soulcast and wrongplanet

Page Twenty, website outline                                                                

Soulcast was the first website on which I set up a blog in 2008, and Wrongplanet was the fourth. I chose them for their names, mainly. Soulcast because that’s exactly what I was going to do: cast my bleeding, shredded up soul onto pages produced by microchips; tell to a cyberworld I don’t even much like the story of what had been done to me and my animals. And then Wrongplanet, which is a site for people with Asperger’s and other forms of autism. When I was a teenager, I’d never heard of Asperger’s, and didn’t know I had it. But I did know, had known all my life, that there was some very big disconnect going on between myself and other people. And as a teenager fascinated with outer space, I made the sardonic comment in my mind more than once that  my people, those of whom I could feel a part, existed on some other planet, and that in enormous bad luck I had been born on earth, instead of where I really belonged. Lo and behold, decades later, I find out I have Asperger’s, and find a blogging site called Wrongplanet, bringing back all those exasperated thoughts of my high school years. I couldn’t pass up a site with that name.

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In January 2010 I began using WordPress to make a blog-based website, and most of the posts on Wrongplanet and Soulcast were moved here. A few posts were left in place, and sometimes I’d go to Soulcast and Wrongplanet to write something new. But as technical troubles at those sites grew increasingly worse, I pretty much abandoned them. I miss those names, laden with symbolism both general and personal. WordPress is a dull name, an antiseptic yuppie name, that does absolutely nothing for the poet in me. Not talking about the site, mind you, just the name. There was great food for the poet in me, the maker of image and metaphor, in those two lost names.

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read…    Sehnen…    Mishibone

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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the timekeeper

Page Nineteen, website outline

The timekeeper holds to the corner of his cave, breathing dust. Dust is the floor of this hole of his, dust is the blanket of his rocks, dust whispers and floats in every exhalation of his mouth. His metronome of old bones rests beside him, never resting. Tap, tap, tap, tap without cease….

…This cave is long, and I wonder do I go forward. I thirst already in this haven of dust. The tap, tap, tap makes me need the outside, the tapless air of the space around this cave. I am compelled by him to come closer, and can’t know why. Closer to the tapping and his dusted brown cloak, closer to his hooded head which shows me no face, closer to the barrenness he breathes. Turn. Turn around and make for the space outside the dust. But I do not turn. I stand still…

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(Friday 12 February 1999, and Friday 12 February 2010)

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…What does this give me to know, this stillstanding? Neither forward to meet the metronome and the faceless cloak, nor backward to breathe in open air…

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This bit of prose is something I started in 1997, intending it eventually to become a short story. I worked on it off and on over two years. It’s not here in its entirety, because its entirety is imprisoned in a storage unit, and I had to do this from memory. The reason it’s put here on the website is one that I choose at the moment to keep to myself. There are other prose pieces of a similar nature called Streams on the Braonwandering blog.

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read…    Lifelines…    Lucked out

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.


freedom

Page Eighteen, website outline

Living in a country that touts and flouts how free we are. But there are all kinds of freedoms, and there’s one extremely important one I have never, in fifty-seven years, been granted by my fellow humans: the freedom to be myself without constant punishment for being that self. Punishment takes many forms, from verbal insult all the way up to various forms of attack. Just for being me I’ve had an on-going stream of this stuff. Others have too. Especially others with Asperger’s.

Harping, like the chanting of Shakespeare’s three witches, all my life, on many themes that are apparently unbearable aspects of Anne Nakis’ selfhood:  too many animals  —  you don’t smile enough — you’re too negative — you’re not really an  atheist; everyone believes in god — you’re antisocial (by this they mean withdrawn, not sociopathic) — you don’t try to fit in…  and more. Almost everything about me, about who I am, is apparently either so annoying or so repugnant or so aberrant that anyone who wishes to throws in their two cents’ worth, and believes they have the right to do so. They have the right to mock, nag, criticize, punish. But I don’t have the freedom to be myself and be left alone about it. If you don’t like me, if I’m not your cup of tea, then just leave me the hell alone. Why do you have to hurt in some way?

