ABOUT THIS BLOG -- I was once a writer published the old fashioned way. I am trying to relearn that skill after 15 years of silence, exploring a topic that many are scared to explore. Seeking or being involuntary placed in mental health treatment creates a stigma for the patient -- no matter how strong or trustworthy that patient was before treatment, they are somehow deemed weak and untrustworthy. In my 30 years of psychotherapy and 15 years of silence, I've observed that should something go wrong between clinician and patient, the clinician gets the benefit of the doubt. There are advocates and organizations that are supposed to counterbalance this tendency, but I feel even they are flawed. This is a blog about my journey.

It was supposed to be an interlude, but - of power, boundaries, unhealthy psychodramas, critters & fire. Hey Knudge -- is Disuet opinionated?

Hm, I speak and no fires for a week in that little city. Yes, they have sacrificed their people, started another argument, and made those who lived there the longest and once had most pride in the place suffer then look like a fool. Their mission is complete. At least the new fires are in places they have been known to happen and I offer a disgusted laugh.

 * * *

"It's fucked up
'Cause I don't see either one of us budging
I'm withholdin' my anger though I'd like to be the strangler
Of this punk ass little pussy's puny neck
It's my right to insist that he acknowledge my existence
But he just displays complete lack of respect
That's what he says to himself as he uses his magazines to trash me
As he sits with both his feet up at his desk [...]
And he just can't see that he's manically depressed[...]
As he turns on [...]TV and sees my face
He don't exist in this world [...]
And it's destroyin' him slowly 'cause he does not even know me
Even though he sees me everywhere he goes
So he just tortures himself, he has no fortune and wealth
So he extorts someone else to get his dough
And now he's actin' like a bully so he tries to push and pull me
But he knows that he can't fool me so he's mad[...]
'Cause it annoys him to see that I ain't scared
You ain't no motherfuckin' bully
And I ain't bowin' to no motherfuckin' bully
I won't allow it, ain't gon' cower to no bully
I'll be damned if I don't stand up to a bully[...]
And I know it must be fuckin' wit' you emotionally
Now I'm not tryin' to make no more enemies, no more unfortunately
There's so many other motherfuckers there just are[...]
So now Ja thinks that he's so tough and Murder Inc.'s the big bad wolf [...]
So now you try to pull the race card and it backfires in your face hard
'Cause you know we don't play that black and white shit
Plus this stylist you fucked when you was ecstasied up
Was just a man who's dressed up as a white bitch [...]
Now what bothers me the most about hip-hop is we're so close
To pickin' up where we left off with Big and Pac
We just lost Jam Master J, Big L got blasted away
Plus we lost Bugz, Slang Ton, and Freaky Tah
It's like a never-ending cycle [...]
Everybody's gotta be so fuckin' hard
And I'm not excludin' myself 'cause I been stupid as well [...]
There's only so much bullshit we can really stand
We all got reps to uphold when someone steps on our toes
It's no exception, [...]
But if Irv really gave a fuck about Ja like he claims he does
He'd wake him up and make his boy get off them drugs
But he just keeps feedin' him pills so if that E doesn't kill him
Someone from G-Unit will and I ain't buzzed
Dawg, I'm talkin' to you straight if the situation escalates
Any worse, we're gonna lose another soldier to this game"

-- "Bully" by Eminem

 * * *

I do not know how dishonesty, mockery, apathy toward grief, physical coercion, discouraging discussion (no, I don't talk too much, ma'am), encouraging promiscuity, or a disregard of science are therapeutic for any illness – mental or physical. I guess reverse psychology or some strange new form of psychoanalysis (or whatever these rote, fisticuffs, antagonisms, ad nauseam are called) are more important than goals, functionality, ethics, quality of life or human life. I can only conclude the clinician's desire to be a soap opera television star undermined their alleged professional training.

Obviously, we can’t expect anything from the local mental health system; they don’t seem to understand how one wrong starts a chain reaction of wrongs. If none attempt stop this chain reaction, then the chain reaction will continue affecting many. If someone wants to deliberately perpetuate that chain reaction, it affects many, much and all.

