Lobotomy is a making yet another comeback!

Disguised under different and deceptive terminology:
(see psychosurgery, cingulotomy, capsulotomy, deep brain stimulation, gyrectomy, leuctomy, stereotactic subcaudate tractotomy, etc.)

If you suffer from 'OCD,' 'bi-polar', 'depression' - anything that's called "not normal" - your brain can be butchered at Harvard, Brown, Vancouver General Hospital and a number of other prominent places.

Of course now they say this brain butchery is different from the old brain butchery, which either killed people outright or their mind/souls. Now they say they know what they're doing, now it's "safe and effective." Wait, didnt' they say that the last time too?

You can check out the neuro department at Harvard:
http://neuro-www.mgh.harvard.edu/research/jenike.html
(they experimenting on people with OCD there)

An article in "This Magazine"
http://www.thismagazine.ca/issues/2005/01/magicalmystery.php

You can also see what Dr. Breggin has to say about it:
http://www.breggin.com/lobotomy.htm

"There is no mystery about how the surgery "works." It produces intellectual and emotional blunting. The doctors rate this apathetic state as an improvement. Patients who submit to this surgery are never told how damaging it will be to their most basic human processes.

The psychosurgery performed at Harvard and Brown is the same old lobotomy that was rejected by science, medicine, and the public decades ago. Damaging the brain is not a solution to human psychological suffering."


PLEASE SPEAK OUT ABOUT THIS!

...continued from previous post....

 

I wake up toward the end of the next day, totally dazed, still in restraints, with my jaw aching and swollen. I’m now in the ‘acute’ part of the ward, in a room by myself. They tell me they’ll let me out of the restraints if I “behave” and then they leave. I ask them for some ice for my very sore and swollen jaw, but they ignore that. To give me ice would be to admit that they injured me.

 

The next few days I wait, having absolutely nothing to do, and not being allowed to even leave my room or talk to anyone. I’m terrified at this point, and I’m wondering how I’ll get out. I’m afraid they’ll attack me again. And I’m starting to get even worse flashbacks at this point too, feeling quite vulnerable, and wondering what else they did to me while I was unconscious.

 

I waited around – no one was allowed to come see me, including E. I wasn’t exactly allowed to use a phone either. And no one came to talk to me. I couldn’t even ask for the simplest things, because the nurses refused to come out of their sealed off area. I just tried to keep my mouth shut and not say or do anything. Not even move around lest they get another bright idea to attack me.

 

I had to wait until Sunday August 8th, when the Form 1 was up, to actually speak to a doctor - as was required by law. I wasn’t sure if they were going to put me on another Form or let me go. Finally on Sunday, later on in the day, the doctor came by, and basically said “yeah, go” without even talking to me either. At least that was good, but until I was actually out of there, I knew I wasn’t safe – and that was quite anxiety-provoking.

 

Of course, it took forever to get them to do the paperwork, return my clothes and belongings and such. E. came and picked me up, which was good. I was more than terrified after that, and really quite freaked out about what had happened. Of course my jaw and my right wrist were as sore as anything, and I went to Dr. R for him to have a look at it as it wasn’t getting any better. He wanted me do some physiotherapy for my jaw, but I didn’t exactly have the money for that.

 

I decided to “report” what happened to me – and I was advised to see the patient advocate – L.S. - for that. I made an appointment with her, and she took down the whole story. She said she was going to look into that, and she was going to arrange a meeting.

 

I kept on her for almost a year, and it wasn’t until I threatened to take it above her head, did she finally arrange a meeting. It took ten months for that to happen!!

 

The meeting finally happened on June 29, 2005 – and consisted of myself, the nurse manager, and the head of security, and L.S.. The head of security showed a copy of O’s notes – which said that I was “combative” and had to be restrained as a result – which was totally opposite of the truth. If anything, it was them who were in full-combat mode. He also informed me that security, by law, can use any amount of force as is necessary to subdue the patient, and by what O. wrote, they were quite within their rights to do what they did.

 

The nurse manager told me that the physical and chemical restraints were necessary, and said it was my “treatment” – that it’s the reason I was alive today. That’s interesting because they did not even talk to me once to find out what was going on for me, and the fact that I wasn’t suicidal didn’t even seem relevant – but of course, they did not know as they never even bothered to talk to me in the first place. And her assertion that the physical and chemical restraints were “treatment” was insulting to say the least! I suppose they would say dislocating my jaw and stretching out my tendons beyond their limits was treatment too?

 

I would have said that the so-called “treatment” was actually an assault and pure torture – but to say that within the hospital environment (where the meeting was held) would have likely landed me more of the same ‘treatment,’ sad to say. For a ‘mental patient’ to say the truth, to call it what it truly is, would warrant punishment, justified by applying the label “delusional” and “paranoid.”

 

They did tell me that they have since implemented changes in the way security handle the psych patients, but they offered no apologies to what happened to me. In fact, they felt entirely justified. L.S. afterwards told me that there was another woman a week or so before me – something even worse happened to her, and that was the main reason that they had to start changing things around with the security. What this was, they wouldn’t tell me - but it must have been quite horrendous! And of course they did not even think of doing anything about O’s actions – which they viewed as justified.

 

L.S. also told me that I could ask for damages from the hospital to pay for physiotherapy, since my jaw had been quite painful, and kept popping in and out at time, as well as the fact that I was grinding my teeth. She ended up going with me to health record to sign a release to transfer of relevant medical charts (as a doctor and a dentist both examined my jaw afterwards) – that she would start the process.

 

Since then, I have not heard back from her once thus far (as of Feb 2006), and I’ve tried to follow-up with her on several occasions. As always, I’m being ignored, probably to get me to drop the issue, yet again. So they can once again sweep the whole thing under the carpet.

The following took place on August 5-8, 2004. 

 

...as I was walking to a friend's house, I had a small cut that was bleeding a bit, and as I was walking over a bridge, someone must have called the police on me. Mind you, the bridge was veiled - only a squirrel could get through, never mind that I had no intention of doing anything in the first place... 

...next thing I know there are fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance coming right at me, with the police going after me. Needless to say, I was surprised! They came at me, like it was a crisis situation, and they asked me to come with them. It’s not like I could have jumped, as the whole area was veiled, but they somehow assumed I was. I explained to them that I was fine, that I was just having a hard day, and they saw the tiny marks on my arm – even though I tried to explain that it was quite minor and nothing to worry about, they still insisted that I needed to come with them. Either peacefully and willingly or they would grab me and handcuff me, and they said they didn’t want to do that.

 

I didn’t want them to do that either, so I went with them, although it certainly wasn’t by choice. I thought it was ridiculous actually. But they said that they had to be sure that I was “okay.”

 

They took me to TEGH, and I was waiting for a few hours with the cops....A while later the doctor “popped in” only to say he’s put me on a Form 1 (involuntary detainment for 72hrs), without of course even speaking to me to get my story or anything, never mind to do an assessment. At this point they did the ‘changing of the guard’ where the police handed me over to the security guards from the hospital, and transferred me to one of their emergency psych rooms. I wasn’t pleased about this, but there was nothing I could do.