All of this has taught me that it’s money in this country that buys you freedom to be yourself. I hate for that to be true, because I hate people making a god out of money. But the fact remains that if I’d been able to earn the money to buy my own home, no landlord and no other tenant could have bullied me the way they have repeatedly done for being myself, for being the oddball, weird, idiosynratic, creature that I am. No relatives and friends could have had much chance to do so, because I wouldn’t have needed them for any kind of practical help. I could have hung up the phone or slammed the door.                                    

To my mind, it is an ugly commentary on human nature to have to say in all truth that I have been alive for more than five decades, and have been allowed by only one person in one relationship, the freedom to be myself — without punishment or criticism. Everyone has nagged, or criticized, or insulted, or tried to remake me. And there have been many who have actively and viciously attacked me when I failed to allow myself to be remade in their image. I honestly don’t grasp, in light of all this, why there are so many people who do not understand why I don’t like human beings. Why do they think I would like humans, in light of this shabby (at best) treatment I’ve received from them? What grounds do you think I would have to be enamored of humankind?

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read…      Neverending solitaire  (asperger’s)…   Lifelines

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.


a human family

Page Seventeen, website outline

Yes, I have, technically speaking, a family comprised of human beings. But I have them only in a biological sense. I don’t have them physically or emotionally or geographically.

In 1997, the seeds of disaster that had always existed in my human family (which I’d hoped would never sprout, never take root), grew into things of ugliness that it would take me a very long time to describe. Suffice it to say, for now, that due to venom in some, indifference in others, and naked self-centeredness in others, there has been since 1999 no human family for me in matters both practical and emotional. I was cut loose to twist in the wind, and have been twisting ever since.

In the twenty-three months since I’ve not had an apartment, I’ve lived in rented rooms, shelters, hospitals, respite facilities, a park — and not once has even one member of this human so-called family come to Franklin County in Massachusetts to see if they could help me. In April of 2009 I asked a cousin and a sibling if I could come and stay with them, and no answers were ever given, meaning the answers were No.

I can’t think of one essential thing about myself that wasn’t criticized or laughed at in my family (even if only behind my back, as if I were too dumb to catch on), and also in the world at large. My bookiness and tendency to isolate; my infrequent smiling; my feelings for animals; my anxiety disorder; my depressions; even my brains and education were used to bludgeon me. Anything at all about Anne was always fair game. Still is. I had a greater need to feel accepted by family than most people do, perhaps, because I found the larger world outside the home so difficult, as many people with Asperger’s do. And the more I was singled out for laughter or bitching or general criticism, the more scared I became that there was nowhere where I was “at home.”

And yet, there are many good things to be said about my upbringng too, and about the people who are related to me. It’s these good things, and the need I’ve always had to have family (both animal and human), that contributed to my constant efforts to stay connected with my parents, in spite of everything that hurt (until extreme events in 1998 broke off communication for good). My great difficulty managing in the larger world beyond  the family has played a role in increasing depression, PTSD, and anxiety since losing the people from whom I came.

Very unfortunately, for all of us I think, not just for me, those good things and good qualities that are part of my relatives didn’t win out over selfishness, jealousy, control-freakism, and other emotions that would not be managed.

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read…  Lifelines…   Neverending solitaire   (books in progress)

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

shelter life, et cetera

Page Sixteen, website outline

I have thus far stayed in three different shelters in two different states, and have had two trips each to two of them. I cannot say enough bad about the two in Massachusetts. The one in New Hampshire was better by far. Five stays in shelters to date, and I bitterly hope that there will be no more.

If I had to judge by the two Massachusetts shelters, both run by an organization called ServiceNet, I’d say that shelter life is designed to be degrading, to rob one not only of even minor privacies, but of dignity and of adulthood. You become a child being ordered around at daycare or summer camp.

