That is All

As a child, I learned that if I wrote down my feelings then they were externalized and ceased to cause pain.  Why else do you think I became a writer?  Over time I came to understand that my feelings were in reaction to external events, so I wrote about external events:  the lack of values, the overreaches of medical treatment, the reality of poverty, abuse of power and misunderstanding of mental disturbance.  What I have written about most is the government provision of services without love.

The primary call of God is for us to be humble before him; the secondary call is to love one another.  The government provision of services is all about not loving.  We are supposed to take care of each other.  Instead, we have turned “caring” over to the government.  The Dept. of Social Services, and Medicaid.  The Department of Housing and Urban Development, and Section 8 housing.  The Dept. of Agriculture, and Food Stamps.  Food, a home, and a ride to the doctor:  things we are supposed to give each other have become things we pass off to “the government.”

And how did I get to this?

Ah, the pain caused me by Dr. Thomas Falci, psychiatrist.  In his five-page, typewritten, single-spaced report about me, which is being read—sometimes twice—by all the doctors and nurses providing my care, and to which I was not privy—the great Dr. Falci refers to himself as “we.”  Honest to God.  “When we talked to the patient . . .”  “We did ask her . . .”  “When we ask her . . .”  WTF?  Why does this man see himself as many people?  Does he have a split personality?  Multiple personalities?  Is he using the . . .

[A nurse has just come in and told me that what goes through report about me is that is that I am refusing finger sticks and refusing medication.  Am I to go to my death being blamed?  The doctor discontinued finger sticks because there’s no point doing finger sticks if they don’t lead to treatment.  I refuse medication because a doctor poisoned me and now all medications make me sicker than the sickness they are intended to treat.

[When is the medical profession going to take responsibility for what was done to me?  When are doctors going to write orders forbidding the administration of all medication?  When are they going to stop blaming me and start accepting responsibility?  Do you think I might have a better time of it here at Crouse if the nurses weren’t reporting, on a daily basis, that I am uncooperative?

[And, oh yeah, yesterday I asked for the finger sticks to be restarted and the doctor hasn’t done it.  Stop blaming me!  Yes, I took the lithium!  It’s what you doctors wanted me to do and I did it.  I trusted you, and look where that’s gotten me!]

Ron Fish, Ph.D. has just said that when he read Falci’s report with all its “we’s” he assumed Falci was here with a teaching group, residents or whatever.  Fact:  Falci was alone with me.  Will somebody please call the medical director and alert him to the fact that he needs to get a new psychiatric consultant?  Have “my” therapist, Dr. Kate Lewis, compare her notes to Falci’s, then get rid of Falci.  My going away gift to the masses.

Over the weekend, my cognitive functions have diminished drastically.  I can’t think anymore.  I can’t write.  So long, farewell, goodbye.  Maybe I’ll make it back sometime but don’t hold your breath.

Something important—something I really need to tell you.  Panic.  Can’t go until I remember, must tell you.

Oh yeah, found it:  Be nice to each other.  Take care of each other.  That is all.

About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
This entry was posted in activism, advocacy, American medical industry, Death, Depression, disability, disability rights, drugs, Fraud, God, Government Services, Health Care, Holistic, Housing, Humor, Inpatient psychiatry, Medicaid, Medical care, Medicare, Mental Illness & Health, Nature, Onondaga County, Pharmaceuticals, physician, political corruption, Poverty, Power, power wheelchairs, Powerlessness, Recipes, Republican Party, Sex, Spirituality, Transportation, Uncategorized, Values. Bookmark the permalink.

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