 

Of course – it was the standard – they take away all my belongings, and my clothes, and forced me to get into a small gown. That was exposing and humiliating enough. They confined me to one of the small psych room in the ER, with a security guard right outside of the room to “babysit” me, and with the instructions to sit/lie on the bed or else. No one, of course, came by to say anything, except to utter threats and stare at me. The security staring at me the whole time, their whole presence, and the fact that I was “trapped” made start to freak out, internally that is. To show anything outwardly would be dangerous.

 

The next day, sometime later in the day, they tell me they are ready to transfer me up onto the ward. I still want to speak to someone, but they say there is no one – that everyone is “busy” and they can’t come speak to me. When I tell them that I wasn’t even assessed or spoken to about anything, they just ignored me.

 

Security comes in greater numbers to transfer me – mostly big burly men. That alone has was freaking me out. I was still having flashbacks from the assault and their presence, which is quite intimidating, is quite alarming to me. They do their usual humiliating transfer – no possessions, no belongings, no nothing – wheeled upstairs so I suppose I couldn’t escape. Not that I could anyway with two big security guards and only a gown on.

 

Once upstairs, they assign the big burly man, O., to babysit me. I just want to get out of there, and test a few doors. He’s following me around everywhere, keeping too close a proximity, and won’t leave me alone. They tell me to go into my room, but I’m afraid they’ll lock me in there, so I refuse. I then go make a phone call – finally now that I’m able to make one. I call my friend E. and tell her what’s going on.

 

When I come out of the room, a bunch of nurses and more security are there, with restraints and a needle in hand, saying they’re going to restrain me. I try to talk my way out of it, saying it’s not necessary, that I’m not doing anything wrong, that I just went to make a phone call. They tell me that “it’s too late” and that “we already have the security up here.” After which point the security literally pounce on me and literally start dragging me into a room. I start to get really scared and freaked out, and try to get free of their grip. At that point there are about 6-8 people on me, pulling me every which way, throwing me onto the bed, and proceeding to strap me down to the bed. I’m screaming for help, thinking they’re going to kill me or something – they’re holding on so tight, pushing and pulling my limbs every which way, and literally sitting on me in some parts, not to mention swearing at me. I also know they’re going to inject me very soon and I’m not looking forward to that.

 

O. is closest to my face and he’s really getting into the restraining business with pleasure, as I can see from his face. At some point he puts his right hand on my left jaw and starts pushing down, which hurts like hell, and he’s also got my right hand and he’s twisting it all the way around to my wrist/arm. It’s not like I can do anything, as I’ve to at least one or more people at each limb, strapping me down and sitting on me.  I’m screaming for him to stop, as it’s hurting like hell, in addition to what everyone else is doing to my body, but he just keeps on going. Eventually I feel and hear a pop when my jaw comes out of it’s socket, and he finally eases up after that. A short while after that I pass out as they have just injected me with a powerful tranquilizer....

 

...to be continued....

...continued from the previous post...

-------------- 

Eventually my name was called, I was escorted to a “see-though” psych room, handed over to the hospital security, and eventually the handcuffs were taken off too (and now I could see the cuts and bruising they caused). The doctor eventually stopped by, but only to inform me that they were detaining me on a Form for up to 72hrs. I’m supposing the police officers spoke to the doctor (or maybe not), but the doctor didn’t have a conversation with me – so I could only assume that they were keeping me on a form for crying in public, and I wasn’t sure how that applied to the boxes they checked off – that I was a danger to myself etc. Not that I had any opportunity to discuss this with anyone, I was refused every time I asked to speak to someone.

 

They just left me in the room, and I wasn’t allowed to leave for anything, including a phone call. They took my belongings, my shoes, and other essentials. Now I was really having a bad day, and by this point I was really ticked off. I needed to get out of there, so I snuck out, this time no one was watching, until someone saw me going down the street, barefoot.(I this point I had nothing to lose really). Next thing I know I have a bunch of security guards running after me, apprehending me, dragging me back, all mad as hell. A good reason for them to wage war, and “punish” me even more.

 

They decided that since I did not co-operate, they were going to take care of me by putting me in restraints and injecting me with a toxic drug. A bunch of security guards and nurses jumped me, wrestled me down, twisting my arms and legs, and fastening them to the bed. It felt like a full-on assault. My clothing got forcibly taken off of me, and I felt completely violated.

 

I still tried negotiating with them, but no one, from the very beginning, seemed to even be interested to speaking to me. I at least put up a good fight, if only to preserve some dignity, not that there was much of it left at that point. They came at me with a needle, and when I asked what it was, they told me it was Haldol. Now I have a pretty severe reaction to this drug, and I informed them that I was allergic to it. This was written on my chart as well, so they could have checked. They just scoffed, saying “you’re just trying to get out of getting the injection.” Well yeah, for a good reason. My body becomes totally rigid, and I practically lose my vision entirely – I can only see shadows. Plus I feel like someone ran me over with a truck about three hundred times.

 

They injected me with it anyway - not that I had any power to stop it being strapped down in four-point restraints. The drug’s effects overtook me almost immediately, and I passed out. All I remember of the night is some people walking in to say this or that, but I was too heavily sedated to even speak. I heard them mention that they were going to admit me to the ward, and I remember praying that they wouldn’t.

 

They didn’t. They woke me up next morning, and told me to get out. Quite literally, and quite abruptly. I was more than happy to go, but at this point my body was quite stiff and it was really hard to move my joints, not to mention that I could see almost nothing. They just threw my things at me and told me to hurry up and leave, that they need the bed for someone other victim. When I told them I could not see, they became annoyed and told me to stop exaggerating, and reminded me that I had to get out. I managed to get myself out, hanging on to walls and other objects all the way, and convinced them somehow to give me a cab chit to go home. It took me almost a week to recuperate from the effects of the drug, but I don’t think I will ever get over the effect of the experience.

 

This whole scenario makes no sense. I understand that crying makes people uncomfortable, and I will never show emotions in public again, but what exactly was the issue that they needed to arrest me (under the MHA) for this? What was the handcuff saga about? Why did no one talk to me at the hospital, and how did they come up with the idea that I met the legal criteria to be held and be given “treatment” against my will? Why did they disregard my allergy, and administer the drug anyway, only to deny its effects on me later on?

 

And most importantly, what was the point of all this? Why go out of your way to arrest someone, drag them to a hospital, tie them to a bed and administer drugs they’re allergic to, only to kick them out the next day? Is this supposed to be help, or is this getting rid of the “problem” (me)?

 

I came out of there humiliated, beaten up, stiff, sore, and almost blind, disempowered, and extremely angry. Moreover I was quite frightened, because if I can be picked up for crying, then this is really random and irrational on their part, and they can pick me up for anything they really want. It’s not like anyone is going to ask me my side of things, or ask me the simplest of questions. I do not matter, in their eyes. It’s not like I have any rights – the basic human rights afforded to even the criminals. I am, after all, a mental patient, therefore I am not human?