At the New Hampshire shelter, there were very few rules. We needed to be in by 11:00 pm, and we each needed to do a chore once a week. Otherwise we could come and go as we pleased during the day. We each had fridge space and cabinet space and could cook our own meals, and each clean up only after ourselves. We could shower and do laundry any time the facilities were available. It was almost like living in your own apartment, except that it was a room, and you had to share the common facilities with other people. I didn’t feel demeaned or demoted to child status. Nor did I feel very invaded, as I had a bedroom to myself.

Very different in the ServiceNet Shelters. In Northampton we were kicked out at 7:00 in the morning and let back in at 6:00 in the evening. They did have more open hours from 9-12 and 1-3 when we shelter folk, and anyone else who wanted to, could get in out of the weather, have a snack, etc. But our shelter bedrooms were kept locked during these hours, so that we had no access to our belongings or our beds, and my bed was what I needed most those days.

I wonder if you can conceive of how shocking and horrifying, — yes, horrifying, — these shelters were to someone like me. I can’t speak for any shelters anywhere but the three I stayed in, and in two of those, the people were as unlike me as you can get. Most were alcoholics or addicts. Most had arrest records and jail time under their belts. Homelessness was a cycle they went through periodically, when, for whatever reasons, they stopped paying their rent. They were uneducated. They were sneaky. They knew how to kiss up to shelter staff and act like civilized, reasonably decent people, but then I’d encounter them hanging out with each other on the streets when the act was dropped, and their true, ugly colors shone out. This was especially true of the inmates of the Turners shelter. When you take a person who for fifty-five years has lived in houses or apartments and has paid the rent; who is reclusive and has Asperger’s syndrome and physical illnesses and chronic depression; who has never been arrested or served any time in jail, and so on, and throw such a person into this seedy, lunatic fringe atmosphere, it is devastating. At least it was for me. Culture shock, and all sorts of shocks, and the screaming torment of no privacy at all. I lived in a state of constant, high anxiety, and constantly bit down on my internal screams, keeping them from escaping through my mouth. Constant pretending. Not ass-kissing, as the others were doing, just pretending that I didn’t want to murder every single one of them so that I could have some privacy.

~~~  And now it’s 2011. I haven’t stayed in a shelter for two years now. But all I have to do is think about my various shelter days for a minute or two and here come the pounding heart and the shaking hands, the tears and the inability to sit still.  Maybe staying in a shelter isn’t an ugly wound for every person who does it, but it was for me.

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And then there was living outdoors for two months, which, while it entailed more physical hardship than the shelters, was in certain ways much preferable to them. When I think about that time living outside, I get the same shaking hands and pounding heart and tears, but I also get something else: the memory of the beauty of nature, and of nature’s animals all around me. The geese, squirrels, ducks, chipmunks, and so many more that I lived with. I was living in their home. The dusks and dawns… seeing every minute of them first-hand, with no window-glass between my body and the sky. I fed the animals every day, wherever I was camping. I was in the natural world, a part of it, in a way that you can only be if you live outdoors. That particular part of my homelessness showed me that if I owned my own land, I’d make it a point three or four times a year to pitch a tent and live outdoors for a week or two. To remind myself how the outdoors really feels.

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read…   Spite and malice…   Braonwandering

read…  Mental hell

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 
 

illegal eviction

Page Fifteen, website outline

That’s what my eviction was: illegal. Illegal in Massachusetts, anyway. But as I had no lawyer, and no money to hire one,  the landlady was able to get away with this illegal action against me.                                                                      

I wasn’t allowed to have a legal aid attorney because they now only accept clients who have rent subsidies. And although my income was as low as or lower than that of many people on subsidy, because I had no subsidy, I got no lawyer.

In Massachusetts, a retaliatory eviction is considered illegal. If you make any kind of complaint to a landlord, and they take any action against you within 60 days of the complaint, that is considered retaliation, and illegal. On March 20 of 2007 I delivered a letter of complaint to my landlady’s office — complaints regarding only some of the treatment I’d been receiving from the mafia-chick-tenant over seven months. Only ten days after I delivered that letter, I had eviction papers left at my door by a sheriff’s deputy. Illegal.

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read…   Spite and malice…   Sehnen

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

 

the mafia-chick and the landlady

Page Fourteen, website outline

