No, Woman, You Can't Have An Opinion Online

Why can't I get the text to fucking format properly?!?!

First of all, FUCK YOU, JACK! [not you, of course]

A lovely expression.

All I did was simply answer a question, and this is what happens:

Question was something like... "Are you in recovery or recovering from PTSD..."

My simple answer, and most of the exchange will follow. Massive egos can't handle something that is different, something they can't control, something they don't understand. Just because you have extra letters after your name, or call yourself a therapist, let us not forget the massive, but sometimes fragile ego of The Therapist, or The Psychologist, or of many Doctors:

My answer and exchange (name hidden for ego protection):

FL Jones
10:34 AM

Recovering? I don't believe there is a "cure", or recovery from mine.

HIM:
+FL Jones Well, then, I strongly encourage you to keep studying. I treat PTSD, and have
for almost 20 years. It's highly CURABLE, but you have to work with someone who knows
how to do it.

Pay attention to those who are properly trained and schooled, and who have years of
clinical experience. They are they ones who know most.

[note: you have got to be fucking kidding me responding to me as if I had an IQ of 30...]

FL Jones
2:35 PM
Studying? Studying the failure rate? I'd like to meet a therapist who could actually deal with Bipolar, PTSD and anxiety disorder all at once that takes Medicare, is properly trained, schooled, and up to date on MH info and Rx. I've been through far too many failures in my lifetime when it comes to any therapist even daring to deal with PTSD, let alone bipolar. 

There's only so much time you can read pointless misinformation about potential therapists on the never-updated medicare site before your head hurts and your eyes might be bleeding.

HIM

1:12 PM
I didn't say it would be easy. My point is that it's possible.

Bipolar should be managed with your psychiatrist, as it primarily organic. I find often that elements of what is taken to be Bipolar disorder are actually PTSD, and they go away when the PTSD does. As for "daring to deal with PTSD", what do you mean? It doesn't take daring. It takes proper training, some clinical experience, and a client willing to just do the work.

I can't do it for you. I do detect some anger in what you write. That may or may not serve you well. Getting the job done is the whole point. Anything that doesn't help you do that must be checked at the door.

I am reminded of mothers I've met who have a sick child and no money. They are relentless in seeking help, until they find someone who will just get the job done, period. You will have to find this person for yourself.

As for "taking Medicare", the problem there is that the law severely limits who can do that. I've cured more PTSD cases (i.e., no symptoms left - they no longer qualify for the diagnosis, period) than I can easily remember. But I'm not eligible to take Medicare. That's crap. Call your Congressman, your Senator. They are to blame.

If you walked into my office and couldn't pay for my services, I'd take you "on scholarship", with the following qualification: you will do the work or I'll fire you as a client. I expect a fair exchange. I virtually always get it!

Finally, there's this: I have NEVER, repeat, never, had a case of adult onset PTSD that I didn't cure, if the person stayed for the full duration of the treatment (which is not long). I use EMDR and related methods. They work.

I don't know your situation. If your PTSD developed in childhood, the situation is often much more complex and difficult. If you have a personality disorder and have trouble taking responsibility for what happens in your life from this point on, you are going to have trouble getting good results from anyone.

I wish you all the best.

FL Jones 

Time?

Dude, calm down. What I wrote about was frustration with experiences with the therapy I had experienced with my diagnoses, and the system. I don't know why you misunderstood my comments, and decided to take them personally. Resentment and anger is what I find so thinly-veiled in your "response". I wasn't directing my comments at you (at all) as a professional or a person. I never doubted your education, experience, patients' success or even alluded to failure on your part. I wasn't trying to insult you, I was simply describing the failures that I've had in the past with therapists, on my own insurance and Medicare, and how not one of them would stay on or want me to speak on and stay on my particular brand of PTSD issues. I referred to them as "mine", my kind of PTSD. I did not refer to any other description or type of PTSD. I made no mention of the type of PTSD you work with. I only mentioned "mine".

Apparently it does take guts for some therapists to work on PTSD that began as a very small child. The many therapists that I tried hard working with kept shying away from the past, and PTSD. I brought it up time and time again, talked about it, and was misdirected. I haven't been fortunate enough to have anything "easy", nor do I ever expect anything to be easy, especially therapy! Jeebus! Good for you and your patients for their success, I say! I wasn't doubting you, your education, experience or your success with your patients, nor blaming you for the state of Medicare, for chrissakes.