 

For a while there, I did not even want to go outside, just in case they decided to get me for something again. After a while I did, but I was still jumpy, especially if I saw a police car. Even months after, I was filled with fear going anywhere, and I certainly tried my best to never show any emotion in public. I was told that I was just paranoid, and I don’t think anyone even tried to believe what I told them. No one really wants to know. Better to turn a blind eye to what's going on, than to face the enormity of the situation.

 

So I didn’t share this experience again, until now.

The following is an account of an incident of what happened over a year and a half ago. It may seem unbelievable to you. It did to me when it happened. I don't think I've ever gotten over it, and I'm not sure that I ever will.

-------------

In the spring of 2004 I found myself having a hard time, where everything was difficult and I didn’t feel there was anywhere to turn. I couldn’t figure out how to snap out of it. One day I was doing some errands, but I came to a point, while I was walking, where I could not hold things in anymore. But there was nowhere to go, and I couldn’t afford even a coffee so I could buy myself permission to run into a washroom to hide. I burst into tears, and a paralysis came over me, a fatigue where I didn’t feel like I could walk any further, so I sat down on the curb by the side of a road, tears running down my face, sobbing quietly.

 

I suppose that’s not allowed, because people either scooted off real fast, or they asked me what was going on. I just wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go. I tried to wave them off, but for the most part, I could not even talk.

 

Short while later, two cop cars came screeching, aimed right at me, from each side of the road. Maybe I wasn’t aware of what was going on around me, but they seemed to come out of nowhere. Two officers came out of the car and started questioning me, demanding ID, asking asking asking. I didn’t really want to deal with them, and now that a crowd had gathered, I wished I could disappear entirely.

 

I don’t think they knew what to do with me, and then they “insisted” that I come with them, that they were taking me to a hospital. I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t really know if I had any right to refuse. Obviously saying “I don’t want to go” didn’t work. They put me into the back of the cruiser, and took me to a hospital emergency department. I wished I could have run, without risking my life. Being pushed into the back of a cruiser, in public, in front of a crowd of people was just purely humiliating. All I did was cry, I had no idea that was against the law. It wasn’t “hysterical” and it wasn’t anything else dramatic.

 

The hospital staff said that they were full, that they could not take me. The officers were upset, raised a stink, I suggested that I just go home and go to sleep, but they would have none of it. I needed “treatment” (punishment?) for crying in public! So they took me to another hospital, this time I had to wait in the back of the cruiser by myself, while the officers went to talk to the staff. They were once again refused. And they were livid at this point, and they started to take it out on me. They did some phoning around, and took me to yet another hospital, possibly the worst one in the city. This time they were not turned down.

 

At the parking lot, I calmly tried to reason with them – that I did not think it was necessary for me to have to go to a hospital. They took that as a threat, pulled me out of the car, leaned me over it, and put me in handcuffs! I was formally arrested under the Mental Health Act! I felt like a common criminal, and even worse when they escorted me into the waiting room, for everyone there to see! We had to wait in the waiting room of course, and everyone’s eyes were trained at me, and a mixture of anger and utter humiliation washed over me. I had no idea what to do. I started doing the agitation dance, not being able to stay still very well, and that gave them a great reason to push me around and yell at me – they were still angry with me that they had to drive all over the city to drag to me a hospital. I saw no reason why I should be dragged in there in the first place.

 

...to be continued...

This is something I wrote last night. A bit more personal that most of the other posts. A bit exposing, but I feel I have to in order for people to really understand:

-------

I’m sitting here shaking, in tears that I can’t let go, images racing though my head, body being moved through time. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to reach out.

 

I was just reading the book “What Difference Does It Make” by Wendy Funk, a story of a woman who went through the horrors of being psychiatrized, and I had to put it down as it hit too close to home, and as my past memories started to flood me. For a bit I felt completely paralyzed, wanting to crawl into a hole and disappear.

 

This nightmare doesn’t only return at night, it comes during the day, colouring my experience of the world and interactions within it. I am shell-shocked, I’ve recently realized, walking around afraid of the perpetrators, afraid that this can happen again, afraid that this time I will not survive it. I cannot take anymore assaults, whether on the body, the mind or the soul. I have had enough. But maybe that is their point. And yet I refuse to give in.

 

I feel angry and frustrated at people just shaking my experience off, either denying it or telling me I am exaggerating it, or saying that I have had an unusual experience - something that happens very rarely. Everyday people would not believe that these horrors happen, and those who do deny it at all costs. This is a human tendency, and one good example is the holocaust, though perhaps not to the same extent here. The tactics used there, denial, minimization, and justification – they are also used here. And in other areas where people are being oppressed, being abused.

 

The main thing I could not explain why the patients themselves, myself included at one time, kept going back, kept asking for help, even though what we got was pure hell that we always complained about, and compared horror stories. Yet we didn’t think to get out. At the same time, in many ways we could not get out.

 

Thinking – that is the key. When your brain is on psychoactive [e.g. psychiatric] drugs, you really cannot think clearly. You really cannot think. Your brain is disabled. You cannot see or analyze what is going on, you cannot think to get out and try alternatives. I certainly could not. I knew that it was horrific what I was experiencing at the hands of the system, but I was in such a daze, a total zombie-like state, that I couldn’t think to do anything about it. I guess they would say I was “compliant.”

 

Another thing was, I just did not care. When they first locked me up, they destroyed my life. That’s what I really felt. I lost my job, I lost my volunteer position, I got a label that has stuck and will stick for life, and I lost people’s respect, and I essentially ceased to be fully human. Who wants to live after that? So why would I care what they do to me? Sure, keep assaulting me. Sure, destroy what’s left of my mind. I couldn’t care less. Sometimes I would go to them as self-punishment, to let them finish what they started. But this was all sub-conscious, an analysis would require thinking, and thinking while on the drugs just didn’t really work.

 

It was also attention, however destructive. I wanted so desperately for someone to care, anyone, someone to “help” me out of my problems, and this was not “mental illness” but my inability to cope with life, I did not know how to deal with the problems I was presented with – hence they were problems with living. I also craved some caring and compassion in life, I would even say love. I wasn’t alone. I don’t know how many times us inmates would be so happy and so grateful that someone had actually smiled at us, or was nice to us, or actually talked to us. It was so unusual, and we fed off of it. We took those occasional acts as the whole – that we were being treated well. When really, most of our experiences were quite horrific. But I suppose you take anything you can get, and convince yourself that a piece of mouldy bread is a four-course dinner.

 

It wasn’t until an incident that traumatized me so deeply that woke me up, and I started to question, even in the fogginess of medications, what was going on. I started to look around, ask around, what else is out there. I found lots, even though it was hard to find. I read everything I could get my hands on. I took myself off meds. I fired the “professionals.” The very fact that I was allowed to do that was miraculous, as many are not that lucky.