This crime-chick thing I often discuss isn’t just some kind of a sarcastic joke I have put into the blogs over the last twenty-two months. She is real. She exists. She has a real name, which I never use, and lives in a real place, which I probably have mentioned on occasion.

I saw her two days ago, and the last time before that was on February 20 (2010). Riding around in what I’ve always called her white chariot; a small, cheap Ford convertible that looks so flimsy that it would become an accordion if anything hit it. It’s her attitude toward the car that makes me call it the chariot. She has this energy emanating from her whenever she’s in that car that she’s driving an MG or a Mazzerati. Like it’s the most expensive, most special white convertible in the world, when it’s basically junk. This is the attitude that she has about everything that concerns her: she’s the most beautiful, the funniest, the smartest person going. Her boyfriend is the handsomest man in the world. Etc. Everything about and around her is the absolute best. And it just ain’t so. It’s the dream world she lives in. When you take away the external trappings, she’s just like any other two-bit alchoholic and drug-dealer, with one important difference: her psychosis is sociopathy, which makes her conscienceless, ruthless and vicious. She tormented my animals and me relentlessly for 17 months, and ingratiated herself with the landlady (another woman with no conscience) to the extent that she helped engineer my illegal eviction. She wanted me out, and she wanted me to lose my animals.

She got her way. I lost everything , and she lost nothing. Those who were supposedly protecting me from the Connecticut mobbies the chick is related to by marriage have never, as far as I know, managed to get her arrested for her drug dealing or her connections, or for asking those connections to get me. Matthew once told me that they didn’t want her, they wanted the “big fish.” Well I want her. I want her scrawny buttocks (which she of course thinks are the most beautiful glutii maximi that the human genome ever created) in jail, where they belong. For drug-dealing, for working for mobbies, for asking her vermin associates to damage me (according to Matthew). For anything at all.

... And the landlady

Well, this woman is seriously mentally diseased too. When she and the crime chick found each other, it was like a match made in heaven. Perhaps you’ll sneer in disbelief that two severely mentally warped people could have crossed one person’s path at one and the same time. And  I, living in this excess of psychosis my whole life, don’t sneer in disbelief, I despair in it. How can so many psychotic people enter the life of just one person? Do I have a tattoo on my head that says Psychos, come get me? No, but I do think there’s a vulnerability, a fragility in my make-up that attracts such people: like heat-seeking weapons, they are drawn to the place where they can do the most damage. And the oddness of Asperger’s, for which non-autisitcs seem to have radar, is another contributing factor.

This landlady, this professional woman, zeroed in on me just exactly the way I imagine a heat-seeking weapon would. And over the course of 4 years, she did the ultimate damage, the worst damage that no other psycho had yet managed (though they’d tried): she saw to it that I lost all my animals and was put on the street like a bum. She had help from the DMH of course, but she was the one who started it all.

Like other psychotics I’ve known, she lies from dawn to dusk. Sadly, many of her clients believe her lies, and her business practices are as shady as the day is long.

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As they sometimes tell you in movies:   eight months later.  Today being 13 November 2010, and I live back in Turners Flails now since April 1. And in these months, I have a few times seen either the psycho-alcoholic-druggie-pusher-mafia-chick (Judith), or the psycho-white-collar-lawbreaker-extraordinaire, the landlady (Lolly). But a week ago, I got the double-whammy. In the space of forty-eight hours, I saw both of them.

When I left this library one week ago today (Sat 6 Nov), I saw Lolly at about 11:40 a.m. At the bank. And then on Monday 8 Nov, while waiting for a bus, I saw Judith at 11:25 a.m. No longer driving the white chariot. Driving a vehicle she didn’t have back in the days when we lived at the same address.

In all my past writing on the blogs that are now part of this website, I’ve said very little about Judith and Lolly. It’s extremely difficult for me to write about these two psychotic furies out of legend; furies that you don’t expect you’ll ever encounter in real life. It’s that difficulty that has prevented me for nearly three years from going into detail about how they treated me, the things they did and said. It’s long past time for me to do this. One of the stories I wish to tell thoroughly on this website, one of the stories of the little book called Spite and Malice, is this truth about what I was subjected to by these two mentally disturbed females.

I don’t know when it will actually start in the blog posts. When I will actually travel back in time to those four years of lying, psychological bullying, stealing, and unrelenting harassment. I keep telling myself to begin, but these two sociopaths are so odious to me that to write what needs to be written about them, to even think about them, is painful to a degree I can’t adequately describe. I hope I will start soon, but then I’ve been hoping that for months.