Why is it that when a woman has an opinion, shares it online, on anything, she's accused of being "angry", and gets insulted? ("Personality disorder", etc in your shameful case),  "feminazi", "bitch", "ugly", "fat" etc? All, of which I'm glad to say that I'm not. Why did you feel the need to insult me with an extremely TIRED, totally offensive stereotype of a woman that equates to the "lazy" "welfare mother" stereotype? [note: quoting him] "They are relentless in seeking help, until they find someone who will just get the job done, period."  Dude, I handed OUT "welfare" as my last occupation! It was my job to help other people, I loved it, and love helping others rather than myself, and that is why I did it for as long as I could.  I did not judge women or men, with or without children. I have never relentlessly sought out help for anything from anyone but a job, an affordable place to live, and to be as successful as possible with college and in my jobs as I could, especially working to try to help other people.

I wasn't asking you personally to do anything for me. I do not know where you got that idea and took my comments so personally. If you knew me at all, and you admittedly do not know my situation or me, you'd know that I never ask for help from anyone, or ever even a dime, that I was brought up by a single father that way, and that I am not that ridiculously, weak, lazy, sad stereotype of "mothers I've met who have a sick child and no money", you accuse me of being - so transparently akin to "lazy""welfare mothers"! I don't expect anything to get done unless it's by me, not for me, with my own hard work, own money, blood, sweat, tears, and my own inner strength. A "Gold digger" or materialistic person, I am not.

I have no personality disorder, either, I will add, which is a very sad, shameful, and once again, thinly-veiled way to insult me, especially when I had already stated my diagnoses. The psychiatrist that has seen me for chats and medication management for 22yrs, diagnosed me properly, that has been helping me keep hope, quit drinking, stay alive, and keep up the good fight is Adjunct Professor and Vice Chair in the Department of Psychiatry and Chief of the Division of Psychiatric Epidemiology and Health Services at a university you know very well, internationally renowned for his research, a member of NIMH Psychiatric Health Services Grant Review Committee for 4 years, co-wrote a book on depression self-care, and has received two awards for excellence in teaching psychiatry to primary care physicians, and still manages to take a few patients at a clinic for advising and medication management. So, you might have an idea of why I have high standards in the mental health care department. I have been advised by him to have and keep those high standards as far as therapy goes, and to keep trying, and trying, and trying. I was merely saying that with Medicare, it is far easier said than done.  Currently, this doctor is on leave, because he has become suddenly critically ill. I am very sad but hopeful for him. He has always treated me with absolute respect, and I have treated him the same, not to mention actually trusting this man with the truth of all that had been going on in my life. He is humble, whip smart, up to date, kind, caring, trusting, funny, and a wonderful doctor. He has never been condescending, accusatory, or insulting in any way.

It took me years to seek help even though misdiagnosed as a teen, years to admit that I could no longer work for the state in a position of trying to help others in need, years to apply for disability benefits because I didn't want to ever have to rely on anybody but myself and work to get by, or to be labeled "disabled". I have worked hard for what I have, and even harder to retain my bit of sanity and shred of hope to keep living, and to keep trying to find a therapist that is a good fit for me.

I have always done nothing but take responsibility for myself. I grew up with that as the rule, and a hell of a survival instinct. I also know thinly-veiled insults when I read them as well. Frankly, you should be ashamed of yourself. I guess it's too bad if you felt your ego was bruised. That was definitely NOT my intention. I have lost any and all respect for you that I have ever had.

"I wish you all the best." ;) 

[note:you fucking cuntbag]

If that is not a fragile fucking ego, then I don't know what is. Plus the insults, so unnecessary, so fucking unprofessional. What a cuntbag. 

Oh yeah, PTSD is "curable". Mental illnesses are "curable". Right. So why are we still feeling like shit and popping all the pills they give us? Well, he admitted he didn't "cure" child-onset PTSD. I wonder what kind of trauma he does "cure". "Stubbed toe PTSD"? "Broken Nail PTSD"? The more I read his crazy response, the more I'm thinking his patients are "cured" by just never going back to see that dickless fuckwad. No knowledge of bipolar either. What kind of a therapist or psychologist is that, who can't handle anything else but his brand of PTSD that he "cures"?

HIMshit:

"If you walked into my office and couldn't pay for my services, I'd take you "on scholarship", with the following qualification: you will do the work or I'll fire you as a client. I expect a fair exchange. I virtually always get it!"e

I'd rather see "Dr Mengele" again and piss in a cup, like the alkie/ex-junkie/tattooed whore that he probably thinks I am, like I had to last time when my Dr was out, than ever lay eyes on that bitch. 