 

My mind began to clear up, my memory started to get a bit better, I could think, I could concentrate, I could feel, I could stay awake, I could even function again. The withdrawal was hell, but well worth it. I haven’t felt like myself in close to a decade.

 

I have gained my humanity back, but I will never have my life back, all those years I have lost, and the experience will haunt me for the rest of my life. The stigma will make me a “wanted” woman for the rest of my life. Once marked, always a target.

 

I sit here, in fear, wanting to cry, wanting to mourn what I had lost, but cannot out of fear of being thrown away into a cell, crying meaning I’m ill, meaning I’m crazy, meaning I am not human.

 

So I’m writing here instead. Stiff upper lip. Angry indignation instead of tears.

 

A short snippet:

 

But he goes on to make the startling claim that these new psychiatric drugs
have directly contributed to an alarming new epidemic of drug-induced
mental illness. The very drugs prescribed by physicians to stabilize mental
disorders in fact are inducing pathological changes in brain chemistry and
triggering suicide, manic and psychotic episodes, convulsions, violence,
diabetes, pancreatic failure, metabolic diseases, and premature death.

As I'm not getting hardly ANY online time these days, my posts will be a bit sporadic for the next little while. Please bear with me....

________________

I get a lot of flak from both the “professionals” and many current
“patients” when I say I felt that the use of psychiatric drugs has harmed
me, not only in terms of damaging my brain (and no, it has not resolved
entirely even though I have been off the drugs entirely for some time now) as
well as rendering me unable to take charge of my life and make the necessary
changes and to truly work on what led me to getting the diagnosis of “mental
illness.”

What I found interesting is that I was mostly unaware of the negative
effects of the medications, even though I complained all the time of
side-effects, and was only able to see the “treatments” for what they were
in rare moments of lucidity or when I was off the drugs, or was taking a
minimal amount. But that was rare, because I was always told that I had to
be on these drugs forever, and also, because they kept adding and changing
around and increasing doses of the drugs I was on. The eternal cocktail.

I was trying to find out why this happened, but for the longest time I was
convinced that I “needed” the drugs to maintain my stability, and if I would
go off of them I would crash heavily. That was my fear and that was what I
was told. It is not until I checked-in and did some research myself that I
found the whole story, the things the doctors would never tell you, because
it would demolish them and their profession. Psychiatrists are so focused on
prescribing biological treatments that most of them do not deal with the
real issues their patients are faced with. Or they do a combination, saying
both are essential. My experience, and those of others, including all the
literature out there, suggests that these biological treatments are harmful
to the brain, and therefore to the whole person.
[there are many publications out there, including those by psychiatrists and
neurologists themselves, for those that require words of a "professional"]

I think most ordinary people, not having been indoctrinated by psychiatry,
would see it as obvious that ECT would cause brain damage – after all, they
are sending shocks through the brain to induce a seizure, which then damages
the neurons and the connections between them. The effects of ECTs are quite
profound, ranging from temporary memory loss to permanent and extensive
memory loss, to the creation of learning disabilities and other disorders,
and death. And yet, it is being touted as the “safest” treatment of choice –
even safer than psychotropic medications.[See BC's ECT Guide].

This is even worse with lobotomy, and yes, it does still happen here in Canada in this day and age. It may be
less obvious with medications, but it still happens.

I can see a difference
in my memory, my concentration, my intellectual capability before and after
8 years of psychiatric medications. It is harder for me to retain
information, to follow and understand. I feel like I have to work much
harder than I did in pre-medication days. And I am one of the lucky ones.
[Again there is lots out there on this, ranging from survivors of these
treatments, are we are many, to independent observers and those in the
professions themselves.]

I am digressing here, because I wanted to examine WHY most patients are not
aware of, and deny, that these treatments are damaging. I often find that no
one will listen to a lone “mental patient,” and definitely not a “mental
patient” at all in most cases, because, well, I’m not really supposed to
know what is going on or be informed or be aware of the “reality” of things.
I apologize if that sounds sarcastic, but that is the stigma that I get and
have to fight all the time.

I have finally got my hands on one of Dr. Peter Breggin’s book that I have
been looking for for some time and found one answer, and from an “expert” at
that (he’s a psychiatrist himself). This is just one aspect of what is going
on. He does go into HOW medications and ECTs and other treatments damage the
brain, but that is not what I’m focusing on in this post – I’d strongly
recommend reading some of his books or visiting his website.

I wrote out some excerpt from Breggin’s “Brain Disabling Treatments in
Psychiatry: Drugs, Electroshock, and the role of the FDA.” See his website
http://www.breggin.com for more information and resources:

X. Patients subjected to biopsychiatric interventions often display poor
judgement about the positive and negative effects of the treatment on their
functioning.

Generalized brain dysfunction tends to reduce the individual’s ability to
perceive the dysfunction. Impaired individuals not only tend to minimize
their dysfunction, they often see themselves as performing better than ever.
Individuals intoxicated with alcohol, for example, often show poor judgment
in estimating their capacity to drive an automobile or to carry on a
sensible conversation….The same is true of all psychiatric drugs. Often the
patient will have little appreciation for the degree of mental and emotional
impairment until the drug has been stopped for some time and the brain has
had time to recover.

In my experience as a clinician and forensic medical expert, I have seen
patients remain for years in severe states of intoxication from one or more
psychiatric drugs without realizing it. Attributing their condition to their
own emotional reactions or to stresses in the environment, they may ask for
more medication.

After shock treatment and psychosurgery, patients may also fail to
understand the iatrogenic source of their mental dysfunction and instead
believe that they need further interventions.
(pp9-10)
---
IATROGENIC HELPLESSNESS AND DENIAL (IHAD)

I have coined the term iatrogenic helplessness and denial (IHAD) to
designate the guiding principle of biopsychiatric interventions (Breggin
1983). It describes how the biological psychiatrist uses authoritarian
techniques, enforced by brain-disabling interventions, to produce increased
helplessness and dependency on the part of the patient.

Iatrogenic helplessness and denial include the patient’s and the doctor’s
mutual denial of the damaging impact of the treatment, as well as their
mutual denial of the patient’s underlying psychological and situational
problems. Overall, iatrogenic helplessness and denial account for the
frequency with which psychiatry has been able to utilize brain-damaging
technologies, such as electroshock and psychosurgery, as well as toxic
medications.

Before the potential patient encounters a psychiatrist, he or she has
usually been feeling helpless for some time. In my formulation, helplessness
is the common denominator of all psychological failure….People who feel
helpless tend to give up using reason, love, and self-determination to
overcome their emotional suffering, inner conflicts, and real-life stresses.
They instead seek answers from outside themselves. In modern times, this
often means from “experts.”

….in iatrogenic helplessness and denial the psychiatrist compromises the
brain of the patient, enforcing the patient’s submission to suggestion
through mental and physical dysfunction. Second, in iatrogenic helplessness
and denial the psychiatrist denies to himself or herself the damaging
effects of the treatment as well as the patient’s continuing psychological
or situational problems.