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read…   Spite and malice…   Poison and snowflake trees

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

grief, bitterness and rage

Page Thirteen, website outline

Yes, some of the unpleasant emotions no one wants to talk about, or hear about, or feel. Most people, when they feel such emotions as these, stuff them immediately down into the subconscious. There they create all kinds of ugliness, but since most people don’t pay any attention to what’s roiling around in their subconscious, and how ugly a lot of it is, they don’t care. But all this stuffing comes out in their behavior, whether they choose to accept that or not.

I do not stuff anymore. When I catch myself pushing something down, I do my best to drag it back up and look at it, so that it won’t make more mess in the subconscious, and so that I can live in my own truth. This is at times extremely difficult to do, and sometimes takes months. I do feel grief for the fourteen animals taken from me all at once. I do feel rage at all the individuals who got together and accomplished this abusive feat. I do feel bitterness regarding the amount of trauma others have visited on me in my life, and the damage it has done. I’m not going to pretend otherwise, or euphemize these feelings, or stuff them.

                                                                  

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My friend recently sent me this poem on bitterness, and once I read it, I remembered I had read it way back in high school. If Stephen Crane were alive today and trying to get this poem published, I bet no one would touch it with a ten-foot pole. Bitterness is passé and politically incorrect and socially unacceptable (as are rage and grief as well).

                                                 

                                                  In the desert

                                     I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

                                    Who, squatting upon the ground,

                                       Held his heart in his hands,

                                               And ate of it.

                                       I said, “Is it good, friend?”

                                 “It is bitter — bitter,” he answered,

                                               “But I like it

                                           Because it is bitter,

                                      And because it is my heart.”

                                                           ~~  s.crane

And so it is with me. I accept my bitter heart, my grief, my rage. I don’t try to eliminate or change these emotions, unpopular and castigated as they may be. They were created in me partly by the Asperger’s that so alienates me from neurotypical people, partly by my immune system that disabled me and kept me from working to get the money that would have kept us safe, and partly by the deliberately cruel actions of other people. And while I could not control being born with Asperger’s and with an abnormal immune system, those other people could have controlled their impulses to cruelty, if they had chosen to. They did not.

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read…   Spite and malice…   Lifelines…      

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

                     

justice

Page Twelve, website outline

The problem with justice in my existence, is that I can rarely ever have any, either legal or moral. I can never have justice against the mentally disturbed landlady who illegally evicted me, or against the Department of Mental Health that sat back and let my life be destroyed (thereby taking very good care of my mental health), or against the underhanded, undercover, illegal protection that Matthew Lacoy told me I was in. Many people have told me I can’t sue the feds, and I believe them. I could sue the DMH, if I had the money. I don’t. And they knew that when they sat back and let my life be obliterated.

                                                                        

When everything you define as your life is illegally and immorally destroyed by other people, you want some justice. You want some of these people to be held accountable for their reprehensible conduct. At least I do. Maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d just walk away and say that’s the way it is. There certainly are many people who would react that way, who seem to possess no sense of outrage at being illegally and immorally bulldozed by others. Who seem to have no fire in them in any realm of life. But I’m not a fireless person. I had fires for my interests while I still had my life, and fires inside for my deeply loved animals, and fires for horrible things happening all over the world: love fires and activist fires. If I’d been physically healthy, and if I’d met similar people, I might well have become an out-front, practicing activist for some issue or other. So I’m not at all the sort of person to have vicious things done to me by other people and by huge agencies, and not want some justice. But in the true world of living below the poverty line, you don’t get justice. People will perhaps shout: legal aid! Not here, not in Massachusetts. Legal aid will only represent low-income people for certain issues and in certain circumstances. Anything that doesn’t fit into their narrow scope will not be touched by them with a ten-foot pole, because they would not be paid for the work.