Fortunately, I got a funny call yesterday from a cool nurse at the clinic, letting me know that their in-patient Dr is going to fill in for a while, and told me his name. I said "oh, yeah, I remember him very well, he's sooo nice." She says "yeah, and he's real easy on the eyes too!" I burst out laughing, agreed, and told her to enjoy her eye candy all month or so, and that I'll be there for my appointment. If he wasn't married, while I was a patient at that hospital's crazy ward many years ago, I would have been all over him like a cheap coat of crazy paint. Ha! He was fun to actually flirt with, which is something I have rarely done in the past. So so long ago.

Praise Jeebus that I got Topomax (generic), and am almost down to the weight I was at the last time I was in-patient there! It should be a real hoot to see him and how he's aged and matured. Hahahaha! I just want to feel confident in my skin, instead of anxious as fuck, panicky, and losing the weight is supposed to be helping me with that. I just need that push out the door. At least I won't be seeing a complete stranger. That was horrible.

Anyway, I'm getting my ass to bed eaerly. I'll be up at the crack of dawn again tomorrow, as usual.

Moods are pretty stable. I think that last entry was PMSy. I had a lot to be upset about too. Things are going to get better. I hope I hope I hope...

.

Unwanted, Dead or Alive

Drink:  Green tea, water
Food:  Cinnamon graham crackers
Mood(s)  Anxious, depressed, a bit confused
Background noise:  Supernatural mini marathon on TNT

I'm feeling pretty fucking down today. Over wasted coffee and the courtesy to at least say goodbye to me by my the spouse? It's got to be more than that.

Wow. So this is how I kind of remember depression to feel sometimes. The really mild shit, that is. Rejection, too. I'm also feeling somewhat anxious too, and every little sound is making me jumpy, especially the door rattling, or sounding like it's almost being scratched on. Being scratched on is actually a possibility, or head-butted by a neighborhood cat that some people keep letting into this building by accident. He remembers my smell. I saw him the other day and called out to him with one of my special cat calls. He stopped and watched me.

Depression. Wow, this is really weird, and I don't like it. I set a new record on the treadmill, although a tiny one, and I'm depressed.Stinky and haven't taken a shower yet. It's not supposed to work that way, so they say. I was going to do some Wii yoga afterward, but I haven't used the Wii in so long that I forgot how to use it, and the batteries were left in there too long. One was corroded, but I cleaned it, and it didn't look damaged but still... Not good. I have tons of new batteries, but I don't know what the fuck to do with the controls. Maybe the spouse will be nice and help. Maybe he'll just completely ignore me. Maybe I'll take them outside and set them on fire on the sidewalk and dance around it. 

At least my headache is mostly gone, and I beat the nausea. The seroquel probably isn't helping the situation, but I was anxious from being outside this morning after the coffee thing.

Well, I think it's pretty damn rude not to reply to your spouse's text when they ask you a question. You get breaks, and you get lunch time, and it's not my fault that there is no food here that's hearty enough for him to eat for dinner. He never suggested to go shopping, and I refuse to do it online again. That is just fucking lazy and ridiculous. I am not a donkey to schlep groceries down the street in daylight either. I can't do it unless it was just for me, and I was living alone.

I did manage to take a quick needed break that I normally wouldn't do while on the treadmill, which was to take all the recycling out. It was kinda sad, because I saw two young ladies shooting up in the parking lot below the building. I said to myself "I hope you get some help". Maybe they are. Maybe that is the way to go. No, I guess not. Not good to think that way. Not good to go upstairs and stuff more clonopin in my piehole either. 

The reasonable, adult, nice, forgiving person, that accidentally just snapped at the spouse for no reason yesterday, then later apologized, thought about calling and having Chinese delivered for the spouse. I know what he likes. It's not cheap, but I won't be eating it. Maybe he'll be going for a drink with someone after work. I don't think he'd let me know though. I don't want to be stuck with Chinese food, or do I? This is his first week at his new job.

I have pain in what I guess is my liver, or ghost pain where my gall bladder used to be, and I haven't eaten anything greasy. I ate something wrong, though... Didn't I?

Later...

No word from the spouse, apart from a hello. He's home a bit early, I had just gotten out of the shower. He never mentions me texting him or never calling me. I pretty much ignore him, because by this point, I'm tired. The seroquel's taken hold in bits and pieces, but I'm still up for the marathon on tv. Normally the spouse would have come in by now looking for dinner, or to come and change the channel and watch cartoons. Instead, he's in the bedroom playing some kind of online flying game. No words to me but "You want a tea?" Wow. Deep.

Tomorrow is Saturday, which means I can't get into Starfucks until 6am. I'm wondering if the spouse will want to go to the grocery store early to avoid people, or later on to try to avoid people. He really has some thing about the store that fucks his shit up or freaks him out, but he refuses to talk about it. Gee, that's helpful.