Often denial is accompanied by confabulation – the patient’s use of
rationalizations and various “cover stories” to hide the extent of mental
dysfunction. Confabulation is well understood in psychiatry and neurology,
but is generally ignored in regard to treatment-induced effects. Many
patients confabulate good results from drug therapy when they are obviously
impaired by it.

….Denial is also related to euphoria. After lobotomy or shock treatment, and
sometimes during drug treatment, the patient can develop an unrealistic
“high.”

Denial is one of the most primitive ways of responding to threats. The
person avoids facing problems and thereby becomes unable to make headway
with them…."
(pp11-12)

To be con't.

I think the most important thing we often forget about is love and compassion for other human beings. Systems and institutions become machines, we become numbers, and this has spilled into the rest of our society, into our personal lives. I'm not talking about romatic love, I don't believe that to be the pure true love (it can be, but that's difficult), that is not connected with desire or aversion  (all related to judgement).

Our society seems so starved for this - love, compassion, affection. In many cases, people have developped an aversion of sorts - it's "unrealistic," it's this and that, we will never find it so why bother, it makes us too vulnerable and will be hurt. Most are afraid to open up, afraid to give.

So how does this relate to psychiatry? Well I will share a bit of my experience. I did not realize for the longest time what I needed, what I was looking for. I meandered most of my life, wanting someone to care, wanting someone to "help" me, wanting this and that, and not really finding it. Maybe I wasn't receptive to it, and maybe it just wasn't really there either. Maybe I didn't really know what I wanted/needed or what it looked like or where to find it.

I looked for professional for "help" but even if they were kind and seemed to care (and that didn't happen very much), it was not enough. I found the therapist-client/patient relationship artificial and phony. It wasn't a real relationship, it wasn't any kind of "normal" human relationship, they were getting paid, I got a specific time and that was it. It can be helpful to some, to figure a few things out, but it didn't really work for me. I couldn't trust anyone who was not "real" with me - i.e. there was no reciprocity, there was no genuineness. They would never call me just to see how I was doing, only if I contacted them first. It was always my move, and if I left or time was up, that was it. It wasn't comfortable for me and it just didn't work.

Now they would say that this is because of boundaries and such, that it was to help me and not be distracted by their stuff. Good theory, but it doesn't work very well in practice. I find often professionals "hide" behind their boundaries, and create a huge wall, and everything gets put on you, the client/patient. They have no issues, it's all you, even though it a dynamic - i.e. "takes two to tango." As for getting distracted by their stuff (or they don't want to have their privacy invaded and so on), I find I interact better with others if the sharing is mutual - there is trust, there is less dependency and clinging, there is feeling that I am empowered and that I can help others. The assumption is often that the patient/client is a poor helpless thing and should not be allowed, for their sake and others' to "assist" others.

Long story short (okay, little too late here), this just didn't work for me. I have come full circle in finding the right friends, the right people to support me, not in a structured session, where I am a patient/client, but back to a person, not labelled, not pathologized, not made helpless and dependent. I can share with them and they share with me, and the playing field is level, it is mutual, it is based on respect and trust, and caring and compassion. Now it takes a lot of work on yourself and in finding the right people, but it can be done.

That's not to say that therapists and others don't try - most come into the profession with good intentions, wanting to "help" others, but they soon become "eaten up" by the system in which they work - they are limited, their time is limited, their training is set, and their colleagues limit them by prohibiting them to step out of the "norms" of the profession. I have have therapists and others supporting be outraged at what would happen to me in the system, but they felt helpless to do anything themselves or help me do anything, because a) there really isn't much that can be done directly and b) they would be facing their colleagues who would impose sanctions - and possibly be let go from their job or the certifying body of their profession. If not that, then at the very least they would be given a hard time by their colleagues, which is really too bad. It's just a lot of stuckness for both sides.

I should also note, when professionals first start, it is quite evident to all - patients and staff alike, as they have not been subdued and brainwashed by the system. In the wards, this was so clear when a "new" staff would start - they would be full of enthusiasm, even compassion and caring, wanting to "help" the patients. It woudl be evident that they would actually talk to us, interact with us, treat us like human beings (to a point of course). We would say to ourselves, it would be a matter of time before they get beaten down by their colleagues, before they lose faith in the system and become apathetic, angry, and stop giving a damn (at the worst, many still try...but they too give up in many ways). You see and hear the other staff warning them to stop doing so much, to not interact with the patients because that will only harm us, the patients, that we should not get so much attention (huh? why?), and that they need stronger boundaries (why? because they're talking to us?). Or else, and so they back off, they do what the senior staff want them to do - they are afraid for thier jobs.....hmm....too bad....we needed some human beings in the system...

So back to love, compassion and caring. That seems to be the main ingredient that we are all looking for, as human beings, we feel it most acutely when we are having diffculties of any kind, but all of us are needing it. But we're not going to find it in the system. It is not designed for it, and it is not human. As I've said, it is really a machine. Yet many patients are coming back, happy to get any attention (even if negative) at all, still hoping for help and caring. I haven't found it there yet, and I don't think most of us will ever find it there.

Here's an excerpt from Jack Kornfield (yes, again, I hope he's not going to sue me, but hey, free advertising?) - his book "A Path With Heart":

The longing for love and the movement of love is underneath all our
activities. The happiness we discover in life is not about possessing or
owning or even understanding. Instead, it is the discovery of this capacity
to love, to have a loving, free, and wise relationship with all of life.
Such love is not possessive but arises out of a sense of well-being and
connection with everything. Therefore, it is generous and wakeful, and it
loves the freedom of all things. Out of love, our path can lead us to learn
to use our gifts to heal and serve, to create peace around us, to honor the
sacred of life, to bless whatever we encounter, and to wish all beings well.
(p.18)

I'll finish this later, and my argument isn't really clear, but at least this is some food for thought...

The more I talk to people, including visiting other's blogs - I see all this
pain, whether it is related to "mental illness" or the mental health system
or none of these. As I am oriented to the Buddhist tradition, I will speak
from that perspective, but I think many of this is universal: life is
suffering. It is everywhere, and everyone, regarless of class, race, social
role, gender etc, suffers. So I wanted to add another perspective - maybe
some different ways of looking at things, that can help all - as when it
comes to life and suffering, it doesn't matter whether you are a
psychiatrist or a mental health patient or anyone on the street - it affects
us all in much the same way.

I'm going to add a few excerpts from various resources from time to time.
The following is from Jack Kornfield's "A Path with Heart" - he used to be a
buddhist monk and is now a meditation teacher at Spirit Rock Centre. This is
just a part - more of an introduction - I will add more later:

"To open deeply, as genuine spiritual life requires, we need tremendous
courage and strength, a kind of warrior spirit. But the place for this
warrior strength is in the heart. We need energy, commitment, and courage
not to run from our life nor to cover it over with any philosophy - material
or spiritual. We need a warrior's heart that lets us face our lives
directly, our pains and limitations, our joys and possibilites. This courage
allows us to include every aspect of life in our spiritual practice: our
bodies, our families, our society, politics, the earth's ecology, art,
education. Only then can spirituality be truly integrated into our lives."