There is another patient, who is feistier than I, that to my knowledge, remains in that little city. They recorded audio-visuals of their interactions with police, the mental health system and the clinic's billing office. I think this other patient is expecting too much of the self-important, but this other patient caught them in the wrong "on tape" and posted all of it on Youtube for the world to see. I, on the other hand, can only attest that everything I state as fact can be proven. Some sources are more difficult to attain, some may fall into the archives or require law to attain, but they are  attainable. Everything I claim that has been said, one can ask around and you will find someone else that says the same.

Since my song and word choice in response to Disuet may have been or could be psychoanalyzed and sterilized as simply a passion response and will probably be taken further out of context, let’s talk about Disuet. --

An acquaintance from back to our pre-adolescence, with the same real first name as Disuet was a patient the same time as I was. She left this little city as well. (Not that it should matter, but -- I seem to remember Disuet the clinician and Disuet the patient lived two blocks away from each other many years ago.) Disuet the patient lost their father after they started psychotherapy with Aldo Ujad; they lost their mother before 9/11. Disuet the patient was the only non-family guest I had in my Blackboot apartment. I remember they brought pumpkin spice coffee creamer with them because we are both familiar with the skits of a particular comedian. Despite that some vulture would rather put the public at great personal risk for a quote –

* * *

“Somebody’s spilt maple syrup in my coffee […] Pull up your pants!” […] why don’t you wake up and smell the coffee.’ […] I did, it smelled like fucking waffles,”“Lock n  load – Coffee flavored coffee” by Denis Leary 
 
* * *

It’s the most miserable situation, the clinician seeks too much power and offers apathy or sliminess. The patient is not allowed to be themselves, or seek emotional release, even to force themselves to laugh. The skit should have reminded us old acquaintances we, or now, I don’t do pumpkin spice in coffee. – I’m filbert or plain. Disuet the patient knows this. The comedian’s name is synonymous with risking one’s home, so do we not say it? Or maybe someone’s reading this blog that is interpreting the skit as something other than these old acquaintances did. The friendship was/is entirely different. Historically, when either of us were hurt, we would not refrain from hugging; saline tears on the shoulder. We remained covid distance from each other despite there was no covid yet; no tears. This is what the world has become – I also haven’t received this compassion from my own family, despite the deaths, despite the uprooting, despite, despite. I contacted a family member’s psychotherapist about this and received no response. I pour as much of my mind, heart and soul as I feel I am safely allowed here – I isolate, but I don’t close myself off.

Nonetheless, I stuck it to Disuet the patient with painted toenails, which they do not do.

Simultaneously working with both Disuet the patient and myself was a conflict of interest on the part of Aldo, who may or may not suddenly start quoting Denis Leary now. Disuet the patient talked with me about how their father was dying in a slow, bad, miserable way and how they were still hurt by their ex. I mostly commiserated, but I didn’t say it, ‘who you sleeping with?’ For their own best interest, they were repeatedly advised not to sleep with one person. When Disuet the patient and their ex broke up, their dad footed the bill and bought them automobiles. When my ex and I broke up I got death threats from the whore, was expected to walk everywhere, take in my spoiled rotten kid sister while dirt broke, and reside in a lower cost apartment that was still beyond my means and below a child molester while the local politician was spectator.

Disuet the patient and I had a, often public, ritual we repeated over the course of 26 years whenever a relationship ended for either of us; we’d renew a promise to each other that we made a long time ago -- no getting with the others’ exes. Knudge agreed, or at least that’s what they said to me. It sounds petty and childish, but pumpkin spice creamer was a clue Disuet the patient was getting the same shoddy quality psychotherapy as most of us and Disuet the patient was sleeping with Knudge. Disuet the patient can have Knudge; I’m sure that Aldo will exploit this statement to its fullest extent; there’s 3 more families that left town Disuet the patient wanted Knudge, Disuet the patient and only Disuet the patient accepts the consequences.

I haven’t given up hope there is hidden from my view and removed from malignant orchestrations, especially of those not in my relationship, which I will find someday. This would make a healthier family. But in all dirision I say – yes, overturn Roe versus Wade because we need to bulk up the population against instead of letting us enjoy our God given rights to couple as the couple chooses.
 