He goes outside through the living room here. He doesn't ask me if I want to come out and have a smoke with him. Just sits in silence. Well, I'm going to be laying in bed in silence since my marathon is over, and some unknown movie is on. Not at all interested. I want to get up and out of here to make a quick exit. He can make his own coffee.

I'm a loaded gun. Tomorrow, it's going to be more of the same, only Ms Nice will have left the building and flushed all that nice shit down the fucking toilet. Better go power up my Kindle, phone, and iPod.

Bad Moon Rising

Fuck. I made a rather bold move this morning after coffee pot was emptied. I figured it would be safest then. I went to the bedroom, where the spouse had already disappeared, to talk about all the shit that's going down here, and how I want to try to fix it, how I would like for there to be some happiness around here. I get more of what I got yesterday morning: accusation after accusation. I even asked for the tax crap, to take it back and go over it again and see what I can do. All the spouse could say about that was that he basically couldn't believe that I was such a forgetful fuck-up, and I got the sense that he feels like I ripped him off on his taxes before or something. Money, money, money... After the money "discussion" was over, I tried talking about other things, but hit a brick wall. He said he really didn't want to have the conversation right now. So I turned around and left the tax crap on the bed. Passive-aggresive shit returned to him. Dumb, I know, but I wanted to see how long he would let it sit there in the bedroom.

It seems like he thinks I don't care about him, how he looks, buying new furniture, and moving. He equated the response of my initial response of "whatever" to his remark about growing facial hair as some kind of insult on the way that he looks. Truth is, he rarely "makes an effort" I meant "whatever" as a personal choice. I gave more than that opinion after that, yet he still clung to the "whatever" as if I don't care. I make an effort pretty much every day not to look like a complete slob, as much as I can to make myself feel less self-conscious, for hygiene's sake, and to try and keep remembering how to do it. Yeah, I forget my little routine sometimes. Fuckin' Swiss cheese memory.

Yet another day crapped on, and he said he wanted to go to the grocery store at some point. Can't ever get a specific time out of him, but he yells at me for it. I'm guessing he might want to go late afternoon, if at all. Well, that was a fine way to build up more anxiety for me, trying to have an adult conversation with him. My chest feels like someone is squeezing the fuck out of my rib cage, and I have to remember to breathe. I have to remember to try to stay calm, and get rid of any distressed look that I can feel on my face. Just grit my teeth and try to get through it.

Oh... the spouse has just walked in with the tax forms, etc, and asked me if I needed them. I said "Not right now". So they're sitting on the table where he put them, where they will sit for a while. More passive-aggressive presents returned to him. Stupid, I know, but I want him to know how it feels. I doubt if he'll get it. He seems to have plenty of money saved up as it is without any crummy return. If I wait too long, I wonder if he'll end up using some kind of threats. I'm guessing that all he can think about is money and himself because of being laid off for this long, spending money fixing his car and tons of other stuff for himself, and expecting thousands in a tax return.

I feel ill. My face is burning up. Need to get off the couch and move. Distract. Distract....Shower! Hate it, but will definitely distract.

FUCK.

The Sounds Of Silence

Silence. Sometimes nothing speaks louder than silence.

My spouse spent most of his day in/on the bed with his computer in the bedroom after having his coffee this morning. He didn't get up until after 8am. That is the latest he has slept in that I can remember. When he took his morning coffee, once again, the unsigned tax forms sat in a neat pile on the coffee table. I asked him twice if there was something wrong, and he assured me there wasn't.

He came out of the bedroom around 4.30pm to scavenge around in the kitchen. He ate a bowl of cereal while waiting for his microwaved potato to cook. I offered him some of the fruit I was eating, but he declined. Instead, he grabbed the remote, and switched the tv over to the usual cartoons: American Dad, Family Guy, and The Simpsons. He tossed the remote on top of the unsigned tax forms when he was done with it. 

It's all too often the same. Cartoons and a laptop. Barely a word, if any, to me. Silence.

Is he playing the passive-aggressive game again? Is there something he wants to say about the taxes, but is too chickenshit or something to directly confront me? I'm all about direct confrontation. Get shit out of the way and try and move on. He likes to hold grudges for days, punish with silence and hiding out in the bedroom for days, or going out for a few drinks with someone else.

There are 3 working pens on the table, and the only person that's been using them has been me, for paying bills and rent. I'm beginning to think that he's going to "accidentally" spill tea on the forms. He cannot bring himself to confront me with whatever revelation he's had or what issue he has now about the tax forms. I knew his attitude would change once the buzz wore off, once he'd had a lot of time to himself to think, once he'd had a lot of sleep and naps.

But he remains silent. I think Frankie the cat spoke more to me today than he did.