"While I began workign at a state mental hospital while studying for my
Ph.D., I naively thought I might teach meditation to some of the patients.
It quickly became obvious that meditation was not what they needed. These
people had little ability to bring a balanced attention to their lives, and
most of them were already lost in their minds. If any meditation was useful
to them, it would have to be one that was earthy and grounded: yoga,
gardening, tai chi, active practices that could connect them to their
bodies."

"But then I discovered a whole large population at this hospital who
desperately needed meditation: the psychiatrists, psychologists, social
workers, psychiatric nurses, mental health aides, and others. This group
cared for and often controlled the patients through antipsychotic drugs and
out of fear, fear of the energies in the patients and fear of these energies
in themselves. Not many among these caregivers seemed to know firsthand in
their own psyches the powerful forces that the patients were encoutering,
yet this is a very basic lesson in meditation: facing our own greed,
unworthiness, rage, paranoia, and grandiosity, and the opening of wisdom and
fearlessness beyond these forces. The staff could all have greatly
benefitted from meditation as a way of facing within themselves the psychic
forces that were unleashed in their patients. From this they would have
brought a new understanding and compassion to their work and their
patients."

"The need to include spiritual life in treatment and therapy is beginning to
be recognized by the mental health profession. an awareness of the necessity
of integrating a spiritual vision has spread to such fields as politics,
economics, and ecology as well. Yet to be beneficial, this spirituality must
be grounded in personal experience...."

(pp9-9)

to be continued....

[this one is all over the place, so bear with me.....as I'm over the place,
mentally and physically haha]

I have experienced a lot of injustice and abusive practices at the hands of
the system, but I never knew if there was something I could do, or what my
rights were, or how the system worked or how to appeal or how to make a
complaint.

Now I am trying to educate myself and others, and I’ve been examining the
various Mental Health Acts of different provinces, the privacy and
information legislation (PHIPA)[I think this one is only Ontario?] among
others, and then comparing then to the Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms.
I’m even more devastated about the state of things than I was before,
because now I see this injustice and discrimination blatantly in writing,
for all to see, in clear violation of the Charter, by which everything and
everybody must abide, and I see the “system” getting away with it. The
proponents of this system obviously know they can get away with it, because
society lets them.

These acts outline what mental illness is, what treatment procedures are,
how and when people can be treated and so on. I completely disagree with
this whole thing, in fact it is quite absurd – I mean, is there a Cancer
Patient Act? Is there a Cardiac Patient Act? Or how to treat and control
cardiac patients? I mean, what if they don’t take their medications or
continue to smoke? They could die and therefore should be forced to take
their medications? That would seem absurd to most. But it seems it okay to
have this kind of legislation on “mental patients.”

It wouldn’t be so bad if in practice the Mental Health Acts were actually
followed. I mean I find them offensive – they clearly violate human rights,
but these rights are further violated by practitioners who use they as THEY
see fit and what they want it to do rather than following the laws and
trying to do what’s best for the “patient,” – whether the patients like it
or not.

The terminology is vague in all these acts – and that leads to loose
interpretation. For example, someone can be involuntarily committed for
“dangerousness” to themselves or others (terminology varies from province to
province, but the essence is the same). Now, how would you define
dangerousness? Is speeding recklessly down a highway endangering yourself
and others? Most would say yes it is. Well then, it’s a reason to be locked
up against your will. Or smoking cigarettes? With those, you will likely die
of it but also get others sick with second-hand smoke. Sounds dangerous as
well, even if it takes more time. At the very least, terminology has to be
made clear, otherwise the whole planet is in danger of being locked up.

Most people would say to me that what they mean is if the person is in
danger of killing themselves or others or something similar. Actually, this
isn’t often the case. If they think you’re “manic” and may be going on a
shopping spree of large proportions or having sex with too many people, you
can be locked up. A lot of people do these things anyhow, and no one will
say anything to them, well, unless they have the label of “mental illness.”
Then, they’re a problem. I find that often, they don’t really have to have a
reason really to lock someone up, or conversely, they will not admit them if
they want/need to be admitted – it is all arbitrary, and it is done
according to the preferences, biases, moods of the attending physician in
many cases. I found no rhyme or reason for being or not being admitted,
whether it was voluntary or forced.

Then there is the big big issue of predicting future behaviour. Someone can
be forcibly locked up, and forcibly given treatment, if a doctor thinks,
that the person MAY be a threat to himself or others or will get worse if
not “treated.” We’re entering a big ethical problem, and if the government
said that from now on it is going to come up with a system, or a template,
to judge who MAY commit a crime in the future and lock them up as a
preventative measure, then we would be all up in arms. (not that this isn’t
happening as well – not on a grand scale like in the mental health system
though, and not legally – look at racial profiling and the like). Then we
would say that who are they to come up with a system, what system or
templates are they using, and we would know that they could not be accurate,
because as humans we are not omniscient, and cannot predict the future. And
yet, this is the standard practice with people who are labeled “mentally
ill.”

Then you could say that without forced lockup, people would end up killing
themselves or others. Hospitals pride themselves on preventing such
tragedies, but they really can’t tell anyone actual statistics on who they
“saved.” They just can’t know. Also, people who really want to kill
themselves will do so when they find an opportunity, and this happens a
great deal even when people are locked up, even if they are on an acute care
ward where they are closely monitored. I heard of a few instances myself,
and of course the hospital tries to keep that quiet.

It could also be argued, and I do so, that the treatments of psychiatry,
especially forced and inhumane treatment, makes patients worse. I felt
defeated, humiliated and retraumatized, and on a physical level I felt sick
from the drugs they were forcing into me, whether by jumping me and
strapping me down and injecting me with it or through coercion (your
“privileges” will be taken away, we will have to give you an injection if
you don’t take it voluntarily) or through brainwashing. On many occasions I
did feel I’d be better off dead than be stuck in this psychiatric machine.
But this is another book to be written.

I want to draw attention to the wording of things, to what is contained in
the acts and such documents, as most people are not even aware of what is in
them, nor that they may exist.

I want to show a bit of what’s in the acts – how loose the requirements are
and how open to interpretation they are. Here’s in one example, in assessing
if a person is “capable” of deciding if they want a treatment or not, these
are the criteria in BC (from the Mental Act Guide):

"The Consent for Treatment (Involuntary Patient) form (Form 5) requires the
physician to certify that, to the best of the physician's judgment, the
patient is incapable of appreciating the nature of the treatment and/or the
need for treatment and is, therefore, incapable of giving consent."

Again, what does this mean? Again, it is not specific, too broad, too vague,
and can and often is interpreted in any which way. In my experience these
criteria mean that if a person disagrees with the treatment, does not want
the treatment, and does not give into the bullying of the physician, then
the physician can say that the person does not “appreciate” the treatment or
the need for treatment, and force the treatment onto the person. It is
basically the same as when they have told me that I’m a voluntary patient
(and therefore free to leave), but if I ask to leave, then they will say
that I’m a threat to myself or others and such, and change my status to
involuntary (locked up against my will). It is basically a game, to those
who hold all the power.