My goal was to trust again. (This following shows how contrary the world is -- I said I wanted to trust again, yet I find myself saying all too often that if I [we] are given no other option to lock horns until one of us dies, then that's the only option we have. If your ego [actually id] insists there is no healthier method, then ok.) That little city’s historical dirt is they were once known for their red light district; I guess some things never change. I spoke with Disuet the patient about how many of mine died and how that crappy city values the home wrecker. I was physically ill. I could tell by the look and smell of Disuet the patient, they were too. I do not include their father in my 30 family deaths, but I acknowledge he is indeed dead; he is one of many. Disuet the patient once claimed to be homosexual. Now, they are married to the opposite sex. This may be relevant later --

Some clinicians have been known to frequent the Capital's venues, but not all have the reputation that Disuet and Porly do. Disuet and Porly showed up to the club event I frequented. Many, if not most, of the original clubgoers stopped going; I was one of the people who stopped going. Others attended instead. From what I understand, the event coordinators kept it going despite their own and others’ absence. Disuet and Porly have the right to go out and peaceably enjoy themselves as every adult does. To my knowledge, this club event still exists to date or at least did until Covid, but with different, and perhaps younger people in attendance. Impressive – if it is still going, it is competing with bigger cities for longest running event of its genre.

Individual psychotherapy is supposed to be a very personal journey, chiefly for the patient; which is why there are laws that dictate what can and cannot occur, such as  PHI laws or HIPAA.  (No, they aren't there to protect only the clinician, only insurance companies only preferred patients, or preferred tiers of insurance; they are there for all.) Only the individual, the clinic, and the patient's medical insurance should have the knowledge the patient in psychotherapy, unless the patient themselves informs another person of such. If the patient is under the assumption they are under the care of one clinician, i.e. the patient receives appointment cards with the same name (or homonym thereof) for the duration of such psychotherapy or the patient's insurance company is paying for what appears to be one individual to provide treatment, then treatment should be provided by one clinician.

The clinician should not enmesh or scapegoat patients with or against each other or any other person, or enmesh or scapegoat themselves with or against patients; the clinician should not isolate voluntary outpatients, have a conflict of interest, involve any patient in another's or their own personal agenda, play favorites, or use patients as chess pieces. Fortunately, when the patient is hurt, offended or wronged, they speak in their free time; this is healthy. Those, who do and do not go to psychotherapy, should not be required to be inconvenienced by someone else's psychotherapy, unless legally required; although, supportive family and peers are helpful. 

It is said Disuet feels clubgoers scatter like cockroaches because clubgoers are all guilty of something. No - forgive me for speaking for others, especially if I am incorrect, but self-preservation is not a crime. We leave because both of them are known to become a or bring a hazardous situation. The club event is the clubgoers' free time - a time where the customer can imbibe alcohol if they so choose, dance, be vulnerable and speak freely amongst peaceable people, peers and like-minded individuals.  

The last paragraph applies not only to some obscure nightclub, but also to peoples' homes, communities, workplaces and schools. We relocated, died, changed jobs, home-schooled and isolated.

Since this blog is about being honest as possible, I’m going to say it: I have no interest in soap operas; if you like watching them, understand that I do not. Further, I don’t want or require a role in any soap opera. I have a very short list of movies I appreciate. I have little interest in watching television or the movie screen, whether it is on the television, movie screen or somehow being enacted as part of life.

I have no aversion toward homosexuals. The world endures too much conflict to be judgmental against people making love. What consenting adults do in privacy is between them; hopefully, they aren't related by way of genetics or have promised themselves to someone other than who is in that bedroom. For the exception of those who go to psychotherapy for sexual issues, which is beyond my forte, what consenting adults do in privacy is between them -- not the consenting adults’ parent, whore, mistress, co-worker, ex-lover, rapist, politician, sibling, friend, employer, landlord,  or… questionable psychotherapist. What the people engaging in sex knowingly bring to the bedroom in loyalty, trust and honesty is what should be in that bedroom.