Silence can wound. Silence can kill.

From The Throne of Agony

Scraping Foetus Off The Wheel - The Throne of Agony (with lyrics)

I fucked up our taxes last year. I have cognitive issues. I hate doing taxes, and filling in federal forms just freaks my shit out. The cognitive issues - this I learned from reading medical statements on different occasions that my main shrink wrote, and just calling it as I see it.. I probably fucked up before last year too. And once again, I have fucked up this year and find that we're responsible for more taxes this year or the return will be a pittance. My spouse is just fucking beyond angry with me. He said, "Well, I guess we weren't meant to have nice things." He just wants money, and he's happy to sit on his ass and collect unemployment as well.

Nice things? Like what? A dozen fucking Fabergé eggs? What the fuck do people want? I don't need anything. What THINGS does he want that he can't already afford to buy himself already? It's not as if he really buys anything for the home. Much. Unless I put it on a stupidass "gift wish list" from amazon. Which has only happened twice. What's with the materialistic shit? Did that go out the window with not giving a shit whether I shaved my armpits or not? Throw some kind of old "punk" ideals and sense of freedom for all down the shitter? He was not like he is now 20 years ago. I am still the non-materialistic person, and don't give a shit whether anyone shaves their pits or not. What happened?

He's gone now. He got dressed after camping out in the bedroom for a few hours after the bad news about the taxes. He did some texting and got somebody to go and drink with him in some nearby neighborhood that he DROVE to. At least he learned his lesson last time and got a taxi, after throwing up in public, splashing himself and a workmate at the xmas party. Wonder what would have happened if I was there in the first place.

Anyway, no kiss good-bye, just a limp, unenthused "see ya latah", then he walks out, and locks the door. At least he locked the damn door.

I wanted to cry earlier. My eyes welled up with tears, but I'll be damned, hormonal attack and all, I'm not fucking crying over this or fucking taxes, or fucking money. I snapped out of it right quickly. I just refuse to let myself cry, because it makes me feel and look worse, has no effect on the situation, wastes energy and toilet paper, and the stiff-upper-lip spouse just ignores it. So it would be boo hoo for what? Nothing and nobody. It would make me feel worse and want to shoot myself in the head.

Maybe he'll find himself a wife with a job and no mental illness while he's out, and also younger, too. Then they can move to the suburbs like he wants. Yeah, he'd be better off without me. I'm just not into being the cook and Mexican cleaning lady that puts out. Sensing some anger here? Yeah, there's some anger, some that's probably justified on his part as far as getting a bigger return goes, I'll give him that. But what are you going to do about it? Go have a drinki. Smoke some pot. He won't. Chill the fuck out and quit creeping around like you're going to knife me in the back.

I. FUCKED. UP. I. ADMIT. IT. OK?! What do you expect to happen now? Why the FUCK don't you TALK about it?!

Maybe I should be the one to do the smoking, then it's bedtime for me. All pain is gone, I feel a little dumb and happy, not in control of my body so much, pains disappear, then I just want to sleep, like on a mountain of sweet Charmin ass wipe. Out of the way you stupid bears! Go back to the woods! .

I signed the tax form mess, but I have a feeling it isn't going to get signed by the spouse. My daughter will need some of that info for her financial aid application. I got some. I hope it's enough. Fuck. I just want to help HER. My darling who deserves no part of this shit somehow gets caught up in it. Maybe if he stepped up to the plate in the first place and showed her he gave a damn, but he did not. I wish she and I talked more about this. Hard subject to bring up and discuss. Makes me feel horrific guilt and that I failed her again.

Oh no.. He's back. No words for me. I don't care. I just want to take a huge dose of seroquel and clonazepam, and out sleep him tomorrow. I wish I could, but he's able to actually sleep around here. He gets up and makes all kinds of noise, No consideration of the fact that I'm still trying to sleep. Hell, he doesn't even shut the bedroom door.

What the hell am I doing. I'm starting to feel depressed when I'd rather turn that into anger... or something. Maybe just sleep. Extra seroquel available? I hope. At least it'll knock me right out. Ok. I'm not depressed. I'm just feeling a sense of impending doom. The gloom is here, just waiting for the doom to arrive. I guess we shall see tomorrow.

It's certain that I'll be going to bed alone tonight. That's part of his passive-agressive "punishment" game. I have no intention of playing that - tonight or tomorrow. I'll be the one to hide out in the bedroom all day tomorrow. I don't care. I just don't want to have anything to do with taxes or money. Fuck it all. The damage is done. No point in his kind of treatment, it's just immature.

What the fuck am I doing? Where are my meds when I need them? Where's my video or pic?