble with dates and numbers generally), and our going to California, and the next change, which is so very recent and intense, the Wart-Mole thing, which has taken so much time already, and promises to take more. But it’s all good.
But, when I came back from California my family did not acknowledge the change. It was sick. That set off the “swathe” of the next 29 years, in other words, Ian’s entire life time, to date, minus the last two years in which I have focused every ounce of my energy on 1) reprieving him and myself of all harm present, past, and projected; 2) similarly, all charges and accusations; 3) healing every molecule of Ian’s physical being. That has come along with the energy of the hope of the lawsuit against Johns Hopkins who let it get bad like this. They said they would follow us; I trusted this. But if they did it it was to cover their asses.
So, it was like there was a swathe across the entire mid-West–the one place we never went–we only went to Ocean places (except Buffalo where we had a Great Lake). there was a swathe of time as big as that crossing over 20 years of our lives where we were living but disconnected from who and what we were, hanging out in Florida with people some of whom hated us or at least me and even my son.
Toxic brain syndrome. They said it at Memorial Hospital in Tampa. The Psychological Services Director. “too many meds” Not in those words–the words are mine. Too many drugs for too long. There should a be a policy to screen for this and what to do about it. I can vouchsafe that Clozapine is an important med in this regard. Maybe all this is already known and I was the last to know. Similarly, PTSD of the psych ward. Sort of like White Coat Syndrome, which my mother had. Her blood pressure shot up whenever she was around a doctor because of anxiety. So she said. PTSD of the psych ward is obvious. You just get so sick of them, for me it started with the bloodwork. I just couldn’t STAND to be woken up at 5 a.m. by someone coming at me with a needle to take blood for me. Routine bloodwork. Over and over. My precious BLOOD.
and INFO. MY LIFE. MY STORIES. the name of my pets ANYTHING ANYTHING to get by for another day on the psych ward so I could go HOME
be it ever so humble…(there’s no place like home).
Un.Bon.Mot 