In my mind, and whether it is accurate or not, I split homosexuality into three groups: (1) those who honestly prefer their own sex; it makes sense - happens in nature believe or not, no birth control required, Roe v Wade is in the spotlight again, on average people of a specific gender generally understand their own gender's bodies better than the opposite gender; (2) homosexuality as part of the individual's perversion, and (3) homosexuality as a result of someone else’s perversion; where some may turn to homosexuality, others, like myself, turn to celibacy. 
 
The local mental health industry has traumatized and brain mapped enough to know this, so I don't know what they expect, except prove that trust is not possible. If you haven't already figured it out, I'm female. I was born female, and despite I am proud of it, I'm not a feminist. I take great pride on my cleanliness and remaining free of venereal disease. I am a rape survivor. Those who do not understand the word no risks much and many. Lack of compassion gets you nowhere with me. I'm celibate despite I would rather be in a trusting, loyal, functional relationship. I'm heterosexual, and that is never going to change.

Everyone I knew outside the club event that claimed to be homosexual is now married to the opposite sex. I find this odd; that's quite the clear divide. And one that attended the club event, who claimed to be heterosexual, but everyone wondered or knew something about, got married to the same sex, but their partner later had gender reassignment surgery; one of their siblings also got gender reassignment surgery making all the siblings the same gender. That's even more strange. I thought extensive psychotherapy was legally required for gender reassignment surgery. Perhaps, I am wrong; this isn’t my area of expertise.

If 30 deaths in a decade doesn't illicit an appropriate response, then maybe this will -  three sex changes in five years sounds like a soap opera to me, but the problem is - this isn't fiction. What's worse is that's three that I learned of in my years of social isolation; there could be more. On more than one level I say the following: if I could speak freely; they have real names and some are quite influential -- not that they do any good with that influence.. 

They have real names. I have a real name. Disuet has real names. Porly, Peglou have real names. We all have real names.The houses that burnt down, actually burned down. The drown child is actually a dead child. The people who uprooted their life, literally packed up decades' worth of their existence and relocated. It's exhausting! It is sickening  

This new reverse psychology psychotherapy is like a police interrogation of an innocent gone too far.

I peaceably sought out psychotherapy. I did not seek out a soap opera. I did not seek out a career in theater. I'm not an actress. I did not seek out drama. I did not seek out fear. I wanted to be able to trust. I needed housing. I didn’t realize the patients need to explain the clinicians' responsibilities and obligations in detail to allegedly trained, versed and trustworthy professionals.

When a patient seeks voluntary psychotherapy, the patient is vulnerable; this is not the time for the clinician to act like a spoiled brat. It is the proper time for the clinician to build rapport while following proper protocols to distinguish what form of therapy is needed. Many patients know vulnerability may be required to heal, which means the clinician needs to show the patient that the clinician is trustworthy. Many patients even admit they feel or are defeated; therefore, it is not the time for the clinician to show the clinicians' pomposity, fisticuffs or sliminess. Effective psychotherapy is not achieved by the clinician mocking the patient or influencing the patient to appear foolish.

Dang – politicians to housing to psychotherapists: what a bunch of scumbags; no wonder why it stunk to high hell.

* * *

A few weeks ago I started an anonymous survey -- I asked the world who has been helpful and unhelpful. I'm going to start my don't bother list soon. Unlike others who appear to have a reaction pattern apathetically memorized, I'd honestly like to know what peoples' experiences have been.

* * *

There are these strange critters where I live. They’re mainly white with either black stripes or dots. They look like an amalgam of a small frog, a tiny hairless gopher, a cricket and a grasshopper and seem to reach a maximum of an inch and a half (~3,8cm) long. They may or not be able to chirp like a cricket and are said to be able to makes a high pitched ‘eeeeee’ sound like a cockroach when threatened. It’s also said they are toxic if ingested and care for their young No one seems to know what they are.

They rarely make an appearance, but when they do, it is often before a fire; although, I don't think they appreciated the pile-driver at the clinic's construction site either. (Good God -- who approved those building plans? C'mon, -- USGS, historical maps, anything!?) Nonetheless, many suggest if you see one to sterilize the place. I’ve spent 30+ years trying to find out what they are, even head-diving into rare mantids and blattera, and to answer one question – do they bite or sting? I have found nothing conclusive. If I could find out what they are, I might even suggest they are kind of cute.