Before 2007, there were other issues. To name just two: No justice against the mother who took a house away from me; no justice against a woman who had two of my birds in foster care and refused to give them back, even when her boss and a lawyer told her she must. And on and on it goes.

What kinds of thoughts would a lifetime of people getting away with illegal and immoral actions against you engender in you? In me this repeated and repeated lousy treatment has left me with convictions that I’m worthless in the eyes of other people: they can do any damned thing they please to me, without ever having to be held accountable or make amends. And the certain knowledge that because I’m poor, I’m powerless. I have hired lawyers from time to time, for a few hundred dollars, to do very short-term letter-writing and phone-calling. But to launch a suit against someone is beyond my means. Poor equals powerless to get justice, to defend oneself against vicious crap. Worthless, powerless, disposable.

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read…    Braon…   Spite and malice

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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therapy (and psych drugs)

Page Eleven, website outline

                                                                                                                      

         “What we call ‘normal’ in psychology is really a 
           psychopathology of the average, so undramatic
           and so widely spread that we don’t even notice it
           ordinarily.”
                                                                      

                                                    Abraham Maslow

 

                  “It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a
                    profoundly sick society.”
                         

                                                                             Jiddu Krishnamurti

I found these two insightful observations in another text, written by a person who is neither Maslow nor Krishnamurti. I fear from the context in which I found them that these quotes are being liberally used by new-agers of the airhead philosophy variety to proselytize for meditation and yoga and letting go of ego and becoming one with everything, which are fine ideas if you don’t go haywire with them and shoot out into the ozone. But most new-agers do shoot out into the ozone.

I, a committee of one, will turn these insightful observations to a completely different purpose. I use them here to condemn, fervently, this psychopathology of the average. To condemn, vehemently, the idea of becoming well adjusted to a very sick society. It is the succumbing to the conditioning that browbeats us to become part of this average, to become this so-called “well-adjusted” robot in the sick society, that is partly responsible for allowing the sickness of society and the lacklustre of the “average” to proliferate to their current malignant levels.

And now a hypothesis of my own (formed with evidence garnered from much personal experience):

       Many people who go into the psychology profession, at any level,
       do so because they are pretty well screwed up. They believe that
       taking this course of study will make them better, and then they
       can hang up a shingle and make OTHER people better. Fraid not.

Let me qualify that a bit and narrow my hypothesis down to therapists in Franklin County, Massachusetts. While I lived the first half of my life in eastern Mass, I did have some very good therapists. But moving to western Mass has been a descent into ignorance, in the therapy world and in many other ways too.

I stopped taking the antidepressant (celexa, if that’s how you spell it) midway through December 2010, having started it about seven months before. The longer I stayed on it, the more tired and listless I became. Lowering the dose was tried, but over time the same thing happened. I still take the anti-anxiety, but an attempt to raise the dose from a half milligram to a whole one brought on the same tired, listless result. There are a great many things my abnormal immune system doesn’t like, and I don’t think it likes these drugs.

… Now it’s April 2010, and I don’t take the anxiety pill anymore either. Though I’d like an anxiety pill to use as needed, to take when it really flares up, they won’t prescribe them that way anymore. At least not here in Franklin County, where people make their own rules about absolutely everything. No, they make you take these pills twice daily and have the junk in your system all the time. I don’t want it in my body all the time, and neither does my fierce immune system. The longer I stay on any one of these “psych” drugs, the more side effects I have. A doctor told me twenty-five years ago when I had side effects that I couldn’t take these types of drugs and should never take any again. But they keep coming out with new ones, and people periodically talk me into trying one, and it’s always the same: the longer I take it, the more depressed I get, the more tired and listless, headaches, and more. I don’t think it’s ever going to be a match, my body and the psychobabble boneheads’ drugs.

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read…   Lifelines…    Mental hell

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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