And they do hold all the power, and they’re getting more and more of it.
There’s been a big push to get more control and power over to the doctors,
in the name of “protecting” the poor helpless mental patients. There are now
even less checks-and-balances than before, and the patient has less and less
rights than before.

For example, I am currently looking into obtaining my records from the
various hospitals I was incarcerated before. Now this is normally everyone’s
legal right, except it you are/were a mental patient. I had tried to see my
files in the past and that’s been an ordeal; I was harrased and told to
leave it alone, to being told I could not see my records, then I was told
only if all the doctors consented to me seeing it. And then, only under
supervision. Apparently it could harm me, apparently it could trigger me.
Actually, when I finally did get to see them, they shocked me. Much of the
information was inaccurate, the language was so condescending and inhumane
that I wanted to cry, and the assessments I was outraged at. No wonder they
don’t want us to see our own charts – if we knew what they were really doing
and saying, we would revolt.

So now I am studying the PHIPA – the privacy and information act, and it
deeply disturbs be. Of course they say that by law everyone has the right to
see and have a copy of their records, but there are a few exceptions – legal
ones and the “mental patient” ones. They can deny your request if they feel
that “granting the access could reasonably be expected to result in a risk
of serious harm to the treatment or recovery of the individual or a risk of
serious bodily harm to any person.” Again, what does that mean? What
qualifies as “serious harm to treatment or recovery” ? And why would your
own information set you off? Maybe because of the things I had found when I
examined mine. And I know others have found the same thing, if they ever
found out that they had a right to see their information, and if they have
not been denied access. Again I see this as a setup beneficial to the
doctors and other staff – they can once again arbitrarily decide if they
want to let someone have access or not.

The thing is, they have no way of assessing if this could harm your
treatment/recovery or someone else. In your application to see it, there is
no assessment for how you are doing, for what’s going on for you, and so on.
No one ever asks that. And then they really can’t make that determination at
all, and yet, this is a clause they can use. This really makes no sense. So
I have to conclude that this exception is there to protect the doctors and
other staff for one reason or another.

As I’ve mentioned before, the laws have shifted even more power to the
doctors and hospitals. It used to be that the doctor had to apply to the
Consent and Capacity Board for permission to deny. Under the new law, they
can just deny, and the patient/ex-patient is given the permission to appeal.
Of course, I think we all know the futility of appeals. But even that
doesn’t gel, because under this law and that subsection, they say:

“You must also give the client written notice that you can neither confirm
nor deny the existence of the requested records based on specific sections
of the PHIPA”

Huh? What is that? You request your records, which you know are there, and
they say they can’t tell you if they’re there or not? They can’t even tell
you directly that they’re not letting you see your own records? Well, their
reasoning is as follows:

“You must NOT tell the client which section of PHIPA you are relying on, as
this might escalate a situation that you are already concerned about (for
example, harm to the client’s treatment or recovery).”

Wow, not only are they treating you like a little child, but I think that
they are actually trying to “drive” you crazy. It does seem like a cop-out
that they won’t tell you if your records are there, and then they won’t tell
you why they won’t tell you. Who’s crazy here? As for the “harm to the
client’s treatment/recovery” – how would they know? Not knowing what’s going
on and being stonewalled and given crazy stories and denied your rights is
supposed to empower you and help you with your recovery? I really don’t get
it.

These are just a couple of examples, and are quite tame in comparison what
is out there. And it seems to be getting worse. There is so much to be done
about the rights violations with mental patients, and I still know very
little about it myself. But I know unless people really know what is going
on, and how the system really works, people will continue to suffer at the
hands of this system. That’s why advocacy work is so important.

Today is a tough day. It's a tough week, month, year. But today, I'm in
complete tears.

It would have been my friend Angela's 23rd birthday today. It would have
been, had she not taken her life in January.

I keep wishing things were different. I keep wanting her back. I keep hoping
that she found another solution, gave something else more of a chance. I
keep wishing the mental health system did not fail her, not have given up on
her, not screwed her up more.

I keep wishing she would have her life ahead of her - and did what she
really wanted to do. I keep wishing she could have been happy again, could
have finished her nursing degree, could have experiences, both good and bad
and all around that are a part of life - to LIVE life, to grow as a person,
to help others. I wished that for her while she was alive, and now that
she's gone, I not only mourn her, but her potential, what could have been.

But the thing is, I can't know. And the thing is, it was her choice. And yet
I think that this would not be her choice if she really had other options.
Her brain being fried by ECTs and being drugged up with so-called
medications aren't real options. But that's another "rant" for another time.

I want to remember her today, and I want to share a bit with you:

I first met Angela in September 2003. She was already down, struggling quite
badly. But she was still looking for something to help her, for her to get
out of the hell realm she was in. She was quiet, shy, and didn't say much.
Yet somehow we became friends.

Even in her depressed state, she was still intelligent, still funny when she
let her wit shine through. We could and would talk about anything, if she
was not too doped up by meds or too down in the dumps.

But even the first time we went out for coffee, she inormed me and N. that
she was going to hang herself with the rope she had in her backpack. I know
she was looking for other options still there, and after talking about
things, she agreed the best thing would be to go to a hospital and so I
arranged that for her. Of course it didn't do much for her, except keep her
"safe" for the immediate moment. I still wish for alternatives.

These cycles continued, she would harm herself in one way or another, and
end up in the hospital, or go ask to be admitted before she did anything.
She was desperately looking for "help" but all she found was the impersonal
system, that gave her "treatments" but not what she needed. I suppose like
for many of us, being admitted was a way of thinking that people cared, and
that they are willing to help you. But it doesn't, and it is a trap.

There were good times as well. Angela would often come over to my house or
we'd meet up somewhere, or come visit me when I was locked up too. She was a
very caring person, and also tried to help others out as well, people who
had the same issues and were fighting the life and death struggle.

One thing I will always remember is her red trench coat. I used to bug her
about it all the time, because she'd never take it off, even in the hottest
and the most humid weather. In fact, she had layers underneath it as well in
the middle of summer! Wherever she would go the trenchcoat would go with
her. She told me she felt safe with it - a kind of protection for her. It
also became a joke between us, one way to make the both of us laugh.

She was usually very reserved, but sometimes she would let go. Sometime
she'd get out of that hellhole and just let herself have fun. Few things
stand out, and it's sad that there weren't that many more of those times.
There was one day where we were in a completely silly mood and ran around
downtown T.O. doing, well, just plain silly things. We played around in
Shoppers drug mart - being like little kids and then we ran to a park
nearby, and played on the playground. We must have swung on the swings 'till
we felt sick to our stomachs and had to get off, but still giggling all the
way.

One time I felt like doing something insane, and took her to Tango's on
Church street for the fun of it. I was suprised she agreed, because that was
not her scene. It was really funny, and she was a good sport. Basically
everyone assumed that we were a couple, an odd couple at that, as she was
this tiny girl in a red trench coat of course, who did not move much on the
dance floor and then there was me, with loud hair, and i think I had facial
piercings, and I was quite a bit taller than her, and I was just running
around there, dragging her up and down the stairs to different dance floors.
It became sort of an adventure, like we were undercover. Well, at least she
was - both because it wasn't her scene and because of the trench coat. After
we had enough, we went to grab a coffee and had a really good conversation.

The most engaged and enthusiastic I saw her was when I took her to a
literary reading at the Toronto Women's Bookstore. There were a few authors
reading their work and one woman singing really awesome songs in a spoken
word style. It really inspired the both of us, both of what we heard - it
was a lot of fun and a great experience, but it also got us to really think
about our writing - to get something going, keep writng and maybe get
published. I saw her beaming, and she was really enthusiastic and motivated,
and so was I. I talked to a number of those who read - including Shyam
Selvadurai and Elizabeth Ruth. Elizabeth was very supportive, and we were
even more motivated and inspired after chatting with her.

I think that was really the last time I saw Angela that happy, that
"beaming." We talked about that experience for a while after, and I was
really hoping it would help to get her focused on getting better. But what
happend, as always when she didn't have motivation coming from the outside,
is that she slid back into the hell realm of depression and hopelessness and
helplessness.

Last September 11 she went out on the subway platform and jumped. A bit
early, and they managed to stop the train before it hit her. But it was
like it did hit her, because I knew that was it, that it was just a matter
of time until she succeeded in killing herself. So of course they kept her
locked up on a ward, for the next four months. It didn't help.

I visited her quite often there, every second or third day, and talked to
her on the phone at least once a day. I wanted to go more, but I knew I had
to take care of myself as well. Everytime I'd see her, she'd be completely
down, and I'd spend the time trying to get her out of it - cracking jokes,
telling stories, and trying to challenge her, trying to get her to do and
think something different. She'd come around, but after I'd leave, or anyone
else that visited her, she'd go right back down.

She was sill hoping for them to help her - in fact, she had an ultimatum -
either something works or she will kill herself. They were once again frying
her brain with endless ECTs, and that wasn't working, only to erase her
memory and get her frustrated because she could not remember anything -
talking to people, what she did, her basic information. They changed her
drugs around, like they always do, but that did not have an effect eithers.
She was feeling more hopeless, because they kept telling her that this and
this will work, and it never did. She thought she was a lost cause - that
she could not be helped.

I tried to advocate for her - get something else going. I talked to her
psychiatrist, and tried to get them to do more "talking" with her - some CBT
at the very least (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy), and they started to, but
it got dropped because the resident had changed teams. Back to square one.
Her psychiatrist would not even come by to say hi to her (unless I came and
asked him to), even though he was just down the hall, and she took that as
another rejection, that she was worthless. That one really bugged her,
because she thought so well of him. But he was too much of a coward I
suppose. There were some attempts to help her out, but the resources and
time were limited, and by that point she did not really want to try anymore.

Of the four months, besides having her brain fried, being drugged, and then
getting into situations where she would be strapped down and injected with
drugs, there was nothing really. Well, I suppose not if you count the "nail
painting groups" that they offered once or twice a week. Pathetic. She was
bored, and she was being ignored, she was not getting any real help. She was
feeling more hopeless and more determined to kill herself once they let her
go.

We got even closer during those four months, some would say to my detriment
as her suicide hurt me like nothing before. But I will never regret having
really deep, really real converstations with her. Her sharing things that
she never did before. Even in the depths of despair, we would still laugh,
we would still tease each other, and joke around. One continual joke was
that she would not eat or drink (well that part was not a joke), but when I
brought her 2nd Cup coffee, with cream and at least 2 shugars, she'd down it
down way before I even started mine. It didn't count, we said, because it
was a diuretic. I would sometimes rant to her, and she'd listen and talk to
me. Everytime we'd look at things, I gave her things to read, homework to
do. She would do it, she was trying. Reading was hard because her brain was
scrambled by the ECTs, and so was remembering what we talked about. So
continuity was hard, because we had to recap over and over again.

But even though I was trying everything, and even though she would try at
times, I still knew it was a matter of time. They would let her go, and
she'd kill herself. I was still hoping she woudl not, I would not let her
go, even though she asked me to accept it, asked my permission to go. I
would not give it, I still held out hope for her. But she didn't.

They let her out after Christmas, and within two weeks she was dead. That
same week she killed herself, she came to visit me, and brought me back both
my things I had lent her and some of the things I had given her. One was
"Panda Paw" - a bear I got from a SW which I held as a symbol that someone
cared and as a symbol of hope. I had given it to her, to keep, while she was
in the hospital, hoping it would be the same for her. But when she returned
it to me, even though I did not want to take it back, she was telling me
there was no hope. She was saying goodbye, in essence, because I would not
accept it directly. That was really painful, and I knew there was nothing I
could do, nothing that anyone could do. She was determined, and no one could
stop her. And that was the last time I saw her.

I was not surprised I got the call, I was expecting it. And yet, I was still
not prepared. I could never be prepared for something like this. Everyone
was shut down, no one wanted to talk to me about it. I needed to talk, and
all I got was redirection to someone or somewhere else. Her death hit me
like nothing before, even though I have had a lot of people die, this one
was the worst. I watched it coming for such a long time, knowing it didnt'
have to happen, but it happened anyway. I lost it. She asked me, in her
suicide letter to me, not to follow in her footsteps. I hated her for it at
the time, because that's exactly what I wanted to do. If she could give up
so could I. I tried, but I was scattered and was unsuccessful. My reaction
was extreme, and I was doing pretty crazy things, and that pissed off the
"professionals" off so much that they either fired me, banned me, or tried
to keep me at a distance. Turns out that's the best thing that ever happened
to me.

Once I got over the worst of the grief, once things settled down a bit, once
I was on my own and had to make my choice, I got myself focused, and on the
path that I am now on. I guess that's one gift that Angela gave me, and as I
said in my earlier post, I am making a committment to find alternatives for
those others in their own hell realms, and who are stuck in a bigger hell
realm of the mental health system.

Another good thing is that Angela's dad and I had finally connected after
her death - she was trying to get us to meet for the longest time. We ended
up being good supports for each other, and he has really been the only one I
can discuss Angela's life and death with in detail. In fact, he had become
like family as well, just like Angela was like my little sister. He's doing
a blog in her memory, for both her and for himself, and that has been
helpful to the both of us. If you want to check it out, it's at:

http://spaces.msn.com/members/jesulamontc

Well this has turned out to be another long post, but I still feel I had not
said enough. But another time perhaps. Today my heart aches, the pain is
great, and I'm trying not to cry in public.

I miss her.
I will always miss her.
And I will always wish things would have been different, however futile that
may be.
I hope she has found peace, I hope that she found something better.

 

I love you Ang. No matter what.

val