I found one on my bedroom windowsill at Blackboot. I squashed it. I didn’t sterilize the room. I wiped down wipeable surfaces with a Lysol wipe; otherwise, the world smelled so bad to me that I was using diluted
cleaning quaternary as Febreze.

It’s been proven certain diseases have characteristic smells, even if not everybody can smell them. Some forms of diabetes smell like fruity wine; some think malaria smells like smelly B vitamins; I don’t know anyone who will debate if gangrene smells offensive; some forms of cancer have an odd sterile rubber smell. Nonetheless, there is an entire science dedicated to this now; they have built electronic “noses” that evaluate the ‘volatile organic compounds’ (VOCs, or the smallest individual components or isolates that comprise an odor.)

My nose could have interpreted the world as smelling offensive because I was sick, but sick with what? Anemia? Hm, anemia -- that's it? Or my nose could have interpreted the world as smelling offensive because the world smelled offensive.

On the North American front, millions of bats died from White Nosed Syndrome. The syndrome is a sort of yeast infection of the bat’s muzzle causing the bat to starve to death. “Moldy bat syndrome” or similar can be found in old fiction and nonfiction books of American and European publication or print. On the Afroeurasian front, they theorize that Covid make the jump from the fruit eating bat to human later. (For so those so inclined, please drop “mycormycosis, mycosis covid, india” into your favorite search engine. My stance is either this bat mold is strong stuff or something compromised a disease vector's, or very strong and seasoned, immune system.) This makes me wonder what does Covid smell like? Or what did the original disease from which Covid originated smell like? What does a moldy nosed bat smell like? And does it have anything to do with why there is suddenly a spike in the number of children with liver disease and jaundice? I think I'll leave it to the electronic noses to find out.
I can personally attest -- jaundice sucks.

* * *

"All the wildlife has disappeared […]
Some people here have all the power [...]
Constructing a new kind of life
But these creatures are not alive […]
The language in the streets is strange
From day to day their meanings change […]
A system without emotion"

-- "City of Darkness" by Funker Vogt

* * *

I remember it as a warm August evening; I looked through the window once and the sun was starting its long, slow summer process of setting. The newspaper says it occurred July 2012. Perhaps, I am confusing the incident that happened almost exactly a year later, or one down the street that occurred sometime in-between.

I had the windows’ bottom sashes completely open; those bottom sashes couldn’t be pushed upward any further. The lower shutters, which covered the open portion of the window, were closed and locked. One could stand and look out the top sash of each window. I had a box fan in the front and bedroom window on their highest setting. My bedroom window faced south toward the building with the windows covered in chicken coupe fence. Luckily, their building did not have windows near or facing mine.

I was clipping coupons at the hopechest I used as the living room table when I smelled something chemical. I got up, walked around my house, even sniffed the closet. Nothing out of the ordinary. I tidied the hopechest and stacked the sections of the newspaper in a pile. During one of the fires, and I believe it was the July 2012 fire, I stacked the sections of newspaper and placed a magazine insert on top. On the cover of this magazine was something to do with the Presidents Bush; it was a photograph of one of the Bush presidents, their respective first ladies, or a photograph of them as a couple. I remember this because I thought, “Hm, they aren’t the President. How odd --” I remember it because of something I would experience after July 2012.

Then I undoubtedly smelled burning plastic; I looked out the window, inspected the drapes, checked the oven, breaker box, hot water tank, outlets – nothing. I turned off the living room box fan and sat down on the couch. I may have gotten back up to get a beverage. Then I heard, “Fire! Fire! We need a wet blanket.” It was the voice of a slender black man that one could find across the street just south of me sitting on a fold out lawn chair on the sidewalk in front of what I presumed to be his residence. There were and probably still is a “no loitering” sign next to every Blackboot door, so I was bothered a bit, but not enough to say anything.

I looked out the window, and I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so I went to my front door. Woh! – fire less than 10 